Immediately, everyone began to focus on the baby. They cooed about how beautiful she was, how big she was, how much hair she had. I lay behind the sheet, feeling as though my body and my baby were on the other side of a football field. I tried to ask questions, but no one could hear me. After what felt like an eternity, Chris walked over to me with her in his arms, looking dazed and happy. I think he said something like, "Here she is." It was unnecessary. I would have recognized her anywhere. She was mine, and I already knew her.
But she did look too big and too clean, and she was so chubby and so beautiful that, for a split second, I wondered how she could be real. I cried and looked at her, shaking from the effects of the epidural and straining my neck to turn as much as I could to look at her. I tried to touch her. I kissed her cheek. I wanted to stare. My doctor, the one who had cared from me from the very beginning, was standing beside me. I looked at her and she nodded at me, smiling. I nodded back, still crying.
Then Chris took her to the nursery so they could stitch me up. Immediately, I felt exhausted. The anesthetist had given me something for anxiety (even though I was not anxious) and I felt sleepy. I drifted in and out of sleep for a few minutes. I remember hearing strained voices, and hearing something about blood loss, but I couldn't stay awake. The next time I woke up, I was still on the table, staring up at the bright light. The anesthetist was still over me. I couldn't say anything, but I tried to catch his eye. He noticed me and smoothed my hair out of my eyes. "It's OK," he said. "Just a little bit longer. It's OK." I nodded and fell back asleep.
Then, suddenly, the surgeon was at my side. "You are losing too much blood," she said firmly. "We need to do something to stop it. I would like to remove your right ovary because it may stop the bleeding. Is that OK with you?" My mind reeled. I thought a million questions but couldn't say anything. "Mmm-hmmm," I agreed. She peered at me. "Do I need to talk to your husband about it?" I shook my head a little. "Uh-uh."
I fell back asleep. In my half-sleep, I was confused. Had I had the baby already? I thought I had, but I couldn't remember. The room was too bright and too loud, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep. I awoke to the sound of the surgical team counting their instruments. I fell asleep again. When I woke up, I was in a recovery room. Chris and a nurse came in a few minutes later with my baby, and I could finally, finally, finally hold and feed her. She was the most amazing, soft, beautiful, sweet, vulnerable, perfect thing I had ever seen. The surgeon came in a little while later and explained in basic terms what had happened to me. She sounded sorry.
I looked at my baby, then looked up at her and said, "It's OK. She's OK. Shit happens."
The surgeon looked slightly taken aback, then softened. "Well," she said, "I'm sorry it happened to you today."
This morning, a year later, my baby woke up. I went in, cuddled and rocked her, and smelled her sweet hair. She wrapped a warm hand around mine as she ate with little snuffling noises. She fell back asleep, warm and soft in her little footie jammies, wrapped in a fluffy blanket.
Today is better.
Happy birthday, baby Sophie. I would do it all over again a hundred times for just one day with you.
xoxo
