Guest post by Maria
Bruce was born in a panic. We had made it to 37 weeks, but then at nearly midnight in a bright hospital room with organized chaos descending upon us, it became clear that every moment longer my baby spent inside me threatened his life.
My son had signaled something was wrong by not moving at all after dinner when he was usually the most active. An ultrasound showed his heartbeat was abnormal, prompting an emergency c-section.
While it had taken seemingly forever to get to this point in my life — about to give birth to my first child just two weeks shy of my 38th birthday — now things were happening at a frightening pace.
In the doctor’s words, Bruce “came out fighting” with flailing arms and eyes wide open, despite an umbilical cord wrapped around his neck an astonishing three times.
He immediately had trouble breathing and was whisked away for evaluation. Meanwhile, my own complications from the delivery kept me in the post-op recovery room the entire night, separated from my baby.
Almost six hours after he left my body, I saw my son for the first time in the NICU, where he was hooked up to a ventilator. He’s beautiful, I thought. Never mind the tubes and wires. Currents of joy, gratitude and awe swept through me as I reached into Bruce’s bassinet to hold his hand, to finally touch him.
His tiny fingers clung to mine. I never wanted to let go. Heroically, Bruce held on for three days. He died of persistent pulmonary hypertension, seldom fatal for a full-term infant.
“We plan to have another baby,” I told one of the neonatologists as we were leaving the NICU. Bruce’s father and I had just spent the whole night cradling our son in our arms for the first and last time. Fresh with grief for my firstborn and having just experienced the worst tragedy a mother could endure, I was neither ready nor willing to give up motherhood. I had waited long enough for it.
Not so fast. That was the gist of my obstetrician’s warning at my two-week postpartum appointment. To minimize the risk of uterine rupture — the scar tissue from my c-section separating — during a subsequent pregnancy, she advised me to wait at least a year before even trying to conceive again.
Another anvil fell on my head. Twelve months is more than a mere speed bump to a 38-year-old with a racing biological clock who longs to hold a live baby in her arms. What would I do in the meantime? How could my broken heart last that long?
As I write this, it’s been just under two months since Bruce’s birth and death. My doctor emphasized I need time to heal — both physically and emotionally — before I enter another pregnancy. Now that a little more time has passed, I see her point. Although there’s nothing I want more than Bruce here with me, I cherish the time I’m spending honoring him through writing and reflection.
On leave from work for a few more weeks, I’m also doing things I put off or couldn’t do while pregnant, like painting my toenails and going to the dentist. I saw a dermatologist a few days ago to ask about a suspicious mole I only noticed after Bruce was born.
I explained that I had been pregnant recently (as pregnancy can cause skin changes). “Congratulations! How’s your baby doing?” the doctor asked innocently, dropping her jaw and apologizing after I explained Bruce had passed.
I suddenly felt guilty I was in the doctor’s office, concerned about a puny mole that was probably nothing, given my baby had recently died after suffering so much in his short life. I felt as if I needed to justify why I was still functioning, why my life hadn’t stopped, too.
“I plan to have another baby,” I told the doctor, “And the way I see it, coming to this appointment is part of taking care of myself, preparing for another child.” She smiled with sympathetic eyes. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sure you’ll make a great mom.”
But I’m already a mother, I thought to myself. That wait is over. Bruce made me a mother; he gave me a family of my own. For that I’m forever grateful to my son.
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