Dear Adele,
You were born on June 27, 2008, via The Roughest Caesarian Section Ever. A doctor made an incision in my belly and had trouble, apparently, cutting through my uterus to pull you out–for some reason, despite labor, my uterean wall had not thinned. Once he did get through, he had to tug and wedge and pull. Your father, who was standing by my head, watching the surgery, said the table was rocking and creaking; I felt like you were a crocodile winning a wrestling match inside my gut.
Suspense built. The doctor wrestled, the table moaned. I was desperate to see you as I lay there, strapped down in wait, all sense of control eradicated by regional anesthesia and antibiotics and not feelings of foreboding at your arrival (those had passed but were intense at first since you arrived 15 days early) but feelings of huge anticipation. Big, big hope. Big, big curiosity. Boy or girl? Big or small or in between? Crying with shock or blinking with contentment? Who would you be?
“I need the vaccuum,” said the doctor. Creak, creak. Rock, rock. (more…)
