This is the fourth time I have carried a baby this far. The fourth time that little kicks and prods have caught me by surprise. The fourth time that I’ve watched my body expand and my family grow. It does not get any easier. Pregnancy after birth trauma will never be easy.
Four years ago I opened my eyes and saw a baby. A head of blonde hair. Bright blue eyes. A tiny body wrapped in a coarse blue hospital issue blanket. A baby with a name. Cleaned, weighed, held. Named. My baby.
I had no recollection of his birth. My last memories of his pregnancy were the pounding silence of the heart rate machine, the footsteps smacking on the shiny tiled floor and the hands pressing on my throat as the tube was inserted. My last thoughts were that my baby had died. He had lost his fight before it had even begun.
And then nothing.
And then everything.
