I
walked into the hospital, hand-in-hand with my husband, my best friend. I probably wouldn’t have been able to stop
smiling if I tried. I thought I knew
what was to come. I thought I was
prepared for what was ahead of me. I
thought this is what I, what we, really wanted.
We had been together for nearly a decade. We knew each other inside and out. We had each other; heart and soul, and we
were ready for our love to grow as we welcomed our child into our lives. As we were walking into the hospital, I
looked into my husband’s eyes and wondered if things were moving in slow motion
for him too. It was as if time was standing still for us, allowing us to soak
in each and every moment, so we could relish everything about this.
The
moment I got the call to come down to the hospital to be induced will forever
be engraved in my mind. I remember feeling
my heartbeat rising and feeling as though lightning bolts where shooting
through my veins. The nurse sounded giddy,
“Mrs. Novotny, take your time, but arrive before midnight so we can start your
induction.” My blood was flowing so fast
that it felt like fireworks were exploding in my veins; I couldn’t help but
stutter, “Th...haa…That, sounds perfect.”
I turned the phone off and just closed my eyes. My dénouement was almost here.
For
the hour it took to get to the hospital, I just rested my head and sat with
closed eyes cherishing the moments that I had been dreaming about for the past
nine months. I sat, lightly stroking my
belly bump, which I had come to adore. This
would be the last time I would sit in the car, awkwardly positioned so the
seatbelt wasn’t pushing too hard into my bulging stomach. This would be the last time I would struggle
to get in and out of the seat. This
would be the last time I would be merely a woman, because once I stepped out of
this hospital and back into this car, I would be what I thought I longed to be,
what I thought I was born to be, a mother.
We
sat in the waiting room, waiting patiently, envisioning what was to come. I had the most comforting daydreams of what
this new life would be. Streamed in high
definition on the back of my eyelids were visions of a pink blanket holding a
tiny little baby; she was beautiful and perfect and exactly what I was hoping
for. We had to wait for a room to become
available for us, so I had a few hours to enjoy these comforting thoughts.
Before
I knew it, there was a young nurse standing in the doorway ushering us to a
room where I thought my visions and my plan would meld together perfectly, but
I was incredibly wrong. This would be
the room in which my perfect vision would shatter; this would be the room where
my envisioned plan was crumpled up, thrown away, and replaced with a new, inferior,
less perfect one. The moments leading up
to this change are just as significant as the exact moment it all came to an
end, the moment I heard it let out its first scream.
At first, the room felt peaceful and
welcoming. This was the place where I
would see my child, my daughter, for the first time, kiss her for the first
time, say, “I love you, baby girl” for the first time. Everything seemed very normal and routine; the
nurse, who I couldn’t point out today if she were standing right next to me,
was so helpful and polite as she explained each and every wire and tube she
placed on me. First were heart monitors,
one for myself, and one for my peaceful little girl floating quietly in my
womb. Since I was diagnosed with
Gestational Diabetes, a blood sugar monitor was placed on me next. Then, the IV that pushed the Pitocin and
other induction drugs through my veins was inserted in an attempt to bring my
daughter to me more quickly. I was starting to feel overwhelmed and claustrophobic;
the cords and wires started to make me anxious.
The constant beeping from all of the monitors was distracting and my normal,
calm, and serene attitude was drifting farther and farther away from me, slowly
creeping out of my reach. I knew what
all of this was leading up to and I kept telling myself, “just breathe,” but
those words were more easily spoken than actually performed.
Within
minutes, my body was having adverse reactions to the Pitocin and I was starting
to shake. At first, it was a short, spaced out, slow type of reaction, but
before I knew it, I was in full-fledged convulsions. My arms were weak from grasping the bed
railings. My hands were turning white as
I tightly clutched onto that piece of plastic; it felt as if falling off the
side of that hospital bed would be falling off the face of the Earth, so I
clenched with all of my might as my body continued to tremble. I was desperate and losing control of not
only my body, but also my mind. Because
I was terrified that something was horribly wrong, I pressed the call button;
the nurse came in and simply stated, “This is normal, don’t worry.”
My
once positive outlook on everything was now completely gone. I was frantic, my soul felt beaten, and I
could not foresee seeing the positive side of anything ever again. I could barely move and I began pleading with
whomever would listen to take me away from this agony. I realized that I wasn’t cut-out for this; I
wasn’t strong enough to bring another human being into this world, on any
level. The minutes were moving slower
and slower; time seemed to be almost still.
For hours I was begging for the pain to go away, but little did I
realize that the pain had just started, little did I realize that
my life would now be full of pain, masked by a fake smile.
Fifteen
hours later, my perfect picture was gone and this new, terrifying reality was
here.
They placed this wet, bloody, screaming thing
in my arms and what is usually the moment that most mothers can recall with
perfect precision, I can remember almost nothing. All I remember was the intense urge of
wanting to close my eyes and drift away.
Everything around me was spinning and
seemed to be on fast-forward. I felt a
release of an enormous amount of pressure, I heard crying, and I saw all of
these smiles and all of these faces stained with tears of joy, but I just sat
there, silent, waiting, pleading with my heart to do what I knew it was
supposed to do, but yet it did nothing; there was nothing. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t allow
myself to let go and fall in love with this thing, this thing that came from my
body. It was a part of me and yet I
couldn’t feel a single ounce of connection to it. It cried and I felt nothing. It cooed and I
felt nothing. It smiled and I felt nothing.
I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew that this was not how I was
supposed to feel; this was not how this was supposed to be. I had done everything I was supposed to;
everything was done according to plan, but this thing came and threw my
perfect little plan out the window.
I thought, as I looked down and stared
endlessly into those tiny eyes, that this was the defining moment of my
life. I looked into those eyes,
searching for a glimmer of hope, but there was none to be found. I knew she couldn’t be mine. She didn’t feel like mine. This wasn’t
possible. My daughter had to
still be inside me; I could feel her.
She was motionless and comfortable and still inside my stomach. This thing wasn’t her in my arms, but
it was. This was my child, my daughter,
but why didn’t it feel like she was?
(Great Books Piece)
(Great Books Piece)
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