2 lbs, 13 oz
Summoning bravery
alongside angst.
(An excerpt from Unbecoming)
“2lbs and 13oz” the doctor announced after pulling her from my abdomen. I hardly had time to process the harrowing data before Lucy was whisked away to NICU — those bastards didn’t even give me the chance to hold her.
So, there I was, an empty-handed new mother, laying numb from the waist down, emotionally frozen from the waist up. And it would be 14 more excruciating hours before I held her for the first time.
But right before she was taken, the medical team brought her over, so I could, at least, briefly meet her — this person I had dreamt-up, conceived, birthed. But they didn’t even have the wherewithal to face her toward me. So, the very first time I met her, I met the back of her head.
I reached out and cradled it, rubbed it gently with my thumb, kissed it, and repeated, “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’m so glad you’re here.”
Then off she went, without me knowing what her face looked like.
After she’d been taken, I turned my head away from the operating room’s exit, closed my eyes, and silently wept. All I could think was:
“It’s even worse than I imagined …”
How was it that my very first act as mother was to give her away? I didn’t even know who took her. Where was she beyond all those doors, and hallways, and rooms within rooms? Would I be able to find her in an emergency?
But let’s rewind a bit.
I had had a blissful pregnancy. I was quick to get pregnant, never got sick, never got insomnia, experienced very little pain or discomfort as my body grew. And my baby developed beautifully. I loved being pregnant.
But 32 weeks in — just 8 weeks shy of Lucy’s due date — the rug got pulled out from underneath us. I showed-up for a routine visit at my obstetrician’s office, and in the quietness typically filled by chatter, as our vitals were checked and re-checked, I knew, without being told, that something was very, very wrong.
Lucy had stopped growing.
Or, at least her rate of growth had slowed to an alarming rate. I was sent to see specialists and get second opinions. I took test after test after test. Everything showed she had a strong heartbeat, strong brain activity, strong lungs, lots of fetal movement, a healthy placenta, a healthy umbilical cord, normal levels of amniotic fluid — everything that could be measured, was functioning normally. And yet, she wasn’t growing well, and no one could figure out why.
To say I was scared shitless feels like a gross understatement. And yet, I can’t find any words that come closer to describing my internal experience. Tormented, perhaps?
I ate everything I could, hoping my overconsumption would give her at least a fraction of the body mass she needed. And yet, her growth showed minimal progress each week. 5 pounds — that was my goal for her. I just wanted to get her to 5 pounds in utero — anything shy of that I’d accept, too. But tried as I might, she continued to hover around 3 pounds, gaining and losing body mass with every weekly weigh-in.
And then it happened.
On November 14, 2022, at our weekly check-up, our specialist told me that not only had Lucy lost weight, she was losing amniotic fluid rapidly. The environment of my womb was no longer hospitable, and she needed to come out. It was four weeks shy of her due date, and she barely weighed 3 pounds.
By that point, my fear was so tremendous, I had stopped feeling. My body had shut down, attempting to protect me from my overwhelming suffering. I was numb, but I also remember how fervently I quaked that day. From the time I was told that Lucy needed to come out, to the moment I laid on the operating table, from the tops of my shoulders, down into my thighs, a persistent quake ran through my body. Each time a nurse came in to check on me, they could see my shaking, and ask if I was cold. I had to repeat to them: “I’m not cold, I’m in shock.”
When the time came for surgery, a nurse came into my room and asked me to strip naked. “Even my underwear?” I asked. I could see the compassion melting in her eyes, “Yes, even your underwear.”
I marched down a public hospital hallway in a flimsy gown with my backside exposed. Beside me, my husband, fully clad in hospital gear, silently marched. The shroud of pale blue yet another barrier between me and the comfort I so badly craved. At the operating room doors, he was asked to stay outside in the hallway, while they prepped me for surgery. It felt like they had taken everything from me: my dignity, my safety, my person, my agency.
Inside, as I sat completely alone, exposed, and shaking, they applied an injection that would make me numb from the waist down. In a couple minutes, they told me they would apply a painful pinch to my abdomen to see if the treatment was working.
When they did, they asked, “Did you feel that?” I responded, “Feel what?”
I shit you not, I truly felt nothing.
As I sat, silent and alone, the operating team took no notice of my pain. They played heavy metal music in the background as they prepped equipment, shooting the shit in colorful conversation. My calamity was just another day in the office, and looking back, their lack of attunement was deplorable.
But then, there was beautiful Alva. The same nurse who had asked me to remove all of my clothing. In my fuzzy memory, I remember her speeding past me, then taking a few slow steps back, looking me directly in the eyes, and after muttering something like, “Oh, sweetheart …”, surrounding me in a big bear hug. She might’ve gotten in trouble for “not doing her job” and slowing down the process. But my god, did she see me.
After that, I was laid back on the table, and my arms were tied in a crucifix position. They had taken my dignity, my safety, my love, and my agency. And now, my freedom. But there was one more act of grace in this whole mess. Moments before the surgery was to begin, before my husband was admitted into the room, my doctor-slash-surgeon came in. She had been with me since the beginning, so she knew everything that I carried in my heart. She came in with a smile that beamed, but said nothing. She sat beside me, grabbed my tethered hand, and rubbed it gently. I stared at the ceiling, unable to cry, hoping I could escape into the clouds.
She has no idea what that gesture meant to me.
—
Before I had Lucy, I had always assumed I would never be able to bear the unbearable: loss, death, separation, rejection, illness, failure, you name it. Yet, here I found myself in a place where the worst possible thing I could imagine, was happening. And, here I was, still standing.
Unfortunately, this was just the beginning.
The journey of our first year together as a family would have many ups-and-downs. At one point, Lu would stop eating. Twice more, she would receive diagnoses that would take the breath out of our lungs. And then there were all the smaller shit storms in-between.
I don’t say this to engender sorrow, but to make a point. Of course, I had hoped my daughter’s birth would have transpired under more ebullient circumstances, but I also acknowledge that our suffering held-up a mirror to a part of me I didn’t know existed.
It goes without saying that in the wake of all our struggles, feelings of fear, panic, anger, agony, and dread, got really intense. I told myself that a better, stronger parent wouldn’t let circumstances like ours get to them. I felt weak.
And yet, at the center of it all, I saw someone, someones — a woman, a mother, a partner — keep saying yes. Over and over and over again, saying, “Yes, yes, yes. And yet again, yes.” I saw two people make the same supplication: “Just tell us what we need to do to ensure our daughter’s safety.” And then, they would do it. They didn’t mobilize in the absence of fear — my god, did their fear shatter them — they moved because they were scared, and because they were brave.
And, my god, that has to count for something.
Unbecoming: Facing the Dark to Find the Light
