Birth

I felt her come out. Her head already in our world as I worked so hard to push her body through. It felt like warmth and liquid and a soft chain leaving my body.

She’s on me and I wonder at her heat, gently rubbing her. Hi my baby, I repeat. Eyal is in tears beside me. I tell the midwife again to leave her vernix on. And she’s gone being weighed and assessed and I don’t know there’s reason to be afraid. I don’t know she can’t keep her oxygen levels up. I only hear the midwife telling me she asked for a real pediatrician because the resident doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. I smile to thank her but I don’t understand. I’m high and I’m warm from the catharsis that follows pain and hard work and relief. I’m high from oxytocin and whatever else is pumping through me. 

They tell me to kiss her as she’s carted away and I’m left raw on the bed. Suddenly I have no tolerance for more pain and try to opt out of my stitches as if they were optional. I’m asked if I want to see her but I’m not ready to lift my body. Later, when Eyal wheels me to the NICU and I see our baby covered in wires, I’m inconsolable. I can only touch her through her plastic case and I feel a deep sadness in my deflating gut. 

—Mika G.