A Birth Story

A few short weeks after I birthed my second baby I suffered from mastitis. As I was in the throes of fever and hot flashes, I hallucinated that our small apartment was filled to the brim with infant car seats – containing infants. I recovered from my infection quite quickly, but the visions of babies did not cease. I could often clearly see these babies, so clearly, that I would ask Mr. Man if he too could see them. He couldn’t. He suggested I was over-tired. I was. But I also had a huge desire and craving for another baby.

Soon the visions ceased, and I found myself with a toddler, a newborn and pregnant.

Much transpired during that pregnancy. That baby never met my dear Opa, but brought me much comfort as I bid my final farewells and then shook with agony at his funeral barely able to toss a flower onto his lowered coffin.

Having had a c-section and an induction, I had never gone into labor on my own. I was dilated to a five for almost two weeks prior to my delivery, and so I waited to know when (at any moment) the time was ripe and ready for my new little one to make his entrance.

One night, after hours of somewhat regular contractions, we made our way to the hospital. I was measured and monitored and sent on walks around the corridors, but of course the contractions stopped upon arrival to my sanctuary of deliverance. We were sent home still pregnant.

The next day was spent running to and fro. My little sunbeam had a primary activity, my visiting mother and I had a lunch date, and we finalized several errands, hoping there would be little time left to complete anything last minute. When Mom suggested we go to Russell Stovers for chocolate of some sort or another and I declined, it was my first inclination that something was not normal. We hurried through Michaels – another sign. And I just wanted to be home in my rocking chair. Mr. Man took the two kids to a cousin’s birthday party, while my Mom and I stayed put watching “Cheaper by the Dozen” and timing contractions. Seven minutes apart. Five minutes apart. Three minutes apart.

Mr. Man came home, the kids were tucked in, and I was struggling. I was now laboring in the bathtub, breathing hard and screaming for him to come when the hard contractions hit. My Mom was nervous and constantly asking, “shouldn’t you guys head to the hospital now?” It was the day before Mother’s Day, and Mr. Man still had preparations to make. He hurried to the grocery store and, I believe, the florist as well. When he came home, I inquired about our departure as well. Mr. Man always makes me lasagna for Mother’s Day, and he had noodles to boil. In between layers, he ran to the tub or wherever I had wandered to stop and pant. Finally there was bleeding, a call made to the doctor, and we grabbed our bags and relieved my mother of her anxiety. I didn’t realize at the time, but apparently Mr. Man was still worried that we would once again be sent home, and really didn’t feel like being embarrassed once again.

On the drive to the hospital the contractions were less than a minute apart.

I was gritting, and squinting and barely able to breathe when we arrived and as they hooked me up to an IV Mr. Man finally believed that this may actually be it. When they checked me and I was a nine, we knew the time had come. Less than an hour and a half later, I was almost ready to push my little one out into the world when suddenly his heart rate dropped drastically. The seconds that followed were fleeting, but full of meaning for me. As I watched the heart monitor religiously, I saw and accepted that my time with this child may actually be coming to an end. I ached, I mourned and I acknowledged that my baby was going to die. As soon as I turned him over to the Lord, the doctor and nurses rushed in and with the help of modern medicine took that baby from me. He was removed from inside me, to be placed in my arms. Alive.

Birth is a miracle.

We both suffered from infections, but with no lasting effects.

I held my new little one and offered prayers of gratitude for that sacred privilege. It was, I believe, the best Mother’s day gift I could ever hope to receive.

Of course, Mr. Man brought me my lasagna in the hospital. And that seemed pretty wonderful as well. I can’t believe that baby is about to turn six, the day before Mother's Day.