Lamaze is amazing for difficult dentist appointments or preventing yourself from punching that arrogant jerk who just won’t get out of your face (in the check out line, not the dentist!), but when you find yourself coming out of an eclamptic seizure in the throws of pitocin-induced contractions, its about as effective as my birth control was.
My mom did what she could to be my coach, but she just couldn’t hack it, and I found myself alone in a hospital bed begging for mercy but never realizing that all I had to do was call upon it’s name, EPIDURAL!!! A young male nurse took pity on me and stayed with me as often as possible, but his shift came and went as I endured contractions every three minutes for 36 hours with nothing that even resembled a pain killer.
Without getting into the nitty gritty details, I eventually pushed out a very bruised and battered 4 lb 13 oz baby boy. He was so tiny and covered with soft, downy peach fuzz. I barely had a glimpse of him, before they whisked him away to another room for premature babies whose mothers don’t have a clue.
I passed out and woke the next day with one all consuming thought, “Did my baby survive?” To my relief, I felt pretty darn good for having just gone through hell and back, so I wandered out into the hall in search of news about my little boy. Following the sounds of crying infants, I shuffled in front of the nursery window. Slowly, I read the cards on the bassinets…baby boy Smith, baby boy Jones, baby boy Martin, but no sign of baby boy Mine.
There are no words to properly convey the primal terror that takes over a mother when she cannot find her child. I stood there in my flimsy hospital gown, clinging desperately to the IV pole, trembling from head to toe. I must have made a noise, although I don’t remember doing so, because suddenly I found myself in the arms of a very soft, very large nurse. She took my face in her dark brown, loving hands and forced me to put into words the question I was most fearful to ask, “Is my baby dead?”
In my life, there are a few sentences that I will remember in minute detail; where, when, how, by whom, and every syllable that was spoken. “He’s just fine, honey. We just have him under the bili lights is all.” Now, I had no idea what in the world a bili light was, but she honestly could have told me they were rolling him in honey and powdered sugar for all I cared. He was alive! The punishment I feared most had not come to pass. God had not seen fit to repay me for all of my horrible, terrible, awful, sins by taking my child.
The nurse gently led me back to the little room where they were keeping my teeny tiny son, sweetly sleeping in a baby-sized tanning bed, helping his body break down the bruises from his traumatic entry into this world. The tears of joy flowed like miniature rivers down my cheeks, dampening the front of my gown. I knew one thing to be true, I did not deserve him, but I would spend the rest of my life making sure he was safe.
After a two week stay in the hospital, both of us recovering from his birth, my son and I went home to resume my no longer isolated life. I had my little guy to keep me company, and soon I would have my friends again. Everything was going to be okay.
Until I felt the hole.
(To be Continued)
