A Mother's Transition

Before I became pregnant, I was unaware of the option to skip labor when giving birth. All my prior experiences with the process of bringing a human being into this world followed somewhat of a formula; first a person creates life inside of them for nine months, then the ever-dramatic cramping and breaking of the water occurs, then there’s a chaotic rush to the hospital, then the hours of blood-curdling screams of agony and buckets of sweat, and finally a tiny bundle of joy emerges. On every television show that tackled the baby topic, and in my own life when my sister had my niece, the formula ensued. However, my journey into motherhood differed greatly from my preconceived gatherings.

During multiple visits to my OBG-YN I was shuffled around between various doctors, all of which shared a common opinion—I was too big. From twenty weeks on I lost my ability to have an appointment without discussing the abnormal weight of my son and myself. They crassly informed me I must stop consuming any sugar whatsoever, fast food, pasta, bread, and the list goes (basically, if I was craving it, I more than likely was encouraged not to eat it). Since I happened to be a pregnant seventeen-year-old attempting to juggle my transformation into the next stage of life and completing seven high school classes, their suggestions were not closely followed.

So, here I sit in the hospital waiting room, sandwiched between my mother and my boyfriend, Gordon, in uncomfortable chairs. Perhaps they would be suitable if I was not nine months along with an over-grown fetus. The sunlight beating in through the many windows drowns out the florescent lights above my head, reminding me of the time. It’s only noon and my Cesarean section is scheduled at three o’clock. Normally, I’d indulge my anxious habit and bounce my leg up and down incessantly, but my short legs impeded by my huge belly can’t make it to the linoleum floor.

“Are you excited?” Mom inquires with a grin. It’s easy to detect her combination of nerves and eagerness to greet her third grandchild.

I nod, “Yeah, just nervous.”

My response, however, is not entirely truthful. Maybe this particular portion of this momentous day is simply tedious and the reality of giving birth to my first child in mere hours has yet to sink in, but I’m not excited. There’s no adrenaline coursing through me, and there’s no anticipation bringing a genuine smile to my face. I’m simply going through the motions of answering the occasional inquiry of the receptionist as she does my paperwork, squeezing Gordon’s hand, and returning the reassuring simpers from my family as they grant them to me.

There’s an enormous amount of pressure that I feel for this day to be the best one of my life. Countless parents reported that my world will forever alter today. Never again will I perceive anything in the same light. My heart should be filling with uncontrollable glee and my spirits should be soaring to limitless new heights. So, why am I not excited?

I’m horrified with myself—why don’t I feel this unconditional, undying, unwavering love for my son? This is not to say I don’t care to meet him; I am happy to lastly know my little one and see his face. I’m just not nearly as enthused as others have expressed, or as I have been imagining to be for some time. Dragging my index finger gingerly across my hard belly, I attempt to draw out the sensation I’m craving through the closest form of contact with my child I can muster. Perhaps somehow feeling him inside my body these last times will trigger my fervent motherly love for him. But, it doesn’t, and I’m starting to worry that it never will.

“Alright, Ms. Day, they’re ready for you,” a smiling nurse announces.

Despite myself, I rise to my aching feet with my party. I inhale deep breaths and trudge beside Gordon as we pass several rooms on the way to where I’ll be prepped for the c-section. It’s evident in Gordon’s mannerisms that he’s exceedingly nervous, although he’s beaming at me. “You’re doing great,” he assures me, as if reading my wandering mind. “he’s gonna be fine.”

I pull the corners of my lips into my best smile and reply, “I know.”

Once we’re inside the room the nurses instruct me to replace my maternity dress with the hospital gown provided. The size of my baby had been making simple tasks such as switching outfits (and sleeping, walking, breathing…) problematic, so it takes me a moment. After I’m done, I waddle over to the mobile bed and lay down. We’re being told how the process will ensue as they hook me up to numerous machines. My least comfortable moment is when an IV needle is pricked into my vein. My focus is taken over by the sound of my son’s monitored heartbeat, that sharp piece of medal imbedded in my hand’s flesh that I’m unable to neglect, and the unyielding doubts of not offering enough love for my newborn.

My heart crawls up my throat when my OBG-YN enters the room now tightly packed with mine and Gordon’s immediate family. In the past I’ve been comforted by her presence, as she’s a lovely person. Instead of advising me to eat less in order to hinder my baby’s rapid growth, she suggested scheduling a c-section to eliminate the detrimental risks of vaginal delivery my baby’s size poses. My son had steadily measured four weeks ahead and in extreme percentiles for weight and shoulder width; he is at a high risk for shoulder dystocia. Today, however, seeing the familiar face of Dr. Patel is a representation of what I have been both dreading and yearning for—giving birth.

Dr. Patel and the nurses briefly banter with our congregation before letting everyone know I’m to go back for the surgery in ten minutes. Our parents and siblings share their last promises of support and love on relocating to the waiting area. Eventually, Gordon and I are left alone momentarily. He grasps my hand and shudders in disbelief, “We’re having a baby!”

“We are,” I sigh shakily. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

It’s true—I can’t believe it. My brain is failing to comprehend the events that are moments from transpiring. My previously held agonizing guilt and the bemusing feeling of inadequate affection melts away. Now I’m in a numb denial. I possess vague memories of a kind anesthesiologist poking a sequence of shots into my spine—after that is a blur of medication-induced distortion. Unable to differentiate between seconds, minutes, and hours, I surrender to uncertainty and concentrate on assembling my remaining strength to readjust the oxygen tube resting awkwardly beneath my nose and Gordon’s nervous face beside me.

“Alright, Julia, you’re about to feel some slight discomfort,” the anesthesiologist warns me after some time.

Before I had the opportunity to question him, there is an immensely odd pressure forced upon my stomach. First, I hear the doctor to my left exclaim, “That is a big boy!”. Then, the echoes of a mewling baby. My spirits and awareness rise from within as I listen to my child’s first noises in the outside world. I attempt to peer around the white-sheet barrier to catch a glimpse at my son. Shortly thereafter, Gordon paces beside me, a grin plastered across his face.

Glowing with merriment, he tilts the most beautiful nine pounds and fourteen ounces of all time into my line of vision. There he is—tiny and swaddled and quite befuddled—Holden. No longer an enigma or intimidating force of nature I’m unfit to sustain and nourish, but simply Holden Joe Smith. All I wish for now is the ability to cradle him in my arms.

Once my body is stitched back together, I experience the most insane and lovely moment of my life. I hold my son for the first time as they push my bed from the surgery area to my recovery room. Every cliché I disregarded or doubted prior to pressing Holden to my chest become gospel truth, and I consider how foolish and ridiculous I was to ever question my love for him. There’s not one thing on the face of this planet I would not do for him, and nothing that has earned such a raw, positively radiant passion from my heart.

This moment caused the most radical personal change I’ve ever experience. June 29th, 2018, I became a mother to a beautiful, healthy, perfect, chubby baby boy, and he filled my life and soul with unspeakable contentment and joy. Every day he continues to prove to me that I had no business fretting over whether I would love him deeply enough—it is impossible not to.