An anonymous post

A friend of mine wanted me to anonymously share something she'd written. Names have been changed but the poignant intensity of the message therein remains.




The anniversary of my Kyle's birth. A day no one understands. A day for
me, of intense struggle. The contractions started early in the
morning. I said nothing to the loved ones around me. I fed my children
breakfast. I silently breathed through contractions. We did chores. We
ate lunch. Breathing slowly and silently. The day wore on. The pauses
in my day, the breaths longer, wondering when I'd admit to myself that
the day had come. A noticed grimace on my face as I stoop to sweep the
dog hair, leaves, and dirt from the mud room floor. "Oh, just a
cramp." I mumble to my best friend. I am nine months pregnant, after
all. But I just want to be alone in my body, my experiences, my fear.
Self-loathing. Disgust. And a quiet knowing that there would be a
child soon and a decision sooner than I knew how to make it. A child I
couldn't afford. A child of adultry. A child that for me, was a
constant reminder that I was to blame for the hurt look in my
children's eyes when their father showed up to take them from my arms
every week. I was alone and isolated with this growing human in my
womb. I despised myself and thus the child. How could I keep a child I
loathed? How could I mother and care for a baby unwanted, unloved, and
already a burden? My children had already heard too much, seen too
much, gone through too much to have the worry of me in labor on the
day I had to return them to their father again. I silently breathed as
I reached in the fridge to get milk for my daughter. I took a long
time looking for the box of snacks in the pantry. I moved slower that
day, to hide from my fear a few moments longer. Contraction. Load up
the kids. Contraction. Run back in for the forgotten blanket.
Contraction. Another trip inside for the favourite stuffed animal.
Contraction. Start the car. Pray. Red light. Release into a
contraction until a voice from the back seat tells me the light is
green. Arrive at the "marital home" to leave my children. To leave my
flesh and blood. To see that look in their questioning eyes of "Why
don't you live here too anymore, Mommy?" Hugs and kisses as they run
to put their stuff in their rooms. With the curtains I had sewn. In
the beds I had made. To play with the toys I had bought. It was my
house, and I wasn't there. The door closes in my eyes as another
contraction builds. I walk across the yard that I've played cowboys
and indians. The birthday party where we made volcanos erupt outside.
The ice cream treats. The lemonaid stand. The garden I made with the
kids, covered in weeds. Breathe through the contraction, struggle
getting the key in the car door through the tears. Pray and drive back
to my house alone.
My doula and I had plans for dinner that night just to get my mind off
things. She knew how I felt about this pregnancy. She knew I didn't
know if I could love this child. She was the only one who knew my
fear. I canceled our dinner plans, telling her to stay home with her
son and enjoy him since labor had started.
In my room, I curled under my blankets. 5:00, 6:00. Time was endless
and flying by. I showered. An intensity surrounded my body and I sat
on the floor of the shower, choking on the water, or maybe tears.
I know the time is close to go to the hospital, and I realise I never
thought about how I would get there, nor get home. Driving was no
longer an option. My doula calls to check in and concludes I need to
be on my way to the hospital, and I confess I hadn't thought about how
I'd get there. She comes to my house, I had a bag packed, but had
forgotten about a ride.
Soon, we are checking in. The lights and crowd in the hospital
increase the noise in my mind, the contractions are pulling me inward,
but there are forms, passersby, chairs, florescent lights, magazines
on tables. I crave my home, my bed, my children. I want to curl down
and hide from the process. A wheelchair arrives and I'm ushered to
pumps, thermometers, and devices I can't comprehend. I want to scream
"I'm giving birth, why the hell are you asking me where my drivers
license is?" Instead, I fall further into the contractions. Inside my
head. I don't answer. Finally, I'm in a room that is quiet. The hands
and faces and contraptions have left and I'm as alone as I will get
with a child in my womb. My doula, my midwife, myself, the two
heartbeats in my body beating together, merging and separating. The
idle chitchat of the two women caring for me. Contractions. Hiding
from my fear. Deeper within. The small bathroom provides a space to be
further from the voices. In there, I feel my body. I feel the
contractions fully. Alone. With child. I moan, I sway, I let it be.
The fear of my mind is lost to the power of my body. The time is soon.
The decision is far away.
A gentle knock comes, I'm ushered into the bed to be checked. I don't
want to be checked. I don't want the hands and devices. I want to be
alone. My mind can't form the words. My body responds to their urging
words my ears hear. Intensity rises. A question spoke, "Don't you want
this to end sooner?" "Yes!" I cry! Fear, words, pain, loss. Confusion.
And a rush of wetness between my legs. Her voice simply stated, "I
barely did anything and your water broke." The cushion gone, the
baby's head comes crashing down on my cervix, not fully dilated. The
contractions constant. Breathing, thinking, fear. Don't you want this
to end sooner? If only she knew. I didn't want to be there. I didn't
want to be alone, having a child. A mouth I can't feed. A reminder. A
painful reminder. Again, the voices, telling me to move this way or
that. The physical pain worse than I remember. The fear greater than I
ever knew. No turning back. No anesthesia for this life I have
created. Breathe. Push. Fear. Pain. Head. Shoulders. Knees. And toes.
I'm grateful that the pain is less. I like breathing slower. I don't
hear crying and my heart jumps. I ask if the baby is okay.
Contemplating what answer I want to hear most. Was a decision made for
me?
"Its a boy," someone states. "He's not breathing well. We are working
on clearing him out."
I want to see. Bodies surround the silence. Voices interfere with what
could be crying, coughing, or maybe just one of the machines.
Endless time. Thoughts. Questions. Burdens.
The baby cries. Loud and clear.
Cleaned, swaddled, with a little bonnet on, he's handed to me. I feel
confused. He's cold, and I put him on my chest to warm him. Hands
reach to take him from me and I know my body can warm him better than
their machines. He's breathing, too fast, too shallow. And cold. I
don't understand if I love this child, but I know I don't want him to
suffer and I know if he can listen to my heart beat he'll know he's
not alone. He'll breathe better. He'll warm up. Our bodies were just
one.
The hands reach for him and I hold him back. The voices argue. I keep
telling all of them that I just want to hold him to make him better.
The hands are back. He's taken out of my arms.
Machines become his mother and he's wheeled out in a plastic box to
another room with better mother machines.
The room I'm in, with people all around, and I'm alone in my body,
alone in my mind, alone with my soul. As I muster strength to argue
with the voices and hands that took my baby, the question I've
struggled with for nine months comes in my mind, and I fight to be
beside the baby anyway.
A wheelchair is brought to me when it becomes clear I will walk and
find him if they don't take me to him. I'm wheeled down and up and
over and through. Through a window I'm allowed to look and I get up,
walk over to the door and knock. Until I can hold him I won't sit back
down. Inside the room I'm given my child. For a moment only they say.
I hold him and let him nurse. I argue to stay. I'm wheeled out,
crying, alone, tired, afraid.
Still the question.
He comes to me, delivered in that damned wheeled plastic bin. He had
been deemed "healthy" now that the machines had the numbers the
doctors desired. I'm exhausted. I hold him and we sleep together.
His name is Kyle, I know that. His brother and sister are brought the
next day to meet him. My ex-husband whispers a crude remark in my ear.
It is a short visit. The next night, my doula gives me a ride back to
my house. And Kyle and I begin to work on the answer to that question.
...
Six years later, I stand looking into his room. Trophies. The rocket
poster. The ceiling painted with the moon, comets and the most
beautiful sunset ever. The spiderman fort. Frankenstien and a skeleton
glowing on the wall. The floor littered with art, toys, legos. The
rocks sticks and feathers collected.
The dog hair, leaves, and dirt that need to be swept off the floor.
I forget that there ever was a question. And know the answer is love.