I told myself to breathe long, deep breaths and pray my prayer that all would go well and smoothly. And so I did – over and over. The nurse told me it was time and I gave her my best puppy dog eyes. I knew the next step – my least favorite part of this way to have a baby. I began to think I even liked the recovery more than this.
I leaned over and put my arms around her neck just as she instructed. I began to pray my prayer again but then my mind drifted away, forcing me to remember why I was even here in this room to begin with…
It all goes back to that first delivery, when I made the decision to be induced and my baby boy was not making his way out. His heart-rate dropped. I cried. I did not want to be cut open. That was not the plan.
And so I pushed and I pushed and he had to have even more help to come out, enough so that we were both scarred. In the end both my baby and I were alright but it took months, maybe even years in some ways. My decision seemed all wrong. My life as a mother had a pretty rough start. It was not supposed to feel or be this way.
I internalized so much of it. I shook it off. I chose to have my next baby come in an O.R., as well as this baby, the third, my little girl…
I lay down on the table and soon after my love walked in the room, fully clad in hospital scrubs. He looked down at me, his eyes glistening, and asked if I was ready to meet our baby girl and I smiled up at him. I knew I was.
My doctor spoke and let me know that he was starting. And in that moment, right then and there, I forgave myself. I did it for my first baby, for my second and for my third. I did it for my husband and for myself. I forgave. I had to do it so that I could carry on.
As the peace of my own forgiveness filled my heart, I heard her first cries. Just moments after that I saw her face for the first time, the baby that rounded out our family – the baby that brought forgiveness with her.
And I was saved.