Meredith’s Musings: Baby Bird

article by Meredith McKinnie

I can’t remember much of the few hours after my daughter’s birth. I know I was wheeled back to a room. I know people were coming in and out, now more interested in the baby’s condition than mine. I felt relief. It was over. I had given birth, or they had taken her from my numb body. Either way, she was out. Everything I had dreaded about giving birth, I had managed to avoid. I had no idea that with a C section, the pain was just beginning.

That first night was euphoric. Pain meds put me on a cloud of “okay.” The baby spent a lot of time in the room, but not in my arms. Too many visitors were anxious to get a glimpse, to hold my first child, my husband’s first child in eight years. The newness attracts people. And frankly, I welcomed their presence. I could relax and be a spectator of the people I love falling in love with our daughter. It was calming and full circle and all the adjectives I wish I had but wouldn’t do the moments justice. Husband and I had given these people another relative; we created a human. I had eight months to adjust to the idea, but seeing my family reacting to her is more real than can be described. It was one of those joy-filled times when you look back, it appears in slow motion. I appreciate being confined to that bed, my front row seat to soak it all in.

The next morning someone showed me a video of my husband bringing her out of the operating room, of the tears and cameras raised and oohs and aahs, everyone talking over each other and then periods of awkward silence as they stared at her messy, fluid-soaked face, my husbands’ tears of pride and relief that we were both okay. It was all caught on video, and I’ve watched it more times than I can count. It’s the closest seat I have to the moment I couldn’t attend.

About noon the next morning, the nurse came in. She was that annoying kind of positive, just a beat or two too high. I smiled and was as welcoming as I could be, as if she was new to this instead of me. My job that day was simply to get out of bed. How hard could it be? The nurse held my hand and Husband supported me from the other side, and I attempted to lift myself. It didn’t happen. I felt cemented down. I braced against their hands and tried again. I felt a gravitational pull to the center of the earth, as if I wasn’t supposed to rise. The look of fear in my eyes must have surprised Husband. He looked worried I would collapse. And I wanted to.

My body no longer belonged to me. I became a slave to gravity and effort and will. We take for granted being able to move with ease. Each step I held my stomach tightly, for it felt like my guts would simply roll out onto the floor. I had to hold them in. Nana, Husband’s mother, kept urging me to walk, at one point holding my dinner hostage until I did. And gradually it became easier, not easy, but easier than the time before. That annoying positive nurse was with me for three days, and her positivity saved me. She became my angel, who saw me at my worst, didn’t love me, but took care of me anyway. I trusted her with no clothes on, ripped open scars, bleeding everywhere, and she handled me with grace and dignity. I’m forever grateful for the care I received. When I was helpless, she helped me.

Nana stayed each night with me at the hospital. She too was my angel, the most patient person I know. She woke up with me every two hours to breastfeed, or at that point, beg my Baby Bird to latch. I would pump one ounce and we would feed it to her directly from the bottle’s edge, hence calling her Baby Bird. Her little five-pound body would stretch toward the liquid, and I could see her little stomach flex with each gulp. And I realized, she too was helpless, relying on me. I had to be strong for her.
After three nights, it was time to go home. I hadn’t been outside in four days. It was 97 degrees and humid that Monday morning. I sat in the wheelchair awaiting Husband to pull up, the sweat beading on my forehead, Baby Bird against my chest. We loaded up and took off ever so slowly, as each bump was felt in the depths of my stomach, the same place the scalpel had been before. But as I looked around on that ride home and saw life going on all around me, I felt the sunshine on my face and peace with my little family. And though my weakened body was still ripped apart, I’ve never felt more whole.