It is Sunday morning and there is a baby girl asleep on her Papa’s chest upstairs. The boy and I are in the basement. He is playing track and field (there is much running and jumping and a make shift high jump pit made from a bean bag chair and all the cushions from the couch) and I am calculating how much time I have to write this post before I need to nurse again.
Last week at this time I was in the hospital, dealing with some complications from the birth and feeling, just for a moment or two, like I might die.
I hesitate to write that last sentence, realizing that it sounds fairly dramatic, maybe overly so? I don’t know. I had a hemorrhage in the early hours following E.’s birth. I was laying in bed and suddenly felt certain that I was going to pass out. I called for the nurse and then there was a lot of blood and a room suddenly filled with multiple nurses and a doctor, all working urgently as I moved in and out of consciousness.
It was scary for me and Mr. Monkey and I had a moment of thinking “this is how women die in childbirth”. When I think about it now I feel very aware that I’m lucky to live in a place where I have access to good maternal health care.
It seems hard to imagine that a week later I feel pretty much fine. I’ve got sore nipples and a belly that looks like a deflated beach ball but I’m fine and my girl is healthy and my boy is going to be a track star. I am keenly aware of my good fortune.