And this is what I learnt.
I know that I am not supposed to say such things, that in polite company I should keep such a sentiment completely under wraps, because it makes other people feel uncomfortable to hear that sort of declaration spoken about your child’s birthday and all.
But my memories of that day are not comprised of happy tears and counting little bitty fingers and toes.
They are of clutching bed rails, gritting my teeth and trying to reverse a contraction because a nurse was telling me not to push, not under any circumstances. The baby was breech, but that wasn’t why they were rushing me towards an operating table. I was only 25 weeks into my pregnancy. The baby I was carrying was so fragile that the strength of my contractions could break her neck in the birth canal.
I fought futilely against my own body so that giving birth to my only child would not be the thing that killed her.
And then they cut her out of me, slit me hip to hip with a mask over my face and they did not hold her up above the curtain, like in the movies. They put her straight into a plastic bag and my husband said it was a measured frenzy the way they forced the ventilator tube down. I remember the way the anesthesiologist’s eyes looked as they hovered above me and the cadence of the nurse’s voice as she tried to talk my daughter into breathing again.