By Jessica Lane, March 31, 2022
I’ve never been a fan of pregnancy. Instead of the radiant glow everyone raves about, I struggled through nine months of relentless nausea while colleagues at the office beamed and joked, “Are you sure it’s not twins?!” However, when it came to the labor of my first child, I surprisingly found joy in the experience. It lasted twenty-seven hours, but I mostly recall the laughter shared with my partner, Alex, as we anticipated the arrival of our daughter, Zoe. The moment she was born was pure magic.
So, when I learned during my second pregnancy that I would need a C-section due to complications, I was heartbroken. What would that moment feel like in a cold, clinical operating room?
On the day of the surgery, we waited anxiously in the hospital, sharing laughs over Alex’s ridiculously small surgical gown. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad, I thought. However, the mood shifted when the anesthesiologist arrived. He looked like a worn-out football coach, and instead of easing my fears about the C-section, he dropped a bombshell: “Your lab results show that your white blood cell count is low, so we’ll need to put you under general anesthesia.”
I barely registered his words. Inside, I felt like everything was collapsing. I didn’t want a C-section to begin with, but at least I had hoped to be awake for it. Now, I would be unconscious, and my baby would enter the world surrounded by strangers. As he started the IV, tears filled my eyes, and I heard him mutter, “I’m a typical man; I hate crying.” He promised Alex he would be called in to hear the baby’s first cry and led me down the hall.
When I woke up later in a hospital room, still groggy, Alex was there, brimming with anxiety. They hadn’t called him in after all, leaving him without any updates for over an hour. No joyful “It’s a girl!” moment—just worry. My midwife, Sarah, was there too, apologizing for her absence during the birth. “The baby is in the nursery,” she said, and I felt nothing. I wasn’t present for her arrival; it didn’t feel like my child. Sarah smiled and informed me, “She has red hair.” I resented that she knew more about my baby than I did.
In my imagination, the scene unfolds beautifully: they bring my baby in, and I am overwhelmed with joy and relief, cradling her gently and whispering that I am her mama. But reality was different. They wheeled in a tiny stranger, and though I said yes when asked if I wanted to hold her, I hesitated, fearing I might hurt her. I disliked that the nurse knew how to bottle-feed her better than I did; I wanted to be the one to nurture my child.
As a nurse checked my vitals, she glanced at the baby and asked, “How long has she been breathing like that?” Before I knew it, my baby was whisked back to the nursery for observation. I felt a strange sense of relief; I didn’t know how to care for her, but the nurses did.
Throughout the day, Alex visited the nursery, returning with pictures. The first time I saw our daughter in her clear incubator, surrounded by tubes and monitors, I was taken aback. I felt so powerless, unable to get out of bed to see her. Later, the doctor broke more bad news: they would need to transfer her to another hospital with a better NICU. I felt numb, almost too sad to register the impact.
Soon, a team of robust EMTs arrived to transport my baby. I couldn’t help but wonder why they needed so many strong men for such a tiny creature. They were kind and allowed me to say goodbye, and all I could do was cry, trying to reassure her that everything would be okay. We hadn’t even named her yet—how could we, when we knew so little?
After they left, Alex went with them, and I was left alone. Eventually, I was discharged and joined Alex at the new hospital. I took turns sitting beside the incubator, listening to the rhythmic beeping of the machines. The doctor encouraged me to reach in and touch her, but my tentative gesture agitated her so much that the nurses had to soothe her. So, I kept my distance, staring at her and longing to connect.
Five days later, she was finally cleared to come home. I was filled with a mix of relief and dread at being handed a stranger. A nurse rushed through the discharge paperwork, and I felt an overwhelming urge to plead for just one more week. My baby had never spent a single night with me, and I had never comforted her cries or held her head. I had always imagined we would share a bond before leaving the hospital, and I felt panic knowing that connection hadn’t formed yet. I yearned for closeness.
When we finally returned home, we found our older daughter, Zoe, and my visiting family waiting for us. As we placed the car seat in the middle of the room, I felt exposed and anxious, worried that everyone could sense the distance I felt from my baby. Then Zoe approached, kneeling in front of her little sister and gazing at her in wonder. “I’m your sister,” she whispered, as if she already knew her. In that moment, my baby felt solidly and irrevocably part of our family.
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Summary
This article recounts the emotional journey of a mother who missed the birth of her second child due to unexpected complications and a C-section. She reflects on the disconnect she felt during the experience and the subsequent challenges of bonding with her newborn. The piece highlights the importance of connection and the magical moment when her older daughter embraced her sister, helping solidify the new baby’s place in their family.