Unexpected Graces
Though neither of us told the other until it became true, somehow both Austin and I knew deep down that our child would come into this world not through labor but through a C-section. Maybe it was intuition or maybe coincidence. The more likely case is that we were both still haunted by the surgery I endured the previous summer to treat (and end) the life-threatening, non-viable pregnancy I carried at the time. I’ll spare you all the details, but I unexpectedly struggled for hours to recover from the surgery, with my blood pressure dangerously low and wracked with pain. It wasn’t so much that we knew we would have a C-section, but we felt doomed to a C-section, the scenario we most feared. What we didn’t know was that our son coming into the world by a C-section would be what released the ghost of the past from our lives.
Towards the end of our 40th week, after weeks of contractions, and increasingly painful sensations whenever Baby J would kick, and still no labor, Austin and I found ourselves at yet another ultrasound (I think this one put us at 6 scans). For weeks I’d endured intense bouts of contractions and tried every labor inducing trick in the book, to no avail. Day after day I grew more frustrated, praying that labor would come soon, and still it never came. Week after week we received news of friends, family, and coworkers who all went into labor and welcomed their children, leaving me to wonder, why not me? Why must I still wait? So at the end of the 40th week, we had that scan, and found out that Baby J was measuring a whopping 11+ lbs. In the moment I knew one thing: I did not want to go through labor to push out an 11 pound child. That said, a C-section still sent a shiver through me. As the moments past however, I realized the unexpected grace in being spared a labor that almost certainly would have required an emergency C-section anyway. In the dim light of ultrasound lab, I met Austin’s eyes and saw the same thought in his. The real question is whether or not our doctor would agree that a C-section would be the best choice for us or whether she would want us to try labor first. Instead, my doctor was in perfect agreement with us, and she was able to bring peace to our fears, assuring us of the safety and effectiveness of a planned C-section over a complicated and challenging labor. While we now had to face something we feared — sending me back into an OR to bring our child into the world — we were spared a potentially much harder road. Suddenly the thing that we feared most was our salvation.
Less than 24 hours later Austin loaded up the car with our hospital bags and we checked into the hospital. That time was a blur, and I didn’t really have time to process how weird it was to know exactly the day and time (more or less) I would meet my son. Yet there was enough time to recognize the parallel to what happened last summer: an ultrasound confirming a condition requiring surgical treatment the next day, donning the hospital gown and an IV poked in my wrist, scrubs clad doctors and nurses rotating through the room, the bright, cold lights and stainless steel of the OR. Then again, there were differences from last year, like the fact that once in the OR, I could feel the anesthesia kick in, but unlike last year, it didn’t knock me out, only numbed the lower half of my body. This time I didn’t have to go through the surgery alone; Austin scrubbed up and held my hand through the procedure. And then, best and most distinct of all was the moment when a baby’s cries filled the OR and a mass of wriggling limbs appeared above me. The combination of hospital gowns, IVs, anesthesia, doctors, and last minute surgeries brought life. I started crying and laughing and repeating ‘he’s real, he’s real’ all at the same time.
Like the previous 24 hours, the next handful of hours past in a blur, but this time a euphoric one. It was filled with baby’s cries, with doctors and nurses checking on me and our son, with the bright lights of the OR transitioning to the cool, low lit recovery room. Most of all, that time was filled awe at this perfect creation in our arms. After 9 months of fearing the worst would happen again, here was this little, perfect life whose every breath reminded me that we were not doomed to tragedy. The memory of that fateful surgery last summer began to fade in intensity as I held my son, my brain awash instead with the miracle that this surgery had put into my arms. Admittedly, in the 24 hours leading up to the C-section, I briefly mourned the loss of what felt like the rite of passage of motherhood, of going through labor and pushing your child out into the world. Once in that recovery room, feeling my son’s breath, that thought, too, faded away. I had brought this child into the world, facing down fears and sorrows, hurts and pains, and here he was at all long last.
I’ve heard throughout my life that being a parent changes you in profound ways; suddenly you have a small life that needs you for its existence. The love that courses through your veins is unlike any love you’ve known before. Even when you’d rather sleep at night, you still want to wake up and feed your hungry child, and there is no bliss like watching them sleep in your arms, safe from the world. The months that I carried my son I could feel him beginning to change me, as each kick reminded me to have faith in him, in life this time. Still I couldn’t have foreseen how much more faith I would find by bringing him into this world. His life was, and will always be, my miracle, but now I know that it’s through his birth that God brought an unexpected grace and healing upon my soul.
