Personal Essay: 1.13.18
“I would like to get this tattoo.” I showed him the picture
that I had meticulously planned.
The man glanced up at me, unsure, and took time to inform me
of the amount of pain this would cause. After some negotiating, I was placed in
the chair. The buzz of the gun roared to life and I lost my breath. Every stab
brought me back to that day.
***
Every day was the same. The monotonous drone of public
school carried on: stand in the hallway, ask to see identification, welcome
students to class, see the principal down the hall scolding that same kid who
just can’t seem to learn from his mistakes, and count the seconds until I was
free. Every day on the way home I would stop for a Venti chai latte with a shot
of espresso to give me the strength to attend my second job as a graduate
student. When I had finished writing papers and engaging in academic discourse,
I would end each day the same: lying in bed with my hand on my stomach, waiting
for my little girl to tell me she was still with me.
Predictability kept me breathing.
***
January 12th began like any other day. I endured the
all-too-familiar routine: waited for the bell, got my regular at Starbucks, and
hit the books. But something was different. I grabbed my bag of Ruffles off the
kitchen counter and had my eyes set on our comfy sectional. It was finally time
to call it a day. After I propped my feet up, I began to feel ill and I noticed
a little bit of blood on our couch. All it took was the color red and I was
like a shark: frantic and dazed at the sight. I glanced down at my phone to see
the daily update reminding me that I was now 33 weeks and 5 days pregnant.
My heart immediately collapsed into my stomach. I knew in
this moment that something was wrong.
My husband casually helped me into the car and drove to the
maternity ward of the emergency department, singing along to the radio as if it
were any other day and telling me everything was going to be fine. My
perspective from the passenger seat was different. I don’t remember the drive.
It is simply a blur of trees and flashes of past nightmares running through my
mind. I had been telling everyone for weeks that my daughter would arrive early,
and each time my fears were brushed aside. The realization that I’d been right
was hitting me on Tank Destroyer Boulevard of all places.
By the time we got to the hospital, the cramps were so
severe that I had to be wheeled inside. The nurses promptly rolled me into the
examination room, which was basically a glorified waiting room the size of a
closet. Nurses, midwifes, doctors, and assistants took turns interrogating me
and questioning my visit. One would examine me and tell me everything looked
normal, while the next would start writing prescriptions and telling me to sit
tight.
After hours of suffocating worry, the midwifes concluded
that I had a urinary tract infection and I was to be released with nothing more
than the advice to drink more water. Although I was relieved thinking that I
could go back home and continue on with my predictable life, I knew something
more was wrong. I begged them to find a doctor to examine me one last time.
I was dilated to 5 centimeters. Our baby girl was about to
make an appearance.
Five minutes later, I was in labor and delivery, getting
stabbed with needles. My severe phobia of needles seemed to subside in this
moment as I stared at my husband, looking for him to somehow stop this and give
me the answers to the test for which I thought I had 6 more weeks to study.
There were hours of waiting with the excruciating pain.
People came and went, and I eventually accepted the twist of fate pounding down
my door. The epidural kicked in, and made my entire body numb. I couldn’t move.
This was a terrifying, yet welcome relief.
***
At 1:00 in the morning, I awoke from a quick nap to an
extreme pressure and Transformers playing
on the television. The nurse said the pain would be intensified if it were
actually time, but the numbness was masking the pain. After some debate, the
nurse checked. Immediately, she radioed for backup and seven individuals
appeared. With my blood pressure over 200 and a premature baby on the way, I
was a risk.
Our daughter made her appearance 7 minutes later.
Movies portray this moment with the heavens beaming down, the
chaos disappearing, the baby glancing up at you and your heart miraculously
growing three sizes, never returning to its original state.
Reality portrayed this moment as disappointment and fear.
Lucy was placed on my chest. She was gray and unmoving. After 15 seconds, she
was taken from me, along with my husband and the nurses. I was left alone on
the worn-out bed wondering if my daughter was breathing.
No angels. No choirs singing “hallelujah”. No calmness.
***
She was sentenced to 10 days in the Neonatal Intensive Care
Unit. We drove 100 miles each day to visit. Some days we would arrive, and the
nurse would be happy with her progress. Those days made me smile as I felt her
small hand wrap around mine. Other days we would arrive and be informed that
she had to be resuscitated in the middle of the night. Those days were not as
bright.
First bath. First feeding. First cry. None of these were
reserved for me. I did not hold my daughter without machines, IVs and
supervision until she was 10 days old.
The pain of these long days left me with doubt and a sense
of failure. Postpartum depression led to anger and a sense of hopelessness as I
continued to drive back and forth to see my own daughter. It grew worse each
day.
Until one day I saw a ray of sun. I woke up in the middle of
the night for the typical 3 a.m. feeding. She was crying. She was frustrated.
I was frustrated. I glanced down to beg her to help me through this, and I saw
her staring right at me. For the first time, my daughter truly saw me for what
I was, pain and all.
She understood, and we were in this together.
***
“Alright, all done.” I blinked out of my stupor, heard the
gun click off and glanced down to see the number 13 inside the death-symbol of
a spade, surrounded by life blooming out of the darkness permanently engraved
onto my wrist.
1.13.18. Forever branded on my heart and on my hand in the
form of a tattered tattoo.
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