February 26, 2019

My Firstborn

I went to the doctor on base because I kept having stomach pains.  He asked if I could be pregnant.  I said I could but it’s not likely.  He diagnosed an ulcer and prescribed a liquid.  The pain got worse so I went back.  The female doctor asked if I could be pregnant.  I said I could but it’s not likely.  She did a pregnancy test and called me with the results. 

Doctor:  “You’re pregnant.”

Me:  “No, I’m not.”

Doctor:  “Yes, you are.”

Me:  “No, I’m not.”

Doctor:  “Yes, you are.”

Me: 

I was not expecting to be pregnant.  I’d had sex once recently.  I was at a place where I disliked men and believed I was so broken from past abuse that I’d be a horrible mother.  I’d been reading and knew that victims of child abuse often become abusers themselves.  I didn’t want to hurt an innocent child.  So, I scheduled an appointment for an abortion and that clinic is the only place that offered me a military discount. 

My brother Adam argued that I’d be a good mom.  He said I’d been a great older sister and I could use those same tools with my own child.  He assured me I’d be nothing like my step-father Dick. 

I decided to carry the baby full-term and once I’d made that decision, I knew I’d raise the child myself.

I had morning sickness bad!  Bananas made me hurl.  I’d be sick, sick, sick and then a window of opportunity would open.

I ate and ate and ate and ate.  I would go to the chow hall for breakfast and load my plate with a little bit of everything:  pancakes, eggs, grits, bacon, sausage, and potatoes.  Then, I’d pour a little catsup on the potatoes and pour syrup over everything.  Salt and pepper to top it off.  I ate every morsel. 

For most of my pregnancy I referred to my baby as she.  I had the name Jewel Sue picked out.  About a month prior to my due date, I started referring to the baby as he and I didn’t even notice; a coworker pointed it out.  I said, yeah, it’s a boy. 

It was two weeks prior to my due date: my neighbor invited me over for dinner.  She had made steak, potatoes, and carrots.  Yum!  I ate it all.  We decided to go get ice cream for dessert.  I ordered a banana split and finished every drop. 

We went home and my contractions began.  My neighbor took me to the hospital.  They tried to send me home because I was early and it was my first.  I refused to leave.  I walked the halls.  My labor kept progressing.  I began vomiting one layer of food at a time, in reverse order:  ice cream, potatoes, carrots and meat.

I had previously stated I wanted to have my baby naturally, without painkillers.  Whoo boy!  The pain was intense and I begged for drugs but the nurse wouldn’t give me any. 

I was terrified I was going to die (my mom had a kidney issue and didn’t come home right away when my brother was born) and blurted out I hadn’t signed my will. 

The doctor finally arrived and asked the nurse if my waters had broke.  The nurse asked me, I told her they didn’t before they put me on the bed but after that, I didn’t know.  They checked, not broken.  The doctor put a hook like device inside, twisted and pulled, whoosh! 

My baby immediately dropped into the birth canal and began to make his appearance.  The doctor ordered painkillers.  Out popped my baby boy and he was beautiful.  They said he had baby pneumonia from breathing in the meconium.  I thought meconium had potential for a name.  Then they had me push out the placenta.  It was gorgeous with all these iridescent colors shot through it. 

I slept.  I slept for 5 hours.  I woke up and was a bit panicked:  where was my baby?

He was asleep too.  He woke up a little bit later and I nursed him.  He was perfect:  ten incredibly skinny and long fingers and toes, big feet, a full head of big, brown curls on his head.

He was in the hospital for 5 days because he had aspirated his meconium and was jaundiced.  I learned to swaddle him and change his diaper.  He latched on and ate with an appetite. 

I named him Fergus Anthony Reed and we began a lifelong relationship which I have NEVER regretted.

A year after I gave birth, I weighed 97 pounds and was 18 pounds less than when I got pregnant with him.  I should weigh at least 115:  I ate and ate and ate but he ate more than I could take in.   

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