Before they brought June, a doctor came in and reiterated what Jeff had said. Hemorrhaging. Hysterectomy. He wanted Gwen to feel lucky that she was alive and that her baby was alive. He wanted her to fixate on this bright side and not think about the fact that her womb had been removed, the future of her family completely rewritten. She’d always thought they’d have two kids, maybe three. She and Jeff had both known the strange loneliness of being only children. They’d grown up desperately wanting siblings.
“When can I go home?” Gwen asked.
She wanted out of this place that had taken so much from her.
“A couple days. We want to make sure everything is stabilized,” he said. “You had us pretty worried.”
She didn’t like this phrasing, as if she was at fault for burdening them, for keeping them up at night.
“I don’t anticipate any setbacks with the healing process. Definitely tap into family for help during the recovery, but I think all will go smoothly,” the doctor said.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Jeff said to him, speaking with a kind of hero worship that made Gwen think he was going to kiss the man’s feet. All Gwen wanted to do was spit in the smug doctor’s face.
Gwen was expecting June to be hooked up to tubes and machines like she had been, but no. She was perfect, just small—“petite,” the pediatrician on staff said, as if all babies weren’t “petite.” They had put the typical blue-and-pink-striped hat on her little head. Gwen held her against her chest, and it was like holding a guinea pig, a little ball of mammal, warm and scaredand eager for affection. Gwen was overcome by a surge of heart-exploding love and warmth, but with cold terror on its heels. It was the simultaneous immense joy of having and fear of losing. This, she would realize, was motherhood.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Gwen meeting her baby all this time after she had arrived in the world. They had missed their skin-to-skin “golden hour,” the magical time of postdelivery bonding that was said to set up mother and baby for years of healthy connection. The research said it also helped the baby’s temperature regulation and blood sugar stabilization. And it was supposed to trigger hormones in Gwen for producing milk, as well as decrease her stress and anxiety. Babies who do not have the “golden hour” time with their mothers tend to have worse sleep quality and more issues with growth. It was proven.
Gwen had already failed so miserably.
“Oh, honey, it’s okay,” Jeff said, wiping tears from her cheeks before she realized she was crying. Her body had become foreign to her, doing things without her awareness, making decisions without consulting her.
“She’s doing remarkably well,” the pediatrician said, as if trying to perk her up.
Gwen stroked June’s back, marveling at how it was the length of her hand, from the tip of her middle finger to the bottom of her palm.
“She’s breathing just fine. No issues there, which is great,” the doctor went on. “And she’s taking formula without any problems.”
Gwen took her eyes off June and looked at the pediatrician, dead in her eyes.
“Formula?” she asked.
The pediatrician must have seen Gwen’s horror, because she said, “It’s very common for preemies to need a boost to get started. You can breastfeed her if you so choose.”
If you so choose?What else would a good mother choose? Was this woman aware of @mother.nurture.official and the “breast is best” mantra Gwen had been chanting to herself for months?
As if in response to her thoughts, Gwen’s breasts started to leak, little circles of wet blooming on her pale-blue hospital gown. She saw the pediatrician notice before she noticed herself.
“Well,” the doctor said with a smile, “looks like your milk is coming in. That’s great! Good timing—the lactation consultant is scheduled to pop in any minute.”
Jeff helped Gwen untie the front of her gown, and she positioned June’s body across her chest, the baby’s tiny mouth next to her nipple. She did not want to wait for the lactation consultant. She did not want to need this stranger’s tips and tricks. She wanted to dosomethingnaturally,somethingby instinct.
“Look at her,” Jeff marveled as June’s mouth started to move, her nose likely picking up on the scent of the colostrum nearby.
“That’s a good girl,” Gwen murmured, shifting the baby slightly. She kept repeating it—That’s a good girl—until, abruptly, June clamped down. The pain was so immediate and excruciating that Gwen lost her breath.
“Is she doing it?” Jeff said, his eyes searching Gwen’s face, trying to figure out if she was shocked in a good way or a bad way.
“I think so,” Gwen said.
The pain, though. The pain.
Gwen pulled her off gently, and there was blood all around June’s mouth, smeared onto her cheeks. It was like something out of a demented horror film.
“Oh my god,” Jeff said.
That was when the lactation consultant walked in and said, “Oh my.”
To this day, Gwen is convinced June was punishing her in her newborn-infant way, lashing out at Gwen because she’d been cut out of her belly in a too-bright operating room full of terrifying people wearing masks over their faces, then abandoned for days and fed a chemical-rich powder mixed with water by hands that did not belong to her mother. Her daughter hated her, right from the start. How could Gwen blame her? Gwen hated herself too.
