Be Like An Elephant
I've had four pregnancies within my life. Four pregnancies, four losses, and one beautiful daughter who is now just finally in the early pre-teen stage (according to her, but all of her parents just want her to stop trying to grow up so quickly). And I still distinctly remember how...much...I felt those last two weeks of my pregnancy with my daughter, and then how much I felt when I woke up from the tiny nap while in active labor, knowing that I had to start pushing to meet her, face to face, right then.
I don't remember the pain that came with each push, but I remember the pressure I felt right in my pelvis, knowing that each push brought her closer. I remember watching the clock as she finally came out, (and even though they called her birth at 8:35 PM, I KNOW she was born at 8:34) and I remember when her dad was handed the scissors to cut her umbilical cord, and how shocked he looked when it didn't immediately sever and he had to put a little more oomph into it. (Yeah, it was still pulsating. I was twenty years old, dealing with a lot during that time of my life, okay, so stop judging if you are.)
I remember holding her, swaddled up in that hospital blanket, little grunts coming from her mouth as she opened her eyes and stared into mine. I remember feeling so overwhelmed, so in love, so....much. And then the terror when I realized those little grunts were simply because she was having a hard time breathing.
I remember the morning of December 24th, 2011, waking up, groggy, in an unfamiliar place, with a definite time in my memory when things went black, to a note in handwriting I didn't recognize, with my clothes on the floor and a stamp on my wrist from a bar I didn't remember going to. I remember declining the Plan B pill at the hospital, telling them I already had an IUD, only to panic when my daughter patted my tummy two weeks later, saying "Hi, baby," and the pregnancy test came back with two little lines.
The following weeks after, the ultrasounds, the revelation that my unborn child was not in my uterus, the research, the pleading, the bargaining, the research, the deadline, the little pill, and the following passing that seemed no more consequential than the average menstrual period...it's all a bit of a blur so many years later, but the one thing that still sticks to my memory is the morning of my birthday, five days after passing my child, when my daughter was snuggling with me, her head on my belly, stroking it as I was stroking her hair, looked at it, asking, "Baby?" before patting my skin and saying "Bye bye, baby."
She wasn't even two years old yet. But my daughter knew things she should not have been able to, by our physical standards.
That was my first experience with losing a child. Some would disagree, say that having a miscarriage isn't the same as losing a child that has already been born, but for me, it's important to remember that there were still hopes, dreams, things that I lost when I got the news that my baby had never even implanted properly.
I've always known that loss was the easiest, but for me, it's still important to remember.
To always remember.
I don't remember the pain that came with each push, but I remember the pressure I felt right in my pelvis, knowing that each push brought her closer. I remember watching the clock as she finally came out, (and even though they called her birth at 8:35 PM, I KNOW she was born at 8:34) and I remember when her dad was handed the scissors to cut her umbilical cord, and how shocked he looked when it didn't immediately sever and he had to put a little more oomph into it. (Yeah, it was still pulsating. I was twenty years old, dealing with a lot during that time of my life, okay, so stop judging if you are.)
I remember holding her, swaddled up in that hospital blanket, little grunts coming from her mouth as she opened her eyes and stared into mine. I remember feeling so overwhelmed, so in love, so....much. And then the terror when I realized those little grunts were simply because she was having a hard time breathing.
I remember the morning of December 24th, 2011, waking up, groggy, in an unfamiliar place, with a definite time in my memory when things went black, to a note in handwriting I didn't recognize, with my clothes on the floor and a stamp on my wrist from a bar I didn't remember going to. I remember declining the Plan B pill at the hospital, telling them I already had an IUD, only to panic when my daughter patted my tummy two weeks later, saying "Hi, baby," and the pregnancy test came back with two little lines.
The following weeks after, the ultrasounds, the revelation that my unborn child was not in my uterus, the research, the pleading, the bargaining, the research, the deadline, the little pill, and the following passing that seemed no more consequential than the average menstrual period...it's all a bit of a blur so many years later, but the one thing that still sticks to my memory is the morning of my birthday, five days after passing my child, when my daughter was snuggling with me, her head on my belly, stroking it as I was stroking her hair, looked at it, asking, "Baby?" before patting my skin and saying "Bye bye, baby."
She wasn't even two years old yet. But my daughter knew things she should not have been able to, by our physical standards.
That was my first experience with losing a child. Some would disagree, say that having a miscarriage isn't the same as losing a child that has already been born, but for me, it's important to remember that there were still hopes, dreams, things that I lost when I got the news that my baby had never even implanted properly.
I've always known that loss was the easiest, but for me, it's still important to remember.
To always remember.
Comments
Post a Comment