I was 9 years old when we lost my 8-year-old brother to cancer. I was 15 when my sixth brother entered the world. He was perfect—10 fingers, 10 toes—but he never took his first breath.
Eight years later and expecting my first baby, I was scared. For much of my pregnancy, I was consumed with the fear that I might never get to meet my baby. His smooth, fluid movements gave me peace. Lack of movement or erratic kicks sent me into a paranoid frenzy.
I worried about what I ate, how I measured and whether my doctors were appropriately concerned. A week overdue, I arrived at the hospital with unexplained bleeding. A nurse stuffed me into a reclining chair in a supply closet and rolled in an ultrasound machine. Over the next few minutes, our nurse’s face transformed from kindly to concerned and my husband Allen and I did our best to soothe one another’s nerves.
I was rushed to a room, trailed by the ultrasound machine, and assured that a doctor would be in soon to find our baby’s heartbeat. Nurses swept from the room as a gaggle of interns crowded in. I held my breath and bit my trembling lip, watching each confident face give way to concern. My eyes flooded with tears as the interns whispered to each other that they thought the heart wasn’t beating. Someone called for a resident.
Several painful minutes later, another confident, smiling face appeared and my stomach lurched. But the resident grabbed hold of the transducer, slid it deftly across my belly and pronounced, “There’s the heartbeat right there.” Within hours my water broke and our baby was on his way. Labor and delivery was smooth, but when Allen cut the cord, our baby’s flailing limbs went limp. He wasn’t breathing. After what seemed like a million years with what seemed like a million nurses working to breathe life into his wilting, blue body, someone walked in, turned the respirator mouthpiece right side up and our precious baby began wailing.
At home, I clutched him in my arms 21 hours a day. Anxious and sleep deprived, my sanity became more questionable daily. Assessing my obvious distress and the dark circles under my eyes, family and friends urged me to nap and promised to tend the baby. My heart raced at the mere suggestion. One afternoon, with our house full of visitors and the baby finally sleeping, my husband prevailed upon me to let go and take a nap.
Uneasy dreams reflected my fears and I woke to find my son missing. Half dressed, I flew downstairs to find a family member raising a bottle to his lips. Overcome by a hormonal fit of rage, I snatched my baby away, ran upstairs and sobbed. I couldn’t leave him. Even worse, I couldn’t tell if I was properly caring for him.
Was I watching for all of the signs of distress? Was he eating enough? Soiling enough diapers? Nursing was painful and a couple of weeks postpartum a fog of despair—eased only by my infant’s constant company—had consumed my brain. One particularly bad meltdown led to a call to my mother. To my dismay, she confirmed that bad things do happen, even to those as precious and innocent as our children. She confirmed that I could not fully protect my baby now or as he grows older and more independent.
All we have is now, she counseled. All we control is the memory we are actively creating. We are promised regret if we waste our time worrying and controlling; we gain peace if our time is used wisely.
Four years later, I wrapped my arms around my “baby” and his little brother before leaving them overnight to deliver our youngest son. I was still apprehensive but was finding my own peace. Creeping, irrational fears served as opportunities to inventory my time and remind me to cherish today. I kissed my boys goodbye and had faith.
