My very first Mother's Day morning was spent in Good Samaritan Hospital in Phoenix. Where I was recovering from an emergency C section. My daughter had entered the world on Thursday night; I'd only been able to actually hold her for the first time on the Saturday following. She was supposedly going to arrive on May 5th, Cinco de Mayo. I was tickled about that; there'd be a big party already underway. Mariachi music, tacos, and beer. Add cake and maybe a pinata and it'd be perfect.
The morning of May 5th rolled around, and I had my last scheduled visit with my OB/GYN. The ultrasound showed a perfectly formed if rather small little girl. Who was head-down in the correct position. But hadn't really dropped yet. I wasn't dilated even the least little bit. My ankles had gotten thick as my knees, and I'd been having dizzy spells. The decision was made to send me immediately to the hospital to be induced.
That was a horror show that lasted three days. Three days of unbelievable pain that was only partially relieved by the epidural. Of being poked, prodded, stared at and dispassionately discussed by groups of interns who'd walk in unannounced. Of godawful food that came back up moments after being swallowed. Of complete immobility, with wires and tubes running between me and various noisy machines that made sleep all but impossible. Bright lights that'd come on without warning and horrifying screams from the curtained off bed next to mine. The voice of an older woman at the bedside behind the curtain, exhorting the woman in the bed (presumably her daughter) to suck it up and be brave. Because she "didn't need pain meds. Real women do this all the time without any pain meds". That girl was pleading and crying. Nobody but me seemed to hear her.
By Thursday afternoon my daughter had sensors attached to her scalp; the procedure to get them in there still gives me shivers. By Thursday night her heartbeat was slowing. Mine was erratic. I started to go into convulsions. I'll never understand how a weakened exhausted body could flail around like that.
The doctor had a short, hushed talk with my husband and MIL, who'd been in the room with me, off and on, the whole time. I was immediately whisked into surgery. The mask came down on my face and I slept soundly for the first time in 72 hours. I briefly opened my eyes to see my husband, in borrowed scrubs and his long bushy hair tucked into a cap, holding a tiny, silent, blanket wrapped bundle.
When I woke again I was alone in a different room. There was a bassinet, but no baby. A nurse came in, checked me over, and told me that my husband was with relatives, looking at his daughter through a glass window. Everyone got to see Paula before I did. I was too dazed and exhausted to even care. She was alive, and so was I. We went home on Sunday. It was Mother's Day. I was famished, and asked for Mexican takeout. I still have the card that my husband gave me. One he signed on our daughter's behalf.
Never let anyone tell you that childbirth isn't a dangerous, fraught thing. That there's no risk involved if you're strong and healthy. I was. And my daughter and I both nearly died. Ours is the kind of birth story that you don't tell to other women awaiting the birth of their first baby. Because it'd scare the shit out of them. It's also the kind of story that's all too common, but tends to get ignored by the people who would convince you that pregnancy is the most natural, beautiful thing and an absolute blessing that every woman ought to be eager for. A lot of us are eager; I certainly was. A lot of us get through it fairly easily. But not everyone does. Some women die. So do some babies. Even here, in America.