A year

Today is my daughter's first birthday. A year since I lapsed into unconsciousness, a drug-induced coma. The memories I have of her birth are non-existent. I was unconscious when they cut her from me. There were no contractions, there was no pain. Only darkness.

She arrived into this world into a sterile room full of strangers. Medical professionals and wonderful people, but strangers nonetheless. I did not hear her first cry. Or her second, or third, etc.

It is absolutely heart-breaking to me that I could not breastfeed my daughter. Apparently my breast-milk did soak through a couple of hospital gowns before my body stopped producing it altogether. I was still breastfeeding my son (3 years and 2 months) when all this happened. So this is how he was weened. Not only did his mommy disappear, but the comfort of his mother's breast stopped as well. How hard it must have been on my little boy. People can call me a tree hugging hippie if they want to, but I fully intended on breastfeeding them both after the second one was born. What a wonderful bonding experience that would have been. I'm sure some people are icked by that. I also don't find it weird at all if a woman breastfeeds a baby that isn't her own. We're just mammals and this is just milk. No reason to get all weirded out by it. I am bummed that I missed doing this for my baby girl.

She saw so many people before she saw me, her mommy. My mom became her mom, and she took such good care of her, and my son. I do not know how my mom functioned at all, knowing her daughter was fighting for her life. But she did exactly what I would have wanted her to do, took care of my babies, kept them fed and warm and safe, and as happy as they could be under the circumstances.

I missed my daughter's first month of life. While I should have been breastfeeding her, changing her diapers, soothing her, studying her and learning her quirks, being frustrated from the lack of sleep, being blissfully happy with my family, crying at the drop of the hat because of all the hormones, kissing her little peachy fuzz hair, tickling her little baby toes, hugging my babies...

instead of all that, this is what I was doing

 and it was hard, and it took a big toll on my body and my mind.

  I am so sad that this is my daughter's birth story, and that I will be reminded of it every year on her birthday. But I am so happy that I'm alive and that she's alive and that we are both healthy, and that is what truly matters. Everything else is just secondary, but it doesn't stop me from having feelings about it.

To be continued...