You didn’t have an easy start did you? We didn’t have an easy start. Perhaps this was our first of many lessons together. Life is not easy, no one said it should be and it’s OK to struggle. 

Labour started early early in the morning of November 15th. My water broke when I was getting back into bed from my 4 millionth pee. ‘Water breaking’ sounds finite doesn’t it? Like it broke and it’s done? It kept coming and coming. 

We called the early labour unit and decided to go in and be checked out. While your dad got the bags and car ready I had a shower. 

Your grandparents (my side) came over to pick up Lucy. For some reason my dad brought over the recyclable cans (your dad takes them in for refunds). At 3-4am he was banging cans around in the backyard. You will know him as Pepé by the time you read this. Anyways, once Lucy and my parents left we went into the hospital where I was checked and sent home. We stopped at McDonald’s on the way home and your dad had to advocate for us to get Egg McMuffins. They were doing a shift change and didn’t want to serve him. He got us our breakfast that we ate at the kitchen table. Both in disbelief—who let us decide to have a kid! We were so ready but unprepared. 

When we got home I tried to rest in bed but the pains were intense so I bounced and watched a movie. I think your dad didn’t know what to do so he panic-sent work emails. We do weird things sometimes don’t we? After a while we decided to go back in. They gave me a morphine shot in my hip and put me in the tub. It was delicious. I hadn’t had a bath in ages and I just soaked and smelled my lavender oil. Your dad kept checking in on me but I was okay in my tub. It was damp, calm, and dark—probably a lot of what you felt for the last while.

When the active labour started we moved to another room with twinkle lights. I don’t remember how we got there but it was a very calming room. Your dad was my champion. Everything I needed he did. He held my legs as I pushed and pushed. He coordinated having my dad bring juice and Gatorade. I threw it all up but for some reason I needed it. He didn’t judge me and I felt so, so loved by him. 

I was told I was 10 cm dilated and when the labour wasn’t progressing they called in the OB resident. The resident said everything looked fine and to keep pushing. It wasn’t fine. Your head was tilted and there was no way you were coming out vaginally. The staff OB came in and explained that you had to come by section. I remember the wave of fear washing over me. We didn’t have time to sign any paperwork and I don’t know how I got into the OR. Even writing this as you slumber in my lap, I feel that same fear. I remember crying and asking the doctor if it was my fault, if I had done this. Of course it wasn’t but in that moment and every moment since, it has felt like a failure on my part and that I wasn’t strong enough to bring you into this world “the normal way.” 

Next thing we knew, we were in the bright white OR, I couldn’t stop shivering. Your dad was right there at my head asking if I was okay. Of course I wasn’t okay. After pushing for so long and being in labour for almost 24 hours I didn’t have the energy to answer. I don’t remember a lot except for feeling terror. My mind was racing and blank at the same time. I kept staring at the clock. They said 15 mins to get you out and 45 to put me back together. That was my mantra “15 mins to get you out and 45 to put me back together.”

You were born with a few minutes left on your due date. Like your dad, you like to be on time. When you came out your APGAR score was 0-5-8. You went to the NICU after being held by your dad for a moment. I think I knew I shouldn’t hold you. I think I knew I had to manage myself and that your dad was the best person for you in that moment. It’s hard to write that. I was too wrapped up in what I had gone through to be there for you. And you had gone through so much. I’m sorry my love. Even though I know that was one of the first times I had to put your needs first—it felt and feels like another failure. As you grow up I will share with you the burden of shame that I carry and that we all carry to some extent so that you can be free with your story and not hide it away in anger and depression or however else it presents. 

At this point we had been awake 24 hours. We called my parents from the recovery room and told them what had happened. My dad knew something was wrong when he didn’t hear from us. Even though they didn’t say it, they were very scared. Pepé was a surgeon himself and a long time ago he used to deliver babies. Knowing what happens behind the curtain is often more scary than living in ignorance. 

After they released us from the recovery room they took us to the NICU to see you. Memories are foggy now but I remember your tiny body lying there, there were so many tubes and IVs.  After a brief “hello,” your dad and I went to our room and I put on Downton Abbey! How wild. It was safe and I needed something to feel safe in that moment.

Because of Covid we were only allowed two people. My mum came to meet you. I cried when I saw her. Only maybe she could understand what I had gone through. She held me and everything felt a bit better. I know you didn’t get that when you entered this scary world. The nurses and doctors had to hold you to make sure you were okay. 

Over the next few months it felt like my world had shattered. And in many ways it still does feel like that. Instead of trying to keep it all together, I try to find beauty in the shatters. 

The shame is so loud sometimes. Still. When people, family compare our story to theirs. There is no comparison, there is no diminishing, there is just the trauma that our bodies hold when I speak of our story. Everything connects together:

Because you were in the NICU we struggled with breastfeeding (but we’re still going strong now)

You had low birth weight and struggled to gain so we had doctors’ appointments every day for what felt like weeks

The intense nerve pain that had me shopping for black market gabapentin 

Feeling profoundly misunderstood and judged for not being happy and up to meet the expectations of others

Extreme resentment when people had any expectation of me or you 

Insomnia, shame, anxiety, depression, flashbacks

Fear of failing you, intense fear that I already had failed you

On your first birthday and the days leading up to it I kept going back to the OR. I could feel the cold, see the lights, smell the disinfectant. I know after writing this I will be taken back there again and that’s okay. I know what to do. Just like we do when you are upset. We hold you close and say “we’re here, you’re safe now, take as long as you need.”

And here we are.

—Annie