Meredith’s Musings: Memorizing Her

By Meredith McKinnie

My best friend since ninth grade was holding my hand during the contractions. It wasn’t dramatic, more like moderate menstrual cramps. The moving chart showing the intensity of each contraction was more daunting than the tightening in my stomach. Lea more or less distracted me with casual conversation. I’d had almost eight months to adjust to the idea of becoming a mother, but our conversations carried on as if we’d just found out. The big stuff never seems real until it actually is, until it’s out of my control. Lea was more excited than I was. She had traded off with Husband who had run home to grab some essentials. I was glad she was there. Sometimes you just need the comfort of the girl who knows you the way only a girl can. I didn’t have to tell her I was scared. She knew I was too proud to say it.

At 11:55 a.m., they wheeled me back. They whisked Husband away to get suited up in a mass of green. I was always curious about what goes on behind the surgical double doors, but when I was the focus behind the doors, I wanted time to stop. The nurses and techs were carrying on casual conversations, just another day for them. The doc would smile when he caught my eye, an effort to make me comfortable. The anesthesiologist reiterated the high points from our previous conversation. She mentioned there would be two pinches, each lasting about a second or two. My feet were draped over the side of the bed, my entire backside exposed. I’m not one of those modest people, a benefit of being in my thirties. I’m not the best they’ve ever seen, but certainly not the worst either. The pinches were slight, and then I was adjusted onto what felt like a narrow operating table. I would describe the numbness washing over me as feeling like someone pouring cement over the bottom half of my body. Again, I had no control. I was cemented to that spot.  I began to get nauseated, a side effect she had warned me about. I vomited this lime green bile that looked like a magical potion. Having no control over my lower half made coughing a half-ditch effort. I felt out of body, but yet very much attached to my body. I wanted it to be over.

And then it all started moving fast. I heard Husband’s voice in my right ear. I felt his hand on my head. I heard his nervous chuckle. Knowing he is nervous always calms me; my instincts kick in. And then I heard her cry. I would love to say there was a kismet sense of completeness about the universe when I heard the sound. But truth be told, it just sounded like a baby. It didn’t yet feel like mine. She was rushed to the left side of the room, in the direction I had just vomited. Three nurses worked on her, made comments about her lung development, making sure her chest wasn’t concave. I remember telling Husband to take pictures, and then insisting he take more. “Dubs, don’t make me come over there.” Everyone chuckled. Flash. Flash. Flash. I felt calmer knowing he was capturing what I couldn’t see. They were her first moments. I didn’t want to miss it.

And then I was in a recovery corner, still behind the double doors, but out of the operating room. This little bundle of five pounds, ten ounces was laid on my chest in just a diaper. They called it bonding time, insisted I try to feed her. Navigating the mass of flesh and this bundle of human was difficult. I can’t even remember if she latched. I remember stroking her head, thinking she looked like my baby pictures with the dark hair and dark eyes. She has a bright strawberry on the corner of her forehead, shaped like a heart or the US mainland. She has two identical skin tags at the opening of each one of her ears, as if her body made its own set of permanent pearls. She breathes fast, as if nervous or adjusting, much like her mother does. They call it bonding. I memorized her features, her habits, her movements. I met my daughter in that dark room, and we’re still getting to know one another.