Eight Years Ago

Eight years ago, I was 20 years old. I had just given birth to my first child at 11:06am. I was exhausted, ill and bedridden. This was my first day as a mother.

My pregnancy had been difficult. I'd almost lost him in my first trimester because I was waiting tables and no one would help me lift the heavy trays. I was trying to finish some of the more intensive classes before I had the baby. My husband was having medical issues, which meant I was driving back and forth between school and his Army base, four hours away. My husband began his intense relationship with cocaine. My family is always having issues. I went through a period of homelessness. Finally, I came down with toxemia.

I had been having nightmares about giving birth. I would wake up crying, telling my husband that I didn't want to have the baby. I would hysterically shake him from sleep, saying "Don't make me have this baby. I don't want to. I don't want to do this." Never one to wake up well, he would just look at me and say "Too late for that." He'd then roll over and go back to sleep.

The doctor came in from looking at the test results, and patted my belly. "Oh, honey. We need to get that baby out of you. We're keeping you today." She went on to explain that I was very sick, and my body was rejecting the pregnancy. Since I'd been walking around three centimeters dilated for weeks, they figured they would only have to break my water to get me going and things would be fine. No such luck. My contractions wouldn't start, my blood pressure was going up by the minute, and my platelet count was dropping. Finally, I was induced. Along with the Pitosin to start my contractions, I had IV's giving me saline and drugs to keep my blood pressure down and drugs to help ease the pain of labor. I was not allowed to get out of bed because my blood pressure was too high. They had to insert a monitor to make sure my baby was doing okay under all the stress. And I was told to sleep. Right.

It took my body hours to dilate to nine centimeters. The nurse told my husband to go get something to eat because it would take a long time for me to hit the 10 centimeters needed for anything to begin, and then it would be hours of pushing before any child would appear. He left the room. The nurse helped me to roll over so I could be more comfortable. And that was it. I was in hard labor. My husband had to be paged. I began to go into shock, and they called a doctor in. It wasn't my regular doctor, and I couldn't tell you what her name was or what she looked like. I would black out, and would shake. My husband held my hand and would put an oxygen mask on my face. When I received the oxygen, I would wake up enough to see him look scared and unsure of what was going on. A short time later, my son was born. He didn't breathe right away, so they ran him away from me. I was trying to reach for him, but they took him too fast. My husband didn't know which way to go - stay with his wife or check on his baby. It all had the feel of a surreal nightmare.

Finally, I heard a baby cry. My baby. My son. He was alright. I was weak and drugged. My husband had to help me hold my son for the first time. When I held him for the first time, my heart swelled and I couldn't help crying. It wasn't postpartem depression or anything remotely close. I've simply never felt love like I felt the minute I heard his cry, and he was okay.

We've been through some tough times as a family - my son and I. My daughter has been included in some of the hard times, but most of the really bad times came before she came into the scene. My son has always had a way of smiling that could make any situation seem alright. He's a gentle, loving little boy. Today is his eighth birthday. We did our traditional birthday breakfast this morning. He chose IHOP so he could have an icecream sundae right after pancakes. We then came home, and I spent time with him this afternoon, teaching him to ride a two-wheel bike - his birthday present from his sister and me. As soon as he saw it, he just gave me that smile. It was a tiring day. Both kids went to bed early tonight.

I just checked in on him sleeping. He still makes my heart swell to the point of tears. That little boy is my hero, and he is the one who makes me want to be a better person. I want to be the loving, gentle, compassionate person I see in an eight year old boy.