ONE
He had never seen me before, but he knew me inside and out. He’d lived, grown, wriggled inside me for nine months. Here he was. A stranger.
Yet, love was brimming up. Threatening to spill over my edges. It was too much. It felt excessive and counterfeit, almost sickening to my stomach.
They were still pumping Pitocin through my IV—the plasticky contraption was taped to the back of my hand, shooting oxytocin into my veins. It felt foreign and obvious on my skin, even though it had been there for more than fifteen hours. It was the love hormone, was it not? Love and chocolate. They were pumping me with love. Was that the reason for the feeling, or was it natural and real and the strongest force that there was?
Was it all that mattered, the love?
Decidedly not.
I’d asked the nurse if she could remove the IV. She’d told me I needed to finish the bag of fluids and oxytocin. Ideally, they’d leave it in for twenty-four hours after the birth, if I could stand it that long. She was sweet, apologetic. I’d told her it was fine, even though I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to sleep with it stuck to my hand, tying me to the wheeling, metal contraption from which the bag of fluids was hanging.
It was an absurd concern. That wasn’t the reason I wouldn’t be able to sleep.
The nurse had left us alone after that. As panic and an overwhelming urge to cry “Now what?” had gripped me, Tyler had dozed off.
He was still asleep on the plasticky sofa a few feet away from me. I could hear him snoring—softly—but snoring nonetheless, covered in a starchy, white—why were they all so impractically white?—hospital sheet because we’d forgotten to bring a blanket for him from the house. He looked uncomfortable, lying there, but that felt appropriate and fair.
I felt an urge to reach over and shake him, because that he was sleeping was very unfair. Besides, it was a reflex. For years, I’d been nudging him whenever I’d heard him snore. But I couldn’t reach him now, and I was too scared to try to get up on my own. The effects of the epidural had not worn off completely. My legs felt leaden, tied to cement blocks, like someone was planning to toss me off a bridge and wait for me to sink.
When we had arrived in the room, which was far smaller than the room in which I’d given birth, the nurse had helped me out of the wheelchair while Tyler stood guard over the baby’s bassinet with its clear, plastic walls. She’d told me that she needed to make sure I could use the bathroom.
I was still feeling high at that point, from the extra painkillers the anesthesiologist had pumped into my IV before I’d started pushing. I was floating through a haze of airy, rainbow numbness. I couldn’t feel a thing.
With impressive strength—although I had rid my body of an eight-pound human, fluids, and placenta, by the looks of my belly, it was all still there, the entire fifty-five pounds I’d put on during the pregnancy—the nurse had supported me, led me over to the toilet, and sat me down. She’d stood over me, making sure I didn’t fall off, and we waited until we could hear the trickle of liquid. My cloth hospital gown had drops of blood at the hem.
Tyler’s body jolted, then he shifted on the sofa and his breathing evened out, the soft snoring resumed.
Between us was the baby. Oliver. The stranger.
His arms wriggled, his legs fluttered. We watched each other. I knew exactly what he was doing. He’d done just the very same thing every night back when he lived inside of me. Here he was, out in the world, evicted nine days past due with the help of eleven hours of Pitocin drip and one hour and forty-six minutes of pushing. Why should he give up his routine? He showed no signs of sleep. He was free now.
I’d told Tyler to leave the bathroom light on, to crack the door, so that I could see Oliver. The glare reflected off the analog clock hanging on the wall across from me. It was 3:34. I had been awake for twenty-four hours.
Although I still wasn’t sure that I was ready, I used my arms to push my legs off the side of the bed, and I sat. The right leg tingled, feeling fighting its way back in. The left one felt heavy and foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. I stood, gripping the cool metal of my IV stand, testing my own stability. I took a step, then another, then gripped the doorframe of the bathroom, and swiveled myself inside. The toilet was just a step too far, but I lunged for it anyway.
I fell. Calves, thighs, palms smacked the floor.
“Nat?” Benign confusion.
I took a breath.
“Nat?” Panic creeping in.
“I’m fine,” I called.
A lie. But I couldn’t have Tyler coming in here, leaving Oliver unattended. I was relieved he was awake, though. He could take over for a few minutes. Oliver needed to be watched at all times. To make sure he was breathing. To make sure his heart was beating. Besides, it seemed shameful to have collapsed on the bathroom floor. I didn’t want Tyler to see me like this, which was perhaps irrational, considering what he had just witnessed—the birth.
I willed my legs to move but they didn’t, so I used my arms to pull myself up and onto the toilet. I was stronger than I thought. I was a mother now.
Something poured from me. Perhaps blood. I could hear it more than feel it. I hadn’t even felt the need to go to the bathroom. I was only abiding by the nurse’s directive—“Try to get up every couple hours to use the bathroom if you can.”
If you can. I’d just birthed a child. I could do anything, and following the rules was in my nature. Doing so was a compulsion, as powerful as an addict’s need for a fix. I was a deadline meeter, an overachiever, a rule abider.
Or perhaps I couldn’t do anything. I’d gotten up. But then, I’d fallen.
My supplies were within arm’s reach of the toilet—bless the nurse—my squirt bottle, pads, and ice packs. I unwrapped an ice pack and cracked it in half to activate the chemicals and the glorious, cooling sensation.
“You okay?” Tyler called.
I grunted noncommittally. “Just don’t come in here,” I said.
I steeled myself to stand, but I didn’t. Not just yet. I was afraid I might fall again, and I wasn’t ready to fall.
I surveyed the room as I sat on the toilet. Blood pooled on the floor. I wouldn’t be able to clean it up. I couldn’t bend down, balance, wipe the ground. It looked like a crime scene. It looked violent and dramatic. It looked like someone, or something, had died.
And it would take some time for me to understand that something had died.
As my son came to life, as he entered the world, something else was in the process of dying.
Copyright © 2023 by Nora Murphy
