Motherhood
A Journey Of Fear And Strength
by Holly Breide
My heart aches as I look back on this past year. It’s almost been a year since our diagnosis day, a day that forever changed our lives. I was so scared. I barely remember being pregnant, as my mind went into fight-or-flight mode. All I wanted was to make precious memories with my first daughter, who was still just a baby herself. I see the photos of that time, of us smiling, playing, and going on little adventures, but beneath it all, I was terrified. The doctors warned us: we needed to prepare ourselves for difficult decisions about resuscitation when our baby came into the world. My partner and I couldn’t bring ourselves to talk about it, or maybe I just wouldn’t let us. I told him we wouldn’t know what we were willing to do until we were in the moment.
When I went into labor at 37 weeks, it felt surreal. She was full-term but early, and the reality didn’t hit me until we were in the car, driving two and a half hours to the children’s hospital. I focused on breathing through the contractions, knowing what was about to come. The plan was to try for a VBAC if labor started naturally. I was excited at the idea of delivering her myself, but when the time came, the neonatal team decided on a cesarean to be prepared for any emergencies. It all happened so fast. My body was already transitioning into pushing when the room filled with nurses, gas machines were running, and lights flickered as they checked their equipment. It felt like I was floating above the chaos, frozen in the moment. My partner wasn’t there initially—he was arranging his accommodation while I was rushed to the operating room. I had no pain relief, just waves of raw emotion and sensation. He made it in just as they administered the spinal block. At 6 PM, she was born. I felt the pressure as the doctor pushed on my belly, and then, suddenly, it was as if a weight had been lifted. She was here. But I waited, panicking silently, desperate to hear her cry. I asked my partner to look over the sheet. “What’s happening?” I asked. And then we heard it.. a wail. She was breathing on her own.
They wrapped her and placed her in the NICU incubator. I managed to get a soft “hello” through the tiny porthole of her crib. I didn’t even get to touch her. My partner left to go with her and the neonatal team, while I lay there being stitched up, alone. The doctors and nurses chatted casually about their weekend plans, and I felt isolated yet strangely content that she was okay. Later, I was wheeled to the recovery room and called my partner. He reassured me she was doing well, though wires and tubes covered her little body. I was moved to the maternity ward, placed in a shared room with only thin sheets for privacy. It felt like all the mothers in that room were grieving their own versions of separation. One woman sobbed on the phone, distressed about her jaundiced baby being under a light, but I couldn’t help feeling anger. Her baby would go home the next day. My baby had a lifelong medical disability, and we hadn’t even been sure she would survive until today.
At 11:30 PM, I couldn’t wait any longer. I begged the nurse to let me see my baby. She agreed on one condition: I had to stand. I willed myself into that wheelchair, though I was weak from hemorrhaging. Lightheaded and on the verge of passing out, I made the 1km round journey through the adjoining hospitals. Finally, I reached her room. Seeing her for the first time so real and beautiful, surrounded by wires and the hum of machines it took my breath away. I put my hands into the incubator, touching her delicate fingers, her tiny feet, her perfect face. She was everything I could have dreamed of and more. I couldn’t stay long, my body was too weak. Back in my ward, I began expressing colostrum, setting alarms through the night. Every drop was for her, she needed all the strength I could give her. Laney wasn’t supposed to make it this far. But she did. She’s a warrior, strong beyond belief. And so, I held on too, for her.
