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The night before my scheduled C-section, I had trouble sleeping. I mean, who wouldn’t? It’s very rare that you know the exact time and date that your life is about to change forever.
What will birth be like? I wondered. Will I feel the incision? Will I cry? What if I don’t cry? If I don’t cry, does that mean I’m a bad mom? Will I die? Oh my god, what if I die?!
Throughout my pregnancy, I’d steered clear of reports on this country’s abysmal Black maternal mortality rate as a form of protecting my peace. But as the day quickly drew upon us there was no denying the statistics: Black women are three times as likely to die from maternal causes as white women. But armed with my Black ob-gyn and my doula, who was also a woman of color, I felt some semblance of safety.
Between ruminating thoughts and almost hourly trips to the bathroom, there was absolutely no sleep to be had. So when my alarm finally went off at 3 a.m. for the hour-long drive from northern Ohio to Columbus, I’d already been wide awake for about an hour or so.
After we arrived at the hospital, we anxiously sat in the waiting room until we were called back. There was a viral TikTok trend at the time in which birthing parents danced to the “Baby Mama Song,” and as a pop culture fanatic, I knew I had to recreate it.
Then, our doula arrived and I listened to a guided meditation while using a lavender-scented eye pillow. I wanted to set the tone for the morning ahead and channel calm, peaceful vibes.
Soon, it was go time. Because the hospital where I gave birth is a teaching hospital, there was a resident learning how to administer an epidural. I let it slide the first time, but when she missed the target on the second try I asked for the anesthesiologist to take over. I was disappointed that I had to advocate for myself so early in the procedure, but I knew it was not the time to bite my tongue.
After I was prepped for surgery, my husband was allowed to come in. I’m grateful for the nurse who took my phone and took plenty of pictures because the whole experience felt like one big blur. I remember the tugging and pulling on the other side of the blue sheet separating me and Jeff from the doctors, but I didn’t feel any pain.
At an appointment leading up to the big day, I’d asked my doctor if I could play music, specifically Beyoncé. The Lion King: The Gift was such a pivotal album in my life. I’ve been rocking with Bey since ‘97, but from the moment I heard “Spirit” and, later, “Bigger,” something shifted inside me and I was inspired to pursue my dream of being a full-time writer and author.
As soon as our daughter was born (to “Brown Skin Girl” of all songs), I bawled. My husband and I didn’t find out the sex beforehand. Having endured multiple IVF cycles to get to this point, we wanted to keep some element of surprise since everything else had already been laid out for us. I’d convinced myself we were having a boy, but we hadn’t been able to agree on a name. Violet, however, had been on my heart for years as purple is my favorite color. My daughter’s middle name, Imani, came to me the morning of the blood test when we’d found out we were pregnant. It’s Swahili for “faith,” and it took a whole lot of faith to get her here.
But shortly after Violet was born, panic set in. She wasn’t crying and the doctors tried to open her airway. They also laid her on my chest in hopes that the skin-to-skin contact would help regulate her breathing. Not exactly the Golden Hour I’d envisioned.
Soon she was whisked away to the NICU. Jeff went with her while my sister and my doula attended to me after I was all stitched up. I was determined to breastfeed and my doula thankfully showed me how to hand express so I was able to send a few syringes of colostrum to the NICU.
Afterward, Jeff and I took a much-needed nap in our hospital room. When I stood up to walk to the bathroom after waking up, I was surprised to see the blood that gushed out of me. Although I was embarrassed, the nurse was nonplussed and assured me this type of thing happened all the time. Once I was all cleaned up, she wheeled me down to the NICU and I was finally able to hold my daughter for the first time. The nurses encouraged me to try breastfeeding, but it didn’t come as easily as I thought it would and I felt frustrated that I couldn’t get it right on the first (or second or third) try. I felt like a failure.
Later that night, Violet was released from the NICU, but we weren’t in the clear yet. Out of an abundance of caution, we had to stay an extra two nights so that Violet could receive phototherapy for jaundice. Jeff tried to make a joke about her being “Ultra Violet,” but I wasn’t laughing. I felt my first pang of mom guilt and cried on the phone to my sister, who of course reassured me I had done nothing wrong.On the bright side, the second lactation nurse who visited us was able to suggest another breastfeeding position—the koala hold—where the baby essentially straddles your leg and faces your breast. It became our go-to position until Violet was about six months old.
Before we could be discharged, the nurse gave me a screening for postpartum depression. I’d been experiencing perinatal depression, so it was no surprise to me that I failed. But ever the overachiever, I assured the nurse that I was already on it. I was doubling up on therapy sessions and I would be fine.
Motherhood has been a wild ride. Nothing like I expected and somehow more. There is a quote from an Indian philosopher that reads, “The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new.” I’ve definitely been made new by this experience and I’m learning every day. My daughter is the greatest teacher I could ever ask for and I’m so glad she chose me.
