FRAGILE STRENGTH

I could hold you in my arms

I could hold you forever

- Hold You In My Arms, by Ray LaMontagne

Day 1:

The induction was scheduled for 5:00am on a Tuesday. My husband Andy and I drove to the hospital before any of the new day’s light had cracked open the edges of night. We held hands walking to the check-in desk, nervous about the labor and excited to meet our daughter, Anthem. Our two-year-old son Ocean was at home with his grandparents, sleeping peacefully and not yet grokking how he was about to become a big brother to a little sister.

Labor began gradually. It’s strange, yet thinking back it’s hard to describe the contractions except to say they got to a point in the afternoon where it felt like my hips were on fire. It felt as though the nerves had been plucked like guitar strings and there was no breathing through it, no relief, just a steady strum of pain which had me pushing the call button for the nurse. My husband was relieved I was making the call, then laughed over the ridiculous way I phrased my request:

“Yes, I’d like to order the epidural, please.”

The anesthesiologist arrived. I was seated on the edge of the bed and held steady by the nurse as my back was numbed before a needle of ungodly size, so I’m told, was pushed into my spine. Silently, I began to cry. I knew I could endure it, and would, yet at the same time it was all too much: the pain of labor, the strangers pressing against me, having parts of my naked body exposed, the pressure of the needle in my spine, knowing relief was coming even when I couldn’t yet taste it, and the longing to meet my daughter. Oh Anthem, Anthem, Anthem.

Later, Andy told me he felt my tears falling on the tops of his hands, which were clasped protectively around mine. When it was just Andy and I in the room again, he leaned over the bed and held me as I wept. I gave into the feeling of frailty, of being out of control and in pain. Then, I recovered. I rallied; strong.

Anthem arrived a few hours later in a quick rush of pushing. In the final moments, when the doctor didn’t think she was coming fast enough, I grabbed my own legs and pushed with a mighty surge of primal strength. There she was, crying on my chest as I whispered her name. Per my request, I cut the umbilical cord. How strange that the cord connecting my child to me for so long would have no feeling when severed. I had felt every movement and hiccup for months, yet this final unbinding was devoid of any sensation. A mercy.

Day 2:

Ocean came to the hospital the next day to meet his baby sister. He was quietly unsure about things, whereas his four grandparents and six of his aunts and uncles cooed over her silky dark hair and slowly blinking eyes which looked around in an uncertain haze at the world she had entered.

I felt hazy myself. After Ocean met Anthem, I took him for a walk around the hospital, just the two of us. Could he sense how everything had just changed, yet how I loved him as deeply as ever? I stroked his fair hair, my chest tightening when it was time for his grandparents to take him back home, even as another part of me savored the time when I could focus solely on Anthem. I was already enamored with her, this tiny human I’d waited over nine months to meet. I wondered how long she would have kept us waiting if she’d had her say, since I’d been induced after passing the due date.

In the afternoon, after we’d received family visitors and introduced them to our darling girl, the news arrived of a tragedy. The seventeen-year-old son of Ocean’s teacher at a local Mother’s Day Out program had died via suicide. Ocean adored both his teacher and her daughter who worked as the class helper. The daughter was the twin sister of the boy who’d died.

I read the news on my phone while Andy was in the hall refilling my water. I was crying when he returned. We sat together in grief.

Day 3, and onwards:

The wheelchair felt like tradition more than anything else. It was unnecessary, yet I abided by protocol and let my discharge nurse wheel me out to the car where Andy was waiting. He photographed my exit, then lifted the carseat perched on my lap where Anthem slept.

“No lifting anything more than ten pounds and no driving for the next two weeks,” the nurse told us. I nodded. I’d already broken the first rule. The moment I’d seen Ocean in the hospital, I’d lifted him up into my arms.

“Should she be doing that?” my father-in-law whispered to Andy, who shook his head and said, “No, but she’s going to anyway.”

Spoken as someone who knows me. If I’d had stitches I may have been more careful. Because I felt capable, I abandoned care in lieu of strength.

I lifted Ocean again - all twenty-nine pounds of him - as soon as we got home. When he saw me he ran into my arms and held on tight. There was so much newness and uncertainty for him. The least I could do was pick him up the way I always did, his head on my shoulder and his feet dangling near my knees.

An hour later, I broke the driving rule as well.

“There’s a fundraiser for the family of the boy who died, and any students of his mom and sister are invited to create notes with their handprints on them,” I told Andy. “I think we need to go. I can take Ocean and make a card with his handprints while you watch Anthem. Is that okay?”

”Yes, of course. You and Ocean should definitely go,” he agreed.

I lifted Ocean up into his carseat and drove us to the fundraiser. Even as I did those things, I was struck with the feeling of how normal it was; just Ocean and I running an errand together. At the same time, everything was different because of leaving Anthem behind. My heart filled to be with my son and have time which was just the two of us, as it had been for so long, yet felt pulled by an intangible string to my daughter who was sleeping at home.

On our first night at home with Anthem, I woke suddenly to bone-deep shivers which ran the length of my body. Unable to get warm by myself, and recalling this strange postpartum symptom from my first delivery, I woke Andy up and asked for help. He held me until the shaking subsided, then put a second blanket on me.

If I’m honest, I felt both grateful for Andy’s help and embarrassed to ask for it. I’ve never liked asking for help. I didn’t want to disrupt Andy’s sleep, even though I knew he’d rather wake up and warm me. He’d be upset if I hadn’t given him the chance to help, because being able to help can be a privilege. I know there’s no shame in being feeble, especially after a significant event such as a birth, yet it needles me. I’d disliked the wheelchair and had disregarded the rule about lifting and driving because I didn’t want to feel weak. Even so, I’m learning how parenthood runs a line between fierce strength and plunging frailty.

My love for Anthem is so intense it makes me feel both strong and fragile at once. For her, as for Ocean, I would do anything. Anything to protect and care for them. This love gives me formidable strength. Yet the thought of anything happening to them, the possibility of loss, makes me crumple. This love could utterly ruin me.

I think about Ocean’s teacher who lost her son. Andy and I attended her son’s funeral. I wore a black dress and heels and felt a little like an imposter, as though I were pretending to be a version of myself which wasn’t still recovering from just having a baby. From the pews of the church where Ocean attends Mother’s Day Out, I watched as they played a slideshow of family photos to music. The moment I saw a photo of the son and his twin sister as infants, tears made rivulets down my face.

I’ve seen her since the incident. Hugging her and seeing her smile, I think she must be stronger than she ever knew she’d have to be. She lost her child, unimaginable, and yet, her love for her remaining children gives her a clear purpose.

To be strong in any part of life we must push past what could break us. With Anthem’s birth, I’ll always remember choosing to cut the umbilical cord when my hands were trembling with exhaustion. I’ll remember picking Ocean up again and again when I wasn’t supposed to, and of having to wake Andy in the night because I couldn’t stop shaking. I’ll remember celebrating my daughter’s arrival while grieving the loss of my friend’s son.

We are fragile, and we are strong. We give and receive help. We get up when it is still night and wait for the dawn. Those first fissures of light are pale, trace amounts of hope in the darkness, yet they grow, steady and determined.