Tucker and I arrived at the hospital promptly by 5:30am to be induced, as our little miss was estimating at 10lbs and was already almost 2 weeks late! Little did I know, it wouldn’t be until the next day that we met our sweet little girl.
The labor was anything but what I expected. I didn’t respond to being induced; the pitocin was cranked up high after 6 hours of labor not starting. Then, all at once, my water broke and STRONG irregular contractions started, peaking without fully coming off of them. I labored for a hour before begging for an epidural with these medicine-induced contractions and no doula or education for pain management. The epidural wore off after an hour, and I was given a booster. Once that didn’t work, they took the epidural out and restuck me (still didn’t completely work). My temperature spiked and baby’s activity slowed. Then the oxygen mask. Then the anxiety meds. Hours and hours went by . . .
My sweet nurse took me by the face and told me “I’m here. I’m here. We’re gonna make it.”
THREE years ago today, Tali arrived early in the morning after 4am. After the labor hadn’t gone as planned, and no progress had been made after four hours, after my body had gone through 23 hours of medicine-induced-contractions, an epidural removed and redone, anxiety medicine, and oxygen, the doctor said the words “Failure to Progress” and the word “C-Section” was spoken. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I felt like I had failed. I felt like my body failed. I felt like something was wrong with me. In that moment I felt like the most miraculous moment of life was stolen from me: watching an innocent babe come into the world, your child. It was like sand through a fist: the tighter I tried to hold on to it, the faster it slipped through my fingers.
Tucker was exhausted both emotionally and physically watching me fight through labor. I was exhausted mentally and physically as well. I couldn’t bring myself to say “Okay,” so Tucker did for me. Tucker was rushed off to get dressed and I was sent into a sterile, white-walled room, with obtrusive bright lights: anything but the serenity in which I wanted. I couldn’t see the doctors’ faces, as they were covered with a mask. I was told to lay my arms out flat. Tucker came in and stood over me, his eyes the only recognizable part of him that was visible.
I was so scared. Behind the curtain they’d be cutting into my body, pushing internal parts to the side to bring my daughter into the world. This isn’t the way it was supposed to be…Then, before I could think about much more, Tali was born into the world crying. I saw tears in Tucker’s eyes as he said “She’s beautiful.” In that moment, I “saw” her for the first time through his eyes – a shared emotion. I told Tucker to go to her, that I’d be okay. And, that’s my last memory.
Although I was “awake” during these pictures – I don’t remember them. I don’t remember holding my daughter for the first time. I don’t remember breastfeeding her. I don’t remember the first time I looked into her eyes. I don’t remember how she moved. I don’t remember how her skin felt or how she smelled. My first memory is looking across the room and seeing someone holding her. I remember a room full of people.
But yet, despite all the circumstances, when I saw her, all I could think about was her. That perfect moment hung in the air. She’s mine. She’s my daughter. She’s so perfect. She’s so beautiful. I brought her into the world. I’ll do anything for her. I love her.
Happy Birthday, Tali.