As the labor continued, shoulders were stuck. Nurses and a few doctors rushed about, preparing for an emergency surgery, a surgery I doubted I would come out of. My husband tried to assure me, promised to see me when I pulled through. I was whisked away, torn from his loving grasp as my world slipped peacefully into the sleep of anesthesia.
Hours later, I woke up scared and alone. The room was dark and machines were beeping all around me. A nurse came in to talk to me I wasn’t having it. Thoughts running through my mind, what happened? Why me? Why her? Why us? Confusion sat in as thousands of questions ran through my mind.
He was finally allowed into my room, walked over to my bed and took my hand, cried with me and promised to love me, regardless. He was here for me in a way that no one else was or has been through this entire journey.
I spent two or three days in the hospital. Doctors and nurses came in and out, making small talk but never really showing the concern that I now know would have helped. Instead, we were spoken to as most couples who have just had a baby. They gave little instructions as to how I should deal with a postpartum body, how I might deal with breast milk, hormones or what else I should expect.
A nurse wheeled me out of the hospital. Flat belly, empty arms. I held a box on my lap, a box that held our baby girl’s footprints, a hat, and a few other mementos.
One journey over, the phases of grief, mourning, and figuring out where to go from there began as we rode back home.