I’m not gonna bore you with the details or horrify you, depending on how you look at it.
All I’ll say is this: Ihonestly, positively, did not knowit was possible for a human body to hurt this much.
It’s not even one kind of pain. It’s not steady or predictable. It’s like someone’s torturing you through your vagina and slowly turning the dial just to see how much you can take. At first, they give you this false sense of control. The contractions hurt, sure, but they’remanageable.Everyone says,just breathe through them,and for a while, you think maybe you actually can.
But there’s only so many times you can be stabbed in the same spot before you start screaming. And boy, did I scream.
I screamed my fucking head off.
The doctor looked vaguely annoyed, which, fair, I probably shattered a few eardrums, but the nurse just smiled and said, “He’s not the one having a baby. Scream away.” So, I did. I screamed when I pushed. I screamed when the baby crowned. I screamed when I tore,second-degree,by the way.
I thought the pushing would be the worst part, but it wasn’t. It was the burning. It was the tearing. It was the way my body felt like it was splitting apart and still being told tokeep going.
And when it was over, when they placed that tiny, slippery, screaming human on my chest, I cried too, from exhaustion, from shock, from relief that it was finally done.
But it wasn’t really done. Because I lost a lot of blood, more than they expected and they kept me in the hospital for three days. Three days of stitches and IV fluids and blood pressure checks. Three days of nurses waking me up every few hours to press on my stomach, which, by the way, feels like being punched in an open wound.
Three days of staring at the little person in the bassinet next to my bed, my body wrecked and raw and stitched back together, and thinking:I did this. She’s here. She’s real.
And even through the pain, even through the haze of it all, I know I’d scream every second again if it meant bringing her into the world.
“Alright. Here we are.”
Matthew pushes open the front door with his elbow, hands laden with a carrier and my bags. Our modest two-bedroom apartment is still the same with its peeling paint and squeaky hinges.
I take a deep breath. After three days in the hospital, I thought I’d never see this place again. Home. Familiar. But nothing feels the same now. We’re not just newlyweds anymore. We’re parents.
Matthew sets the baby carrier down carefully in front of the sofa. He glances at me, eyes soft. “Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll make us some food.”
I nod, dragging myself toward the sofa. Every step makes my body ache. Weren’t you supposed to stop walking like a turtle after the baby came out? If anything, I’m slower, an old turtle, hunched and praying nothing tears.
Lowering myself onto the cushions feels like an Olympic event. The second I sit, I exhale. Either someone cleaned the amniotic fluid from the cushions or it dried out. Eww.
My stomach feels alien now, soft and hollow where it used to be round and taut.
The baby squeaks from the carrier. Not a cry, just a squeak. My whole chest tightens, tethered to her by something invisible but unbreakable.
Matthew rushes to check on her, crouching he fiddles with the buckles. He looks terrified, but proud. He keeps glancing at me like I should be giving him instructions.
“She’s okay.” My voice comes out hoarse. “Will you get me something to drink?”
He hurries into the kitchen, banging pans around. Sweet, I suppose. But useless. What I want isn’t a drink. What I want is… I don’t even know. Sleep, silence. Maybe to close my eyes and wake up on a flight again, somewhere over the Atlantic, laughing with the other girls. That version of me feels like a ghost now.
I glance at Penny. Still sleeping, cheeks pink, fists curled. Perfect. Untouchable. Mine.
I wonder if this is what all women feel, deathly afraid yet happy. Scared shitless, but would never give her back. I smile at her sleeping face, grimacing at a twinge in a place that shouldn’t twinge.
Normal delivery my ass. I lost more than half my blood volume, hooked to more IVs than I had veins. One thing’s for sure, I willneverallow another man to be my OB-GYN. Telling a bloody, broken woman “it’s normal” isn’t normal. Dr. Asshole is lucky I was too sore to put my foot up his ass.
“What’s wrong?” Matthew asks, slipping in next to me on the sofa and handing me a glass of juice.
I look at the red liquid, wishing it were wine. But we both know it’s pomegranate juice. I take a sip and hmm its actually good.
I say. “I was just… thinking. I have an actual human being depending on me. Me.”
He laughs. “And what’s it like being a single parent?”
I smile at his teasing tone. “You know what I mean. Especially since you’re going back to work Monday.”
