It was all kind of like a dream. I was sleeping on a cot
next to your mom’s hospital bed, wearing ear plugs. I awoke to the murmuring sound of your mom talking with
Tanya, one of our midwives. The room was dark, and I lay there half-awake for a
few minutes, listening for any urgency or intensity in the conversation. There
didn’t seem any, so I may have fallen asleep for a few minutes more. Finally, I
got up and stood by your mom’s side. Apparently she was having contractions,
and this felt really good to know since it meant she wouldn’t have to take the
hospital’s options for labor/inducement (pitocin, epidural, c-section), and
this was very relieving. It meant things were going to be more on our terms.
The whole time we were in the hospital, I felt like we were out of our element.
Going to the hospital wasn’t what we planned or wanted. But hearing these news
of your mom’s contractions and your likely natural delivery brought me a deeper
sense of peace, and I could hear that deeper sense of peace in your mom’s voice
too. As she already explained, our kissing is what brought you out into the
world. Poetic, yes? There was a full moon outside (I can’t remember seeing the
moon itself outside our window, which happened to have a nice view of Madonna
Mountain), but the moonlit sky outside added ambiance into the quiet, dim,
room. Our other midwife, Marissa, afterwards explained that your transit out of
the womb happened during the planet Venus’ epic transit across the sun. More
poetry.
And then, suddenly, you left the womb to join us. Just like
that. There had been, what seemed to me, a brief period of your mom expressing
deeper contractions, the nurse not really believing it, and your mom letting
everyone know that you were coming and they had better get ready. I didn’t even
have time (or the full awareness) to grab the video camera. I had planned to
catch you with the assistance from the doctor, but you arrived sooner than he
did, and the nurse who was in charge seemed to be struggling with the whole
thing so I thought it too risky to confuse her even more. You came out really fast.
Slip-n-slide fast. When you arrived, I remember there was this intense moment,
like the breath had been taken out of everyone in the room. Like the room
itself had gasped. And there you were- surprising us and everyone else in that
room with your immediate, sudden presence. You were vulnerable but ready to
meet us in a new way.
You had a good amount of hair- dark hair- and you looked
like me. I remember the nurse fiddling with and untangling the cord around you
and clamping it; I cut the cord which felt a bit counter-intuitive but my lack
of sleep probably desensitized me somewhat and it wasn’t a problem. I held you
and spoke your name; I wanted you to recognize my voice. When I held you
against my bare chest, skin to skin, I remember your lightness of weight.
You still feel that way to me now, one month later. I’m
writing this memory of your birth under that same full moon. With the dimness,
sleepiness, dreaminess, that night feels like a long, long, time ago— longer
than a month, longer than a year. In a way, I’m glad I didn’t grab that video
camera, since my memory, preserved in these words rather than in digital data,
will hold your birth as dream-like poetry. Mila, I will hold you in this way.
7-2-12 11:50 p.m.
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