I found myself to be quite the emotional wreck throughout my pregnancy. I cried at the slightest trigger, whether it be a lack of mayonnaise for my sandwich or the wrong tone from a client over the phone. I opted for the genetic testing offered by the clinic to determine potentially dangerous genetic conditions that could affect the baby. I found out the baby’s sex around thirteen weeks into the pregnancy as a result. The nurse called while I was at work, and my fellow receptionists gathered in close to share in the exciting news. The nurse happily revealed that I was carrying a baby girl.
I had always envisioned a boy when I imagined motherhood. I was never able to picture a little girl. But, when the nurse told me I was carrying a girl, I still felt warmth rush through me as I fell even more in love with my little bean. I texted Anna, the mother of H and T, with whom I’d grown close over the years. She was going to do a little gender reveal photo shoot for me with the baby’s brothers. H preferred another baby brother, but little T hoped for a baby sister to cherish. When the boys pulled the ribbon loose on the box and saw the pink balloons, T squealed with joy. “I’m getting a baby sister!” he screamed excitedly.
I received numerous texts and comments on Facebook with congratulations. Though I’d settled on a first name, one with which I’d been obsessed for years, I was torn over options for a middle name. Phoebe Eleanor was the name I chose for my daughter. Phoebe for my favorite character on Charmed, a show I’d grown up watching with my own mom, and Eleanor for my Mawmaw. I spent my days and nights obsessing over every aspect of my pregnancy and all that would come after.
I was showered with love and attention from my friends, family, and coworkers, and while I appreciated every bit of it, it didn’t change the fact that I came home alone every evening. I would get home to an empty house but for my pets, and feel the desolate loneliness nearly overwhelm me. I wished desperately I had a partner with whom I could share this marvelous journey. I wanted someone to rub my aching, swollen feet while I cried over reruns of Grey’s Anatomy. I wanted someone willing to race to town for a milkshake when the cravings hit. Instead, I curled protectively around my growing belly and whispered words of love and adoration over my forming child as I watched my favorite tv series. I tried not to let myself fully succumb to the loneliness, reminding myself that it was much better than what I’d be subjected to if Twice were still around.
I’d resolved to completely remove Twice from every aspect of my baby’s life. I alone would sign her birth certificate, and I alone would rear her in my safe, loving home. I worked hard and saved every extra penny to be able to afford the six weeks I would be taking for maternity leave.
My visits to the doctor became more frequent after horrendously failing the glucose tolerance test. I was forced to undergo the three-hour test where I had to drink a much more potent form of the syrup-like substance and have my blood drawn over the course of three hours on an empty stomach. The conclusion was that I was afflicted with Gestational Diabetes. Basically, my body wasn’t processing sugar like it was supposed to due to the changes inflicted by the growing fetus. After trying various doses of Metformin and scarring the tips of every finger with multiple sharp pricks a day, my doctor decided I’d have to switch to injectable insulin. If I didn’t get my blood glucose under firm control, my baby could be negatively affected with unwanted growth or hypoglycemia after birth.
I was referred to the high-risk pregnancy doctor as a result of my erratically elevated blood glucose readings and hypertension. I saw Dr. Darby every other week near the end of my pregnancy. The silver lining I found in these visits was the ability to see my baby on the screen. My doctors both decided that we should induce labor sometime in the thirty-seventh week of my pregnancy to avoid any complications. When Dr. Moore, my OB/GYN, offered his available days the week of my birthday, I instantly chose Monday, January 11. If I was going to pick a day that week, why not my own birthday?
I worked through Wednesday, January 6, 2021, deciding that I could use a few days to finalize any preparations for Phoebe’s arrival. I’d already been in a constant state of misery. My appendages were hardly recognizable having swollen outrageously. I had severe carpal tunnel that had scarcely been relieved by the multiple steroid injections into my wrists. I slept very little due to the pains that caused my arms to feel as though they’d been struck by lightning.
Two days before my birth day, Nanna pampered me with a pedicure before taking me to lunch with my Pawpaw. We ate at a local seafood restaurant that had the most mouthwateringly delicious crab legs and shrimp. That Sunday, I could hardly stand my anxiety, filled with jitters that prevented me from sitting still for any length of time. Nanna took me to Cook-Out to get dinner and a milkshake, my last supper before a day of starvation.
We arrived at Forrest General Hospital shortly before check-in time around 7pm. After unloading my absurd number of belongings, we found the room I’d been assigned. I changed and showered, readying myself for the marathon to come. I fidgeted restlessly throughout the night, uncomfortable and full of excitement. In a few hours’ time, I would become a mother, something about which I’d dreamt for as long as I could remember.
At 7am the next morning, I was given the medicine that would begin the contractions. Labor pains began nearly half an hour later. About an hour after that, the doctor came in to examine me. He “broke my water” mechanically to help the process along. I’d hoped to be able to withstand the pain in favor of a natural birth. Unfortunately, the intensity of the contractions, their location in my lower back, and the scarce minute and a half between them made the process unendurable. I asked the nurses for the epidural around 9:30 that morning.
Relief was blissfully quick once the medicine began to flow through my veins. Euphoric with the absence of pain, I gratefully accepted an orange flavored popsicle before relaxing back into the bed. I was exhausted from the lack of sleep that had built up over the previous nights, and I had bounced and paced painfully over the last two hours.
The day passed slowly as the nurses periodically readjusted my position and checked for cervical changes and dilation. I’d nearly given up on having the baby on my birthday, settling instead for my mother’s when they told me I’d begun to dilate a bit more. I felt the pain return shortly before 8pm. They increased the flow of the medication, but nothing changed. Around 9pm I woke my Nanna and told her I thought the baby would be coming soon. I felt an intense pressure in my pelvis, and the contractions wracked my body with fierce tremors.
The nurses came at my call, assuring me there was still time. Upon a quick look below, the nurse rose, wide-eyed, and told me to get ready. The baby was coming. Everything sped up at that point. The nurse gathered her supplies while her coworkers placed my legs in stirrups and another group of nurses brought in supplies for the baby. I felt my heart begin to race with fear. Thoughts raced through my mind of maternal-fetal death rates in the US, complications following birth, and any other horrible possibility. Tears pooled before spilling over and flowing freely down my cheeks as I was repositioned with professional hands.
I was terrified. I wanted desperately for my baby to be healthy and for me to survive to be her mother. Fortunately, the process of breathing, counting, and bearing down to push forced me to concentrate on the task at hand. I babbled incoherently, nervous at the size of my audience. I jokingly asked if it was too late for Plan B as the doctor came in for the finale, snapping on gloves in a comically dramatic manner. Chuckles ensued, easing my nerves just a bit.
As the doctor placed both of his hands around the head of my baby, I panicked, thinking how impossibly elastic the human body could be. I informed the crowd that I’d only been in search of an orgasm and got this instead. I grinned halfheartedly as laughter spread throughout the room. More hilarity followed between contractions. During one painfully long contraction, I’d counted to three before feeling an intrusive sensation in the wrong orifice and wriggled away in protest. The doctor asked, bemused, if I felt that. Bewildered by his ignorance, I reminded him that I had already told everyone that I could feel EVERYTHING. I asked what he’d been doing, and he stumbled over an answer before another contraction saved him.
At 9:47pm, Phoebe finally slid free into a shockingly cold and bright new world. I reached as Dr. Moore passed the sticky, purple being into my arms. I pulled the tiny baby onto my bared chest as a nurse covered us with a blanket. I met those alien-like eyes with the most intense feelings of wonder, joy, and love I’d ever encountered. I hardly noticed the doctor as he numbed and sutured the small tear, so engrossed was I in this miniature human I’d created with my body.
The room cleared of everyone as I was given time to bond with my baby through skin-to-skin contact. I carefully shifted her down my breast and guided a nipple into her mouth, hoping to induce the flow of colostrum and milk. All too quickly, staff returned to clean, measure, and poke my little girl. I watched carefully, not allowing her to leave my sight for even the briefest of moments. I was astounded when they weighed my little girl. The scale registered her to be a whopping 6 pounds and 0.3 ounces. I had a total of three newborn onesies due to the advice that my baby would be larger and grow quickly. I ended up needing premie clothes for my teensy daughter.
My Nanna stayed another night at the hospital with me before we asked the hospital staff to make an exception to their strict new Covid 19 rules. They relented and allowed my dad to take her place. He came into my room and immediately began to cry when he laid eyes on the tiny bundle I held in my arms.
The rest of the story is naught but insignificant details of my journey into motherhood. I’ll briefly clarify some things before wrapping up this tale. My dad was a devoted grandfather as long as I went to him or maintained some form of contact. The second I stopped communicating, I heard nothing more from him. I received a call late one night from Twice in the middle of my pregnancy. He was in jail, of course, and he needed money for a more comfortable imprisonment. Apparently, he was also in a relationship at the time and asking that woman for assistance as well. I visited once or twice in the hopes of finding closure while rubbing his face in his mistakes. Unfortunately, I did nothing but fuel my angry bitterness. He felt no remorse and suffered not one bit from his actions.
When I began seeing my psychologist and writing this narrative, I found my eyes opened to things I’d ignored. While I don’t blame anyone for my problems, I have come to realize that my parents could have prevented a great deal of my suffering as a child. Perhaps I wouldn’t have clung so tightly to my abuser. Maybe I’d be more successful financially. I also wouldn’t have my precious daughter. I would change nothing if it meant I wouldn’t have Phoebe.
However sordid my past, I’ll do nothing but strive to do better and be better for my child. She deserves nothing less than my best. I appreciate you all for reading this unedited, raw version of my autobiography. I am a person of no particular importance, but I can’t help thinking there might be someone else out there who can relate to my story.
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