Her birth is nearly as sketchy to me as the pregnancy. I have no memory of going into labor or going to the hospital or arriving there -- nothing.
Just suddenly, I'm there on the bed waiting to deliver my baby. The room seems so dark as I remember it. There were lots of people present, but I only remember my mom. You know, besides the hospital staff. Maybe, maybe the people who adopted my daughter. I can't be sure. Seems like there was another mother in labor like me next to the window -- seems like it. I remember being checked to see how much I was dilated twice.
The first time I was facing the windows (south) and only in moderate pain -- not very dilated. The second time I was facing the hallway (north). I was sweating and my hair felt greasy, and I was in a lot of pain. The nurse said it would be very soon. I remember thinking, "Yeah, so you keep saying."
My strongest memory of my daughter's birth -- I was screaming during a contraction and having almost no break between them. That's when a nun got in my face, and told me to shout up because it doesn't hurt that bad. I thought, "How do you know?" Before I could do anything, mom was there between me and the nun -- protecting me.
That's what mothers are supposed to do -- we need to protect and care for our children. Mothers don't give their children away. How could I not know that? Yet, there I was -- being protected by my mother while I gave my own daughter away.
Mom said, not to the nun but to the nurse, "Get her out of here, and don't let her near my daughter again."
That's all I remember. I don't remember going to the delivery room or . . .
I do remember more, now. They put her on my stomache after she was born. I wanted to reach down and touch her, but it seems like they kept me from doing that. Yes, it definitely seems as if it was very important to them that I not even see my daughter as they left the room with her.
I thought they knew what they were doing. I obeyed their wishes. I did what I was supposed to do. I was so passive. I remember feeling very sad, empty -- but I thought they must be right; it must be wrong for me to see my daughter.
Wrong for me to see my own daughter. How could that be? Why?
I asked but I can't remember if they told me that my baby was a girl. I know I felt desparate to know. I'd been waiting nine months to know like all mothers.
I'm sure they were very reluctant to give me that information, but I can't remember if anyone relented. It's important because it's cruel to hide that information from a mother. It was cruel to push me out of her life. She's my daughter, and I loved her and still love her like any mother loves her child.
At any rate, I did find out, and I was, eventually, permitted to view my daughter through the glass.
I wish, I wish, I wish that I had insisted on holding her. I wish I could have held my baby in my arms.
More than that, I wish that I had kept my daughter!
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