tears of life
It was 5:15 p.m. on April 24, as I walked across the cold hospital floor
toward the sterility of the operating room. Every footstep felt like a
death sentence, every movement a struggle. My oversized abdomen had made
the simple act of walking more like a high wire act, always watching my
balance, hoping I could get through the next step without falling into
the net. Now, with one hand pushing an IV machine and the other holding
closed the opening of my hospital gown, the high wire act was coming to
an end as I realized someone had removed the net. cynthia d. firster-blume Soon, the large round protrusion that carried my precious creation would disappear. A baby would be born in a few minutes, one that I had hoped to deliver naturally. My body would be cut, and once again a baby pulled from the opening, leaving an engraved reminder on my stomach. I wondered why I bothered holding my gown closed; soon several people would see parts of my body that even I had never seen. Why should I care if they saw a little flesh now? Earlier that morning my doctor told me that I had to deliver my baby by C-section as soon as possible. In spite of the countless hours I had spent collecting information about my first C-section, I now had to have another. Sitting in the doctor’s office hearing his cursed words, I felt my heart breaking into millions of tiny pieces. As he continued to speak of the details, I felt each broken piece as it cut through my chest and fell into my hands. With my husband next to me and my doctor at his desk, I felt myself hating both men. They could never understand what I was being forced to give up. I had fought for eight and a half months for the right to deliver my baby, my way. Now the fight was over and I had lost. I lost the right to feel my baby being born, to hold her moments after she entered the world. I lost a part of myself as I sat there unable to change the truth of what had become my unfortunate reality. This day should have been one of the happiest days of my life, but I wanted to cry. This was the day my husband and I had anticipated, not for nine months, but for almost two years. I couldn’t cry, because I couldn’t explain the tears. Instead, I held my heart, squeezing the sharp broken pieces into my hands until the pain became unbearable, turning the unshed tears to anger. I was angry because I shouldn’t have felt the howling rage that boiled inside of me. The anger became worse because of the guilt I felt as my husband held my hand tightly in his own. He said he was sorry that things hadn’t worked out the way I wanted them to. The words that were meant to comfort began to burn the interiors of my soul. Tears would’ve put the fire out and washed away the misery, but I couldn’t cry those tears, they would have to wait until we could be alone, where no explanation would be required. Then the tears could be set free and I could come to terms with the loss I knew only I understood. Someone led me to a narrow, stainless steel table centered in a nauseatingly disinfected room. This is where the procedure would take place. This is the place that would etch its horrid truth in my memory. I knew I would never forget a single detail about this small cubicle. I breathed in the smell of the germ free environment, hating every particle that entered my lungs. People began to move around me. Within minutes I was staring into my husband’s gorgeous face as the doctors, leaning hard against my legs, worked to give birth to my baby. I could smell burning flesh and hear the sucking of fluid. I tried not to breathe or hear, until suddenly, from across the curtain, I heard the most beautiful sound I had ever heard; a small whimper, then the loud whaling of my little girl crying the tears I had kept inside. Finally, my tears were released, as they became the first sounds of my sweet little girl, taking her first breath of life. |