Yoga teaches you to set an intention at the beginning of every session. Set your mind to something you're working on, or trying to work through, and for that one hour, breathe through your intentions. Never have I given my breath a thought till I was faced with the fact that my son would never breathe on his own. Ever.
Every mother waits with anticipation held breath at the birth of their child. Holding on until they can hear, clearly and loudly, the first squeals coming from their child. If this is the case, I am still holding on to my breath. Jude never made a sound out of the womb. As quiet as a lamb would be an understatement. He was silent. In order for breathing to occur, the physical functions of his body had to have been working. Or at least present, both of which were non existent for Jude.
As a lay open and bleeding on the operating table, I hoped, prayed, longed to hear his cries. Sadly, I got nothing but the beeping of my heart monitor. The only machine letting me know I was alive, but what about my son? How would I know he was alive outside me?
The Neo-natal doctors were waiting on hand in anticipation for Jude's birth. The month I had spent at Kaiser on bed rest, I learned that weekly meetings were held by his NICU team, my perinatal doctor, and a grief counselor to "discuss Jude's condition and plan of action". It didn't sink in what this meant until I was rushed into the operating room, laying there with waited breath for my son's arrival. It seemed everyone at that hospital knew what I didn't or refused to. Jude would never breathe on his own. He had his own team of specialists waiting upon his arrival, putting in to practice what they had long ago discussed. Still, they couldn't make him breathe.
It wasn't until they wheeled him out on that sad plastic container where he will spend the remainder of his precious 47 hours that I got to see my son. And by seeing, I meant glimpsing the tuft of black hair solidly on his head as they whisked him away. Did you see that? He has so much hair! I never got heartburn like they said I would because of the hair. My Jude never gave me any troubles. No one responded. I was sure I was talking out loud, but maybe in my medical delirium I was just talking to myself. Silence is all I got in response. The doctors and nurses were too busy closing up my wounds to notice a mother's rambling.
Wes though, he heard me. I know. He has so much hair, my love, and with that he followed my son out to the NICU. Wait! What about skin to skin? How will he know who his mama is if you take him from me? Let me hold him, please. Silence still.
"I'm going to give you something so you can sleep, okay," the anesthesiologist said in her clam and soothing voice.
He had so much hair.
Every mother waits with anticipation held breath at the birth of their child. Holding on until they can hear, clearly and loudly, the first squeals coming from their child. If this is the case, I am still holding on to my breath. Jude never made a sound out of the womb. As quiet as a lamb would be an understatement. He was silent. In order for breathing to occur, the physical functions of his body had to have been working. Or at least present, both of which were non existent for Jude.
As a lay open and bleeding on the operating table, I hoped, prayed, longed to hear his cries. Sadly, I got nothing but the beeping of my heart monitor. The only machine letting me know I was alive, but what about my son? How would I know he was alive outside me?
The Neo-natal doctors were waiting on hand in anticipation for Jude's birth. The month I had spent at Kaiser on bed rest, I learned that weekly meetings were held by his NICU team, my perinatal doctor, and a grief counselor to "discuss Jude's condition and plan of action". It didn't sink in what this meant until I was rushed into the operating room, laying there with waited breath for my son's arrival. It seemed everyone at that hospital knew what I didn't or refused to. Jude would never breathe on his own. He had his own team of specialists waiting upon his arrival, putting in to practice what they had long ago discussed. Still, they couldn't make him breathe.
It wasn't until they wheeled him out on that sad plastic container where he will spend the remainder of his precious 47 hours that I got to see my son. And by seeing, I meant glimpsing the tuft of black hair solidly on his head as they whisked him away. Did you see that? He has so much hair! I never got heartburn like they said I would because of the hair. My Jude never gave me any troubles. No one responded. I was sure I was talking out loud, but maybe in my medical delirium I was just talking to myself. Silence is all I got in response. The doctors and nurses were too busy closing up my wounds to notice a mother's rambling.
Wes though, he heard me. I know. He has so much hair, my love, and with that he followed my son out to the NICU. Wait! What about skin to skin? How will he know who his mama is if you take him from me? Let me hold him, please. Silence still.
"I'm going to give you something so you can sleep, okay," the anesthesiologist said in her clam and soothing voice.
He had so much hair.
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