A Piece of My Heart

I went into labor with her earlier on Valentine’s Day; it was about 3pm. It started when we were on the way to the grocery store, my mother and I. While we were shopping I took short breaks because of the pain and we joked about my water breaking and asking someone to handle the wet floor with an announcement over the loudspeaker system stating, “Cleanup on aisle five.” We went to the hospital, they checked me, and sent me home. They said it was a long ride until I was ready to give birth, but that the process had started.

I spent the whole night rocking back and forth, trying to sleep, but for the life of me, I couldn’t. My mother insisted that taking a bath would help ease the pain and I obliged. I spent the next day laying on the couch and whimpering when the contractions came. I might have taken quite a few baths but when I was in the last one I called my mother into the bathroom. “I’m at the point where I feel like I want to die.” “Oh it gets much worse from here honey,” my mother told me. She was cooking cookies earlier and had offered me one before my bath and I just shooed it away from her. There was no way I was going to eat in this amount of pain. “Can you just humor me and take me to the horsepital?”

About halfway there my mother realised something. She said, “Shit, the cookies are still in the oven,” and flipped a bitch. She had an SUV I think so she was driving over medians to get back quickly and I kept telling her that, during my contractions, all of that hurt a lot. She turns off the oven, runs back to the car, and we’re on our way back toward the hospital. All the while my daughter’s father was in no way supporting me. He asked if he really had to go and my mother retorted with, “If you value your life, you will go.”

When I walked in the door I fell a little trickle down my thighs, but not what you see in any movie or TV show. I calmly walked by myself to the front desk and the person working there ignored me until her paperwork was all sorted. “Can I help you,” she looked up at me with a blank look. “I think I’m ready to have my baby now.” Laughs ensue, “Let’s just get you checked out and see where you’re at.” Once in the examination room, the doctor looks up, asks, “Oh my God, you don’t feel like pushing?” “This young lady is dilated 9cm! Let’s get this room ready; we don’t have time to transfer her,” he nearly shouted to the orderly. “Fuck, I don’t even have time to strap in for this ride,” I thought to myself.

While they were transferring items into the room and running back out there was a moment where I did feel like pushing and no one was there. “I do fee…I’m pushing,” I shouted to an empty room. Before I knew it, there were more and more people just manifesting in my room, the doctor had asked if it was okay if some interns came in for a while and I said it was okay. When my mother-in-law came in, she was crying and said that at this point she was screaming and it was okay to do that. I didn’t want to scream, I wanted to meet my baby.

He was supposed to hold my leg and he was not really wanting to do that. He faced away from me and limply draped my leg over his arm; he was supposed to be holding it up because it was time for me to push our baby out. They had to break my water first because it hadn’t really broken yet. So kindly I was asked if I wanted any drugs and I declined; I wanted to be present at that moment. I pushed three times and she was out but I felt a warm sensation and some stinging. There was a nurse that was concerned about the amount of blood that was coming out.

I had to push out the placenta and then they stitched me inside and out. My legs were shaking really badly because it took a lot to be calm while getting your insides stitched. All the while they were asking me if I wanted to hold my baby. I didn’t want the moment to be ruined; I wanted to wait until they were done stitching me up. I thought that maybe I would crush her on accident. That’s how I feel right now. Everyone else has had my baby, cradling her, and showing her love. I feel like I was only meant to deliver her for others and bear the pain that I have felt since the day she was born.

I miss her. I want to die. She was my Valentine…and now I have nothing.

Author: jessicaambateman

I am a survivor of childhood abuse on the verge of speaking out. I have waited my whole life to have the luxury of spilling my guts and blogging is going to become part of that journey.

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