birth, part ii

I did not give birth to the buka. I was not in a position to give her anything at all.

That night, the nurses came and said it was time to go up to my room, which meant I had to get up from the bed and get into a wheelchair. I couldn’t. I was weak, in pain, IV on one side, catheter and urine bag on the other. I don’t know how I managed it finally. But I got into the lift and into the room, and everyone wanted to put me right back into bed. Just let me sit here, I said, I want to hold the baby. I shouldn’t have had to ask. Somebody put her in my arms, but my hands were so swollen, I was so tired and in so much pain, they took her away from me right away. You can’t, they said. So I lay there and watched, all night, all three nights, drifting in and out of sleep, or pretending to, while the mil fed her and changed her and talked to her in a language I didn’t know, fussed over her and held her, and became her mother.

The next morning, the doctor said I had to get up, take some steps, start moving. I made it to a chair, where I sat, all day, on the opposite side of the bed from the baby that was supposed to be mine. I am no more your mother than the cloud, I said to myself a thousand times, wishing I could remember the rest, swallowing the guilty tears I didn’t want the nurses or the mil to see. Later, much later, I swallowed my tears and my pride and asked someone again to bring her to me, to put her in my arms. It never occurred to anyone to offer. She was all bundled up, in blankets and gloves and double pajamas; all I could see was dark hair and a red worried face. I wanted to see the rest of her, to count her fingers and toes, to find some part of her that I could recognize as mine. But at the first sign of a cry, they took her away from me again. You can’t, they said. And I couldn’t. And she wasn’t mine. Nobody had to say that.

She wasn’t the buka I had carried in my belly and fought to carry just a few more days. She wasn’t the one I’d taken to school with me and everywhere else, with whom I’d shared those special days in January and March and May. That one would would know me, and want me. And I’d know her by her blue eyes and blond hair, a face I’d imagined, then seen in pictures.

They cut me open and took that buka away. I never even said goodbye.

Then they cut every connection I had to her, or could have had. All it took was two cruel words. So I took the pills, I held my breath, my pressure soared to 14. I cried and cried. The baby didn’t know me then, and now she never will. I’m nothing to her that anybody else in the world can’t be.

Those three days were an eternity. I missed her every second, watching her every move, so alone in that room, surrounded by people all the time, with all their wishes and extravagant pink presents.

I ate what they brought. I made myself get in and out of bed. I got used to the pain and needles and tears. I said I’d be okay. I had no choice but to be okay with all of it, but none of it was what I wanted or imagined. I put on a brave face with the doctor, with the mil, with the only person I could have told but didn’t. Better for him to think I was strong, taken care of, thrilled with the baby and motherhood and all the usual things. As I wanted to be.

I had a baby. I have a baby. And all I can think is of all I lost: the conclusion to the pregnancy, the buka that I knew before, the chance to be a mother, the love that got me into this, and the love I hoped would get me through it.