Pregnant with third child, determined to be a "skinny pregnant" this time. I wanted the watermelon on a toothpick thing. There was hunger, but I denied it. I was determined to not get "fat" again. I gained thirty pounds after Nat was born and so quickly too, beer and chips in the living room at night. In this, my third pregnancy, I was determined to be "healthy." I would give this baby a healthy start. I ate bagged salad for lunch, ran a 10k at 14 weeks pregnant. I gained weight steadily, but not too much. I was so fucking deeply proud of how healthy I was at full term.
In the hospital, when you stopped moving, someone said, "It's not your fault. You should see some of the women who come in here."
The anesthesiologist complimented my back and said it would be easy to dose because of my BMI. As a doula, I have stood by the women they so carelessly derided, the women they used as a prop to compliment my weight. I have stood by their side in the OR as they are blamed for their baby not tolerating labor. One OB told my client, "I'm going to go sharpen my knives. Maybe net time, you'll grow a smaller baby." This woman said to me, "I don't want that man touching me," Yet, her baby's heartrate was in the fifties. She had to let him touch her. He touched her uterus, the very inside of her.
"No food in the Nicu. Nothing living. No plants, no flowers." Was my baby living? He lay suspended between the two worlds. Not awake, not comatose either. He hadn't opened his eyes yet on day five. "Nothing living. You can do all that in the lounge."
I was so fucking hungry. Postpartum women are, though I didn't feel postpartum. Instead, I felt empty, husked like an ear of corn, the cesarean taking your warm heavy weight out of me so quickly. The thirst and hunger reminded me that I had given birth, that I was making milk for you, milk that went into the freezer, milk that maybe eventually would make its way to your feeding tube, maybe maybe, just maybe eventually to your lips somehow. The meals were delivered to the eighth floor, to postpartum. The Nicu was on the 6th floor. Just the logistics of getting upstairs post c-section to eat was so complicated. Later, there was a meal train and food arrived on my porch. I was so grateful. I ate an entire quiche in one sitting beside your empty pack and play in the living room. It tasted so good. I focused on the eggs and cheese, the onions and tomatoes.
I lost so much weight in the first 6 weeks of your life.
Someone recently complimented me.
She said I didn't look like I had a baby.
She said she wanted to go on whatever diet I was on.