Rebirth
As we walk this ever-narrowing line between past and future parenthood, I keep remembering the first time I held Isla. Because she was born via C-section, the nurses held her against my cheek for a few seconds while I was seriously doped up and I remember seeing this screaming, skinny little red-faced baby and saying, "wowwwww". Then they took her away and Dan went with her while I got sewed up. I remember feeling a cold rush of fluid next to my spine and I asked the nurse by my head what it was, and she leaned in and said, "That was morphine. Now's a good time to take a nap." So I closed my eyes and slipped into a daze for about half an hour.
The next thing I remember, I was in a recovery room, and Dan was back with me. I distinctly remember poking at my thigh and marveling that it was somehow attached to my body, even though under my fingers it just felt like a cool blob of someone else's flesh. We were in the recovery room for about an hour, and Isla's cardiologist Dr. Eapen came to visit and check in on us. Come to think of it, she was the first person to see us after Isla was born and the last person to see us as a family before Isla died. I'm so full of gratitude that she experienced both of those moments with us.
Finally, they wheeled me up to the NICU to see our yet-unnamed baby girl, and we took a couple of photos like the one in this post. A nurse brought me this baby, and I was still pretty groggy and Dan put his hand on her back to make sure I didn't drop her. Neither of us had ever held such a tiny human. I remember holding her for maybe 5 minutes while a gaggle of nurses sat around and just gawked at us. I didn't feel qualified to even be holding her, let alone asking for some private time for the three of us.
Afterward, I was wheeled up to my room in postpartum and the medical staff brought Isla by a few hours later in her incubator before shipping her off to Children's. I was kept at the hospital for three days before I could see her, which was torture. The day I got discharged, I remember rolling my wheelchair up to the welcome desk at Children’s, trying to explain to the guy behind the desk why I was there. "I had a baby a few days ago, and she's here now and I want to see her." He was sort of confused. Dan's mom came up behind me and said, "She's here to visit her daughter." Giving birth was such a disconnected experience it hadn't even occurred to me some 72 hours later that that little human they pulled from my belly was my daughter.
In the weeks and months that followed, Dan and I worked hard to gain Isla's trust. Her experience with people was almost always accompanied with cold instruments, bright lights, and pokes or prods. Under the guidance of some really loving members of her care team, we learned how to hold her and comfort her and give her "positive touch", so that she knew we were her parents and she could relax around us. At the time it didn't seem unnatural; after all, it was the only thing we knew. By the time we got discharged for those six glorious days in May 2013, all three of us were intuitively knit together as a family.
As we anticipate our coming birth, it's in many ways an opportunity to do things differently this time. We chose a birth center setting because the baby will never be separated from us, there will no medication or grogginess or morphine hangover, and we can just GO HOME as soon as we feel ready--a couple hours after birth on average. All the things that people typically freak out about regarding birth are completely irrelevant to us. I look at it as honoring the start I wish we could have given to Isla, and reclaiming a healthy, normal start to our for next child's life.
Many say the only thing that matters in the end of a birth is a healthy baby and mom, and on a basic level, of course that's true. But in truth, the moments before, during, and after birth are irreplaceable, because you never know what will happen in the future. I spend Isla’s whole life banking on the fact that we’d make up for lost time once we were all home. Furthermore, Isla was medicated in some way from before she was born until the day she died. The last few hours, we took all the equipment off of her and just let her be in peace. It was heart wrenching to watch, but also beautiful to know that she was able to choose her time out of this world. I cannot think of a greater gift to her, ourselves, and our new baby than to let her little sibling choose his or her way into the world.
I'm not one for bible quotes, but I came across this recently that really spoke to me: "The pain that you have been feeling can't compare to the joy that's coming." (Romans 8:18). I hope our upcoming birth will be healing for all of us, and Isla will be in attendance right next to Dan and me, smiling her goofy toothless grin.
