I wasn’t ready to lose her from my body. Fear gripped me—the specific cold fear of a woman who knew exactly what loss felt like and could not survive it again—until an almighty contraction made the decision for me.
And I pushed.
I pushed with everything I had. For Runa. For myself. For the son I never saw.
There was a flurry of movement.
Then a cry.
A fine, lusty cry.
One of the nurses moved my top aside; the other placed Runa in my arms. I pulled the blue cloth over her tiny shoulder as she pushed her hands back and forth, protesting her new environment with the energy of someone who had already decided she had opinions about it.
Her tiny nose was flattened from her journey and her eyes were closed tight. There was no mistaking the thick tufts of near-black hair crowning her head—once dried it would lighten, the way his did, the observation arriving before I could stop it and sitting there quietly.
I inspected every inch of her. Her tiny ears. The shape of her hairline. The soft curve of her cheek. When I reached her arm my fingers trailed down it until I found her tightly clenched fist, and I never stopped whispering to her—telling her how loved she was, how long I had waited, how the world she had arrived in was difficult and beautiful and entirely survivable.
I knew. I was proof of it.
Then she opened her fist.
I gasped at her tiny nails. Each one more perfect than the last. And so long—impossibly long for something so new.
I held her hand and kissed it.
Not bad after nine months.
I kissed her forehead.
Not bad at all with no drugs.
I kissed her cheek.
The nurses came to clean up around us and I shook my head and begged for a little more time. They gave it without argument. Perhaps they understood. Perhaps they had seen enough births to know when a mother needed a moment that belonged only to her.
My beautiful baby girl rested on my chest.
She was alive.
She was here.
And she was mine.
??????
There was no work.
Home delivery from the supermarket.
My cute studio apartment meant close proximity to Runa.
And I was in heaven.
Baby heaven.
Yes, my vagina was torn to shreds and probably looked like the leftovers from a butcher’s shop. But I didn’t give a damn.
After three days in the hospital I was home with my baby. I had a feeling they kept me longer because they knew I was on my own.
