Wednesday, 30 August 2006

I never knew

Labour was not cool. I believe that most women who have delivered a baby the natural way will agree with that statement, but it was not at all what I was expecting. Especially the projectile vomiting that occurred in the pushing stage. Yup, projectile vomit that COVERED my bed, my hospital gown, my IV, the floor, the table next to me, and some of the nurses. And did I care? Heck, no! Vomiting felt so good in comparison to the rest of my day, I felt glad to relieve myself, even if it was stinky and gross for all present.

So I delivered a beautiful baby boy while covered in puke, sweat, and probably some of Tony’s tears. And if you have seen the labour pictures, I am sure that you will agree that it was NOT my finest fashion moment. But I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was see him and hold him and love him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hold him right away as the doctors had to take care of me, my puke, my fever, my blood pressure, my stitches (ouch), my pulse, and Sacha had to be weighed, measured and tested for reflexes and such. Tony followed him and held him, so I wasn’t TOO concerned, but while I was laying on the table, after all was said and done for me, I was laying there with no baby: none in my tummy, and none beside me. I wanted to cry because I missed him so much. I hadn’t even held him yet and already I missed him.

Later that night, the nurses took him to the nursery (as they wanted to observe him due to my Strep B situation) and I was left once again alone. I could not think of anything but Sacha. I rubbed my tummy, and he wasn’t there. I looked beside me and his cot wasn’t there. I can honestly say that I did not sleep a wink that first night because I waited and waited for the nurses to bring him to me when he was hungry. Then I cherished those night time moments and held him as long as I could after his feedings so that I could soak in his smell and his essence.

Yesterday, I had to run to the store to pick up a couple of groceries and I left Sacha, who was sleeping happily on Memère’s shoulder, with my mom. I have never raced through a grocery store faster as I was worried and missed him so much for the 30 minutes that I was gone. Was he hungry? What if he was fussing and I wasn’t there to take care of him? When I got back, he was exactly as I had left him: sleeping on my mom’s shoulder, making those little wheezing noises that he makes when he dreams of eating.

And even when he fusses, I love him. When he screams, I love him. I just smile and rock him and burp him and feed him and change his poopy bum and take care of him, hoping that he will feel how much I love him and know that I would do ANYTHING for him.

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