United States of Motherhood

In my heart, I was a mother from the moment I knew I was pregnant.

My pregnancy was blissful. I was one of those incredibly annoying women who had no morning sickness, no insane cravings, no stretch marks. (Annoying, that is, for every woman who has endured these trials and more.) My skin and hair shone gold with health – I never got sick of people telling me how I seemed to glow from within. I was in love with life, my man,  the world, and, most of all,  the incredible alchemy which was taking place inside me to create this wonderful new being with whom I was already deeply in love. I was completely at ease with the idea of becoming a mother, as only those completely new to motherhood can be. I had spent years idly longing for a child, but now we were ready. Now we were committed; there was no going back from my blooming belly.

So, it was a deep sense of shock that I stared at the deep red blotch on the tissue I held. At 32 weeks pregnant, I had become used to the siren song of the toilet in the middle of the night. After all, there is only so much space in the average abdomen. I didn’t begrudge an inch to my beautiful passenger, and willingly got up as many times a night as necessary to keep my bladder empty. I normally waddled throught the house in the dark, sat in the dark. This night, I put the light on – don’t ask me why. At three am, you have to trust your instincts -  your brain doesn’t function too well.

By then, I had absorbed enough pregnancy literature for 20 pregnancies . I knew spotting was not a good thing, not at this late stage of the pregnancy, and especially not if it was bright red. I knew it was probably a warning sign, and therefore not to be ignored. I knew that in another 2 hours, my partner’s alarm was going to go off, rousing him for another day’s work. And I knew I couldn’t wait that long.

I took a moment, though. I sat at the kitchen table, sipped a cup of chamomile tea, and focused every ounce of awareness on the baby within. Two days ago, I had been joking that Pumpkin (we hated the whole ‘he/she/it’ business) was dancing up the walls of my uterus like Fred Astaire, in that classic scene where he dances all the way up one wall, across the ceiling and down the other side. My partner and I were endlessly fascinated by the ever-changing panorama of my stomach, where the skin stretched and heaved to silhouette one little limb, or a rump, or an elbow, or an (amazingly large!) foot. Better then television, was the general conclusion.

I sat and remembered all the times Pumpkin had rebelled against the scans and monitors we were regularly subjected to, on our visits to the Antenatal Clinic. It was becoming a little joke with the midwives, how much this baby squirmed and wriggled to avoid the invasive pulse of the ultrasound, or even the smaller wave of the sonogram seeking the baby’s heartbeat as part of our regular check-up. I couldn’t help feeling proud, though, at how considerate my child already was – although incredibly active when I was awake and moving, Pumpkin almost always settled to a peaceful sleep when I lay down or rested. My prayer, echoed by all around me, was for that deliciously convenient sleep pattern to continue after the baby was born. Well, we can dream, can’t we?

My hands resting on my curving abdomen, I sat in the kitchen and waited for movement. I felt nothing.

Later, when we had driven through the deserted early-morning streets to the hospital, and been quickly ushered into the assessment area, I felt nothing again. Nothing, to the tune of a silent heart monitor strapped to my belly. The wide, sympathetic eyes of the doctor and midwives said it all, before the doctor ever opened her mouth. Oh, I cried – we wrapped our arms around each other and sobbed with the shock, the defeat of our dreams. I reduced one midwife to tears, when she comforted me while my man began the painful task of ringing our loved ones. But inside, I could not believe, nor fully feel the loss. I waited to feel movement, life.

The greatest blessing of that day was my completely natural labour. By the time the midwives examined me, shortly after the defining monitor, I was nearly 5 centimeters dilated. Startled, they enquired after my pain, and offered me pain relief if I required it. Physically, I was experiencing nothing worse than mild menstrual cramps – nothing they could give me could ease the pain I could feel sitting quietly in my heart, waiting for the right moment for its own birth. A labour ward was cleared for me, and we were whisked away.  My man was by my side; the waiting room began to fill with loving family and friends, come to support and grieve with us. Labour anchored me, gave me focus; I could not be a mother, but I could give birth.