It wasn’t love at first sight . . . but the love grew
Mother and baby daughter didn’t bond at first, perhaps due to pregnancy scare
“Make sense?” It was a tic. The doctor had said it five times in as many sentences.
I was still on the examination table, the sticky-smooth ultrasound gel casting an eerie sheen at my waistline. I could see the screen reflected in his glasses. There was a black empty fan where once there had been tiny, nameable organs.
Moments before, our technician had been naming them. She blandly observed, reserving judgment for the expert.
“Here’s the brain,” she continued. A pause. “Cute baby,” she murmured. Again and again. “Cute baby.” Then: “I’ll be back.” “Something’s wrong,” I said as soon as she’d left.
“She didn’t say anything was wrong,” my husband said, unconvinced.
“Her voice changed. And she kept saying ‘cute baby.’ That’s not normal.”
This was so unlike my first glimpse, just weeks earlier at my OB appointment. The baby was facing the camera, hands in fists below the chin. Not at all the typical lima-bean-in-profile shot. “Your baby is looking so cute right now!” my OB squealed. Her delight seemed genuine. This baby was adorable. It was a medical fact.
And now this, an ominous, decidedly undelighted drone: “Cute baby.”
I got the chorionic villus sampling (CVS) test. A needle was inserted into the delicate placenta that fed my baby. It was more of a knitting needle than a medical one. A morsel was extracted, dropped into a tube. I knew the risks — the chance of miscarriage was about one in 100. But I needed to know. I felt a rip, not at my placenta, but deeper.
At last, the nurse called. “Your child does not have any of the chromosomal conditions associated with an increased nuchal fold.”
I remember where I was standing, but not how I responded.
“And we have the sex. Do you want to know?” To this, I know how I responded. I called my husband. “Everything’s OK,” I told him. “And we’re having a girl.”
When my daughter was born, that immediacy wasn’t there. I felt the weight of her on my chest, heavier than her nine pounds. The moment I saw her weirdly large feet, I knew I would die for her. But I didn’t recognize her. Even as my milk began to flow into her, I remained firmly moored.
That first night, I’m ashamed to admit, I sent her away. We were alone together and I couldn’t get her to sleep. She wouldn’t take the pacifier. I was so tired. Finally I padded out to the hall and asked the nurses to watch her. They sent her back in a few hours later, pacifier firmly in her mouth, wrapped in a cocoon of faded hospital blanket. What game was she playing?
Her body parts matched mine, but I didn’t see myself in her. She was littered with me, but she was not me. I think it was this otherness — How could I keep her safe when I could barely do so when she was inside of me? — I think it was this that took so long to surmount.
My daughter today is still not like me. Although I occasionally see glimpses of myself in her, she is unafraid to be herself. As everyone did the chicken dance at the school dance, she did an unrhythmic spin. Picking up speed, touching the floor, rising again. She shone.
That’s how I would describe her now. She shines. Her loud voice, her clear blue eyes, her sly sense of humour. When I am not with her, everything dims. I long for her warmth.