Borne Thrice

It was a strange feeling. 
Expected, yet unexpected.

A faint voice from above instructed me to count back aloud from 100. Little did I know that it would be the last simple request that was asked of me. Bright lights and blurred silhouettes were all that I could decipher without my glasses. My body started to contract, and my breath shortened with every number my dry mouth uttered. Something infrequent and perplexing was beginning to establish itself permanently in my psyche. I could feel a combination of anxiety, anticipation and anesthesia coursing its way through my body. I whispered ‘ninety-six’ before everything that was hazy was now draped in black. After what felt like a few moments, I awoke, confused and disoriented. The only appendage on my body that I felt I could move, or I could control were my eyelids. The ease of a simple blink was now such a difficult feat. If calorie burns were dictated by the force of my heavy eyelids, I would’ve met my daily goal in those few minutes. My life was literally transforming before my eyes, and I couldn’t even witness it. I knew what was happening, but I didn’t realize it would feel like THIS.

Indistinct figures slowly fade to black, reemerge teasingly and then fall away again. It’s as if the opacity of my universe is being adjusted on a percentage scale by some Eyeball Svengali. I try to concentrate and sustain a steady grasp on consciousness. After a series of frustrating glimpses, I was inclined to grab any instrument from a tray near the operating table to help me pry my eyes open. I was flummoxed from what felt like a huge physical exertion, yet I hadn’t done anything. I couldn’t move – restricted to my horizontal position on the surgical table. I had assumedly been meticulously sawed open, though the makeshift curtain was ideally situated to hide the view of my internal organs. The cynical part of my brain had suddenly come to life, taunting me with the possibility of a drumroll before the parting of the curtains for the big reveal. I tried to ignore it and continued my pupil calisthenics to get focus. Through the slits of my eyes, I could see blurred shapes being held above me on my right side. I willed my head to tilt to the right and felt someone slide my glasses onto my face. They are here.
Everyone speaks about the concept of ‘fight or flight’, but no one ever talks about the ‘freeze’. Unconditional love is surrounding me. Looking right at me. I’m returning their gaze, yet I don’t feel anything except the heft of my eyelids. I thought that now that these two humans were outside of my body, all of us breathing the same air, that it would evoke the emotions I’d seen on every movie and television show. Endless tears would flow, and I would look upon them grinning and be astounded as the hopeful soundtrack of my new life swelled with violins and flutes in the background. Fade to black – cut to commercial. That didn’t happen.

My spirit was frozen. Numb. I could be a coward and blame it on the anesthesia but will be forthcoming and say that instinctually I didn’t feel this overwhelming, Earth-shattering love when I saw these two new people. I felt fear. Fear that I had made a HUGE mistake.

Despite being prodded by the father to terminate the pregnancy, I made my choice when the faint plus sign appeared in the window of the test. I was blindsided by the notion that I was expecting, only because this man had informed me of his alleged vasectomy months before we started sleeping together. Still foolishly believing that a small percentage of his swimmers had surpassed the insurmountable and found its way to my womb despite his ‘procedure’, I felt like this new life that was created was kismet. While he and I weren’t in love, I assumed that I would at least have a co-parent to take the journey with me. But I was informed (via text message) that because the child wasn’t conceived out of love, that he wouldn’t be a participant and requested that I lose his number–that is, before he promptly changed it and disappeared. I was on this road alone. I thought I knew what I was taking on by myself…but I had no idea.

I laid on a hospital gurney in my cold, private hospital room. Again, to my right were these two strangers swaddled in two sanitary plastic bassinets, labeled ‘Twin A’ and ‘Twin B’. This is not a sweet, idyllic concept anymore. Somehow, I foolishly thought I was going to be pregnant forever. But THEY ARE HERE. My want and need to be catered to or doted on as the expectant mother—that was all gone. The visitors to the hospital room weren’t there to see me. They made a beeline towards the beautiful new humans. Ooohs and awwws were expressed by the sightseers, and my facial expressions worked overtime to appear content. Completely out of sorts, I felt helpless and isolated, but feigned elation and joy as we all posed for pictures, while I pretended not to be completely stressed—which only alarmed me more.

Not only had I given birth to two humans, but I had also given birth to constant anxiety, heightened bouts of postpartum depression, wondering if postpartum is just a trendy excuse for not being a good mother, healing my body, the stress of being another Black statistic as a single mother on welfare, finding gainful employment, feeling like I’m babysitting two people that came out of my body, childcare costs, trying to contact the father to see if he’ll reconsider being in their lives now that they are on this Earth, breastfeeding, pumping so my breasts don’t explode, rubbing my nipples with cream so they aren’t cracked and bleeding, buying formula when I don’t make enough liquid gold for them both to eat when they’re hungry, washing burp cloths, listening to The Wiggles, Yo Gabba Gabba and Dora the Explorer on repeat, how many diapers to buy, acknowledging and disregarding family trees, having NO experience with babies, researching Montessori schools, scheduling playdates, sleeping when they sleep (hahahahahaha), masturbate (quickly) when they sleep, keep the house clean, washing the bottles, folding all of the little clothes, managing the terrible twos, learning infant CPR, keeping track of their nap schedule, locating the nearest hospitals in case of emergencies, not forgetting the sunscreen, googling sexual predators in my area, teaching them about their Black history, flossing, homework, tutors, chores, keeping track allowances, cyberbullying, screentime, tween years, teenage years, driving lessons, how to conduct themselves around police, saving for college, monitoring water intake, bedtime rituals, sibling rivalries, equality, entitlement, food intake, exercise and health…to name a few seeds of angst forever implanted in my brain.

It had been two days since they arrived via cesarean, and I was still exhausted. I hadn’t really done anything. My limbs need to move. My heart needs to move. Why do I feel this way? Am I broken? I’m not meant to be a mother. I’m still numb. I can’t use the excuse of anesthesia anymore. Two days ago, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was a mother. That was a disturbing adjustment. I wondered if my water had broken, if I had been in a painstaking labor, if I’d been obligated to practice my Lamaze breathing between and during contractions, if I had ushered these humans into the world with the grunts and screams of every push my body could muster, instead of being administered a needle that temporarily paralyzed me, maybe I’d feel more connected to them. I didn’t realize it at the time, but for the rest of my life it will be a daily ritual for me to wake up, open my eyes—and I realize that day that I’M A MOTHER.

Day three. It’s the middle of the night in the hospital, and only the source of light is from the small television lofted near the ceiling. Tomorrow we all go home, and I don’t want to leave. How am I going to do this by myself? I’m between sleeping and waking, but a cry from one of the humans startles me. I wake up, open my eyes, and realize that I’m a mother. Which one is crying? What do they WANT? What can I give them? The crying does little to free me from my paralytic state. The idea of ‘fight’ or ‘flight’ comes up again. I’m still frozen. But I MUST move.

The nursing staff, as kind and as attentive as they’ve been, have begun to rescind their frequency of assistance when attending to the humans. Despite my pain and recovery from the surgery, I must put on my badge of ‘mother’ and fulfill my duty. I move. As I stand, gravity clings to my abdomen and my breasts and tug hard with every excruciating step. It’s the girl that’s crying. I carefully pick her up and hold her close to my chest. The cries gradually soften to a whimper as I rock her gently. After a few minutes, I lay her down next to me on the hospital gurney in a U-shaped baby pillow that props her upright. She seemed to be fine now, so I continued watching television. After a minute or two, I glanced over, and her big brown eyes locked in on mine. As if she were looking directly at ME. It was unnerving. Of course, the reality that a three-day old would have the wherewithal to truly see and focus on me is completely ludicrous, but it was the first time I felt anything other than numbness, guilt and pain. For that moment, all future worries and stressors were blurry and indistinct. That cold, clinical hospital room suddenly felt about five degrees warmer. I was Isabella and Grayson’s mother. And just like they belonged to me, I belonged to THEM.

My pupils were alert and fixed on these two people that I was responsible for. The anxiety came back swiftly and took permanent residence. I resolved that the anxiety, self-doubt and fear would never leave. But for once I was anxious to try.

I woke up. I am a mother.
It was a strange feeling.
Expected, yet unexpected.

###