You know those pictures of babies laying on mom's chest right after they are born? Or the ones with dad in scrubs proudly holding up baby next to mom's smiling face on the operating table? I hate to admit this but while I certainly appreciate the beauty of them, they make me sad. They make me jealous. They make me feel the sting of disappointment because I don't have any like them. It's not because we forgot to take any. It's because we weren't able to.
The 5 seconds I got to hold Fallon after her breathing was stabilized and before they whisked her away to the NICU and left me behind
You can read Fallon's birth story here if you haven't already. A day that should have been one of the happiest of my life was actually the scariest. I don't get all the warm fuzzies telling my little girl's birth story. I don't smile fondly remembering it. I don't feel excited to talk about it with Fallon one day. I'm totally jaded by my experience and I hate that. I'm so utterly and completely ashamed that I feel like this but it's been on my heart for too long to keep inside. The truth is, I'm mad that things happened the way they did. I'm upset that I don't well up with happiness when I think about it. I feel like I was robbed of the wonderfulness the birth of a baby is supposed to be. And I'm just honestly kind of pissed off about all these negative emotions existing where only positive one should be.
People say you don't remember the pain, the physical and mental exhaustion, the graphic and gory details of labor and delivery. Wrong. So wrong. I do. I remember exactly the way the contractions felt when my epidural suddenly wore off while pushing. I remember exactly how my muscles ached and my mind tried to shut down. I remember exactly the horror of seeing my oh so pale baby girl for the first time and knowing immediately she was not okay. And that last part is the one that kills me. A moment that should have been filled with nothing but elation instead took my breath away in the very worst kind of way.
After learning I was the mother of a baby girl and she was far too briefly plopped on my chest, my first words were nothing short of heartbreaking. They say the brain has the amazing ability to block out events too painful for the mind to handle. I don't remember screaming "why isn't she crying" over and over in a state of panic but my husband can't forget it.
Yes, we were among the lucky ones whose story has a happy ending. So part of me feels ridiculous for complaining about a not so fairytale-like birth story. But I can't stop the disappointment, the angry tears, the wishing it was different feelings from bubbling up every time I think about it. Why didn't I get to snuggle my fresh newborn? Why couldn't I be right there to comfort her while she took her first look around this big scary world? Why wasn't I able to hold her and let her know she was safe right there in mama's arms?
Nearly 8 months after Fallon's birth, I've accepted her story. I absolutely still wish I could change it, but I've come to terms with it. And I've decided that I'm allowed to be upset about it. I'm allowed to feel the negative feelings. I'm allowed to wish things happened differently. But what I need to focus on is that we came home with a healthy baby girl. She survived. Really that's what matters. And one day maybe I'll have a positive spin on the whole thing.
Now excuse me while I go creep into that perfect sleeping baby girl's room and snuggle her to give me all the happy feelings.
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