It was ten o'clock on the evening of June 19 as I lay in contractions on a sort of torture device that the hospital referred to as a bed. The pain was just bearable, but I was scared. This was my first child and she was coming early. I was trying so hard to follow the instruction to "push". It seemed to accomplish nothing. I had come to the hospital only after careful deliberation with my mother on the phone 300 miles away whether I was in fact, in labour. I decided to go and there I was, terrified of the next step. I had bonded with the life inside my belly, squirming and turning while I read to her, sang to her and caressed her to the best of my ability. Up to this moment she was just an idea, a potential being. I had grown accustomed to the relationship in this manner. This new development indicated a change in that relationship and I was panic stricken over the question of my ability to adjust. People have kids and work and strive to better the lives of each generation. This was normal, right? I would soon find out that just because we do things that are deemed "normal" does not mean it's the right thing to do for us.
All of a sudden, there she was. She was tall, but so thin from coming before she was really finished developing. I unofficially named her Tadpole in the days to come because that is what she reminded me of. As they placed her on my chest, I looked into her eyes that seemed oddly able to focus for so early. We stared at each other and I instantly recognized her as if I had always known her, but like someone who is God-like. I was unexpectedly crushed, beyond any devastation I had ever felt, which I did not expect. All of the feedback I had ever received about becoming a arent did not elude to this feeling. Were people nuts? Why, in this vast civilization, would anyone do this? I felt that I had single handedly choked the life out of the baby Jesus. This isn't birth, it's death. I still have nightmares that I have accidentally killed someone. For years to come I attempted to behave as normally as other mothers, but I knew it was wrong. As I attempted to share it with health professionals, they assured me it was postpartum depression. I didn't know that could last for twenty years.
I knew I would not be popular with this admission, but I admit it for the sake of others with these feelings. I know I would have perhaps been comforted if I knew of anyone out there who felt the same. It is for this reason I share this moment in Tadpole's early life. I have raised her now very apologetically and have an intimate understanding of the phrase "I love her so much, it hurts". Every scrape she sustained, every time another child picked on her, every time she struggled with her studies, every time her heart was broken was a knife in mine. Of course ALL parents can relate to these feelings, but why do I find them deeply unbearable? So many times I debated leaving this world, unsure if I could endure the regular emotional beatings, but I could never abandon her. It was my sentence to stay and watch, however painful it was sure to be, and to accompany her on her journey.
Now try not to judge too harshly, the world is indeed a dangerous place and I did truly feel as if I had dragged a soul into hell, but I hid the sorrow well,. To this day she tells of her privileged childhood (although we were poor), the adventures we went on, the comedy we shared, the incredible bond we had. When she was five, I asked her what it was like to be loved so much (she was the beloved of several generations) and she replied, "It's like being really rich, but in a small house". She is in her twenties now and my heart is still in such pain, but I will stand by her as a pillar as long as I am granted the honor. She is my light, my heart, my life. She came to me divinely as a prophet and gifted me this universal truth...PURE LOVE!
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