photo by Sadeqa Johnson She was inside of me. I could feel her the moment she was formed, and cried. Weeks later two pink lines confirmed our bud blossoming and I regretted sinning with my sister the evening before—my last night of freedom, before loaning my body out for another nine months of nausea, sleeplessness, sobriety, full bladder, fat panties, feet kicking, stretching and fatigue. It was my third time on this journey and the idea that something could go wrong never entered my head.
Sixteen weeks later I was on the table and the ultrasound technician was squirting cold jelly on my belly. “Turn to the right, to the left,” she rolled me. I liked her. She was from India and had a quiet calm that I admired. We chatted casually at my ten week visit and she told me that if there was something unusual with the baby she never delivered the news herself; she left that to the midwives. So when she stepped away from the machine and left the room I knew that something wasn’t right. My nerves worked up a fuss as I sat in the tiny room half naked trying to loose myself in the Anne Geddes pictures of babies curled in cabbage leaves, settled in sunflower patches and sleeping in the fetal position like a pea nestled in its pod. What was the problem?
The midwife stepped into the room looking frazzled for having to hand over the news. She was the youngest of the four rotating in the practice and I wasn’t sold on her ability to deliver my baby because of her teeny bopper face. When she opened her mouth I learned that she had the same bedside manner as a too honest five-year old. “Something’s wrong with the heart. It’s shaped incorrectly and not developing properly.” The room felt warm despite my lack of clothing. This couldn’t be happening to me. “Are you saying I may need to abort?” She didn’t say it but she wouldn’t deny it. The look she gave me made my armpits salivate. “You need to see a fetal cardiologist immediately.”
Outside the sun’s rays were unmerciful and the few steps from the office to my car felt like crossing the Sahara desert. Thirst rained down on me. The leather seats inside of my SUV scorched the exposed skin on my thighs, and I sat welcoming the physical pain because it was easier than the internal to endure. At least I could make that stop if I wanted. Turning the AC on full blast I dialed my Honey, repeating the news while trying not to cry. The tears in my voice were not lost on him and he assured me that everything would be all right. My thoughts were spinning out of control with too many what ifs to keep track of, each one worst than the previous. I wouldn’t be able to drive like this but it was ridiculous to ask for a ride. The air had started to cool. Closing my eyes I took a few deep breaths, forcing myself to focus on the little droplet inside of me. I was aware that what I felt the baby would feel and I decided in that moment that if we were going to have a fighting chance it had to start with me. My thoughts would heal this baby. Women are natural healers and I believed that it could be done. I sat in the parking lot focusing on calm, summoning healing inner strength. Pushing past my tears I whispered, “From my heart to your heart little one you are healed.”
Was that a flutter I just felt? A small smile played on my face.
Over the next few weeks we were thrust into the complicated language of hospital visits complete with cardiologist, echo scans, blood test, more ultrasounds all while praying, breathing, meditating and focusing on the Light. This will only be a prison if I allow it and I refused. The chief of Cardiology demanded that I be given an amniocenteses AKA amnio. The word literally means “puncture of the amnion,” which is the sac that encloses the fetus during pregnancy. I was floored, scared and confused. My baby has a heart condition and you want to insert a needle the size of an arm into my belly, puncture the sac that is lovingly surrounding this baby and steal some of the fluid? Does that really make sense in your medically trained head? “But the risk of miscarriage is only 1%.”
Shaking our heads, Honey and I decided to take our chances. Rattled and exhausted, we speed up the Parkway to relieve our sitter who stayed with the older two children. Honey was off to work, the sitter left for school, and as soon as I cross the threshold the children are bouncing, tugging, pulling, asking, crying, fighting, and wanting me. What is a mommy to do when she has nothing left to give? With my head whirling around the events of the day I have no choice but to beg the reserve energy to kick in and tackle dinner, baths, the bedtime routine and just one more drink of water. Light on, lights off. Do I hear footsteps? “Don’t make me come up there again because I’m not coming alone!”
Finally quiet. I go into my mediation room, light candles, burn incenses and then meditate. This is the serenity of my day and my body sinks into the familiar. I sit for twenty-five minutes letting my head clear. It feels like a mental and spiritual tune up. Tension is released and I feel lighter. At the end of my meditation I envision a strong bright healing light inside my belly surrounding my child. It’s both healing and protecting. I close out each mediation and time of prayer with, “From my heart to yours little one, you are healed.”
Honey and I grow tired of the false sense of urgency that the doctors project on us and the constant invasion of meetings so we disappeared. Go AWAUL. It was too much information, too much technology and we were tired of it all. Labor came like joy in the morning. Nine days early and I was fearful as if it were my first time. The hospital was twenty-five miles from our house and our nerves had us arrive too soon. Only three centimeters dilated and so I walked the halls in my clogs and two hospital gowns on, one tied forward and the other tied backwards to avoid the mooning and the breeze. Within an hour labor came fast. Faster still. Where is the midwife? I can no longer stand but I’m terrified of taking to the bed. Shift change was underway and the sweet faced nurse who I like left me with the one who didn’t seem as dedicated to me and our work. The contractions were consistently blinding and I had no drugs to taper down the depth of what I was feeling. Leaning into faith I prayed, chanted, Ommed, hummed Negro spirituals, visualized trips to St. Lucia’s twin Piton mountains to get me through. I followed the pain, stuck with the pain, saw lights so bright that I thought my time had come because of the pain. If there is ever a moment in a woman’s life when you are fully and unequivocally present it is in child birth. I was hot than cold, and my teeth started chattering so much that I thought I was going to swallow my tongue.
Exhausted I wanted to quit, but then Honey took my hand and looked me in the eye, “you can do this. You are a warrior. Call on the strength of your ancestors.” The midwife wiped my forehead with the back of her hand and like a healing touch I felt clarity trickling against my spine. Grandma sat in the corner praying and reciting bible verses. “The baby is ready,” I said in a voice that was so sure and steady I didn’t recognize it as my own. Doctors and nurses swarmed in, huddling with equipment in the corner. I couldn’t think about why they were there because I had one last hill to climb and a rapid river to cross. The babbling of our baby’s first cry finally pierced the air and every sensation in my body was alive. Honey cut the cord and then someone placed the child on my chest. “It’s a girl.” I had hoped for a boy because we already had one vagina at home to protect. Could I be responsible for two? There was really little choice because within a millisecond I had fallen feet first down the deep whole of pure unadulterated love. Stumbling and tripping over this precious 6lbs and 11oz bundle in my arms made me forget all of the concerns of my pregnancy.
Over the last nine months I had many conversations with God. I asked him to show me how to channel the Light and heal my baby. In my mind our deal had been sealed, she was in my arms limp but breathing. So imagine my shock when the nurse announced, “her heart rate is dropping, it’s dangerously low,” and in a flash she was removed from my arms and wheeled to the NICU without the blessing of her mother’s kiss or a first name.
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