Fall is my favorite season. The crisp air of the morning – fifteen minutes before the sun comes up, the aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove that waft around a warm house, the brilliant oranges, yellows, and reds of foliage that signify the changing of seasons; all of it is exciting. Halloween is my favorite holiday, a time where I get to dress up and relive the vivid imagination I had as a child as the shadows of costumed trick-or-treaters march around a twilit neighborhood. But my favorite part of fall, gathering with family and friends for merry eating and drinking, was missing in 2020 after COVID-19 became a global pandemic. I was nearly nine months pregnant, to the day, on Halloween, as my soon-to-be daughter was conceived only a month and a half before the world shut down.
I was isolated in my pregnancy, so much so that not even my parents had ever seen my pregnant belly in person. But through
daily positive affirmation, none of that even mattered because my baby would soon be in my arms. My labor was long—long enough that I stopped counting hours at one point. When Diana decided it was time to enter this world, I pushed for almost four hours, which felt like eons longer than the time I spent in pre-labor and labor. Early during pushing, the nurse adjusted my position to alleviate some of the issues it was causing Diana, but there were seemingly no concerning signs for the remainder of the birth.
Finally, after four long hours, beautiful Diana entered the room, but I instantly knew something wrong. There was no excitement like you see in the movies or hear from friends who paved the way before you, no offer to let the jubilant new dad cut the cord, and no rush to immediately put the baby to mom’s chest to welcome her new baby to a non-aquatic world. I still can’t comprehend what happened or why it did, but Diana was immediately moved to a table at the far end of the room. A group of nurses, who were not present at any point during the birth, compressed Diana’s back with their hands, and she was quickly moved to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (or NICU). That moment I was waiting for—the moment that I kept telling myself was coming for far longer than I was pregnant—was robbed from me.
Instead of the warm, fuzzy feeling of embracing my child, what took over was an unfamiliar, high level of fear. I told my husband to follow our baby while the nurses pushed on my belly as part of the normal post-birth procedure. The NICU doctor came in a few minutes later, along with my husband, to explain all of the potential medical scenarios that could be occurring, which ranged from innocuous to life-threatening situations that would require total body cooling – her tone and delivery of the message conveying the fact that things were clearly not okay. I couldn’t breathe or think straight. Hours later, I was finally able to go visit Diana in the NICU. There she was, a perfect child, with the image ruined by dozens of cables and IV fluid lines. It was a scary, sleepless night. My husband and I mostly sat in silence, the quiet air only interrupted to inform one another of any new information we came across while searching new parent discussion threads and medical research papers. Thankfully, the situation had improved the following morning. Diana’s doctor had received numerous test results and said that, while ongoing testing and therapy would continue in the NICU for the next seven days, my baby was going to be okay.
Writing this, I still get a knot in my throat. In the moment, it was sooooo much to process that after a year of isolation, my baby and I were not met with a warm embrace but, rather, more isolation and fear. But having had nearly two years to reflect on the experience, I now understand that this was just my first lesson into what parenthood truly is or at least can be. The fact is, things will not always go according to plan, and change is constant. In some situations, it is a lunch where my kid just will not sit
down, and in other situations the deviation is far more significant. But man, motherhood is a beautiful journey. While my birth story isn’t perfect, Diana is perfect. She is a beautiful, strong, thriving baby girl whom I love with all my heart.
It is the end of August 2022 now, summer is starting to turn to fall, and Diana is almost two years old. I compile my thoughts after two years of processing, realizing that no one warns you how much your heart will physically ache for your children when they get injured, and I am sure that never goes away. As my baby lies sleeping on the bed next to me, a chilling breeze blows from the window across the sheets. With my family next to me, I am reminded why I love fall so much.
