Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 44

My First Born

Fifty-one years ago, I gave birth to my firstborn. It should have been an uncomplicated delivery, but life had other plans. I went into labor the night before while watching The Waltons, and when we called my OB, he told us to head straight to Labor and Delivery—I was right on schedule.

The moment we arrived; they swept me away from my husband and began prepping me. In those days, it was standard to give the mother an enema—heaven forbid she expel anything while pushing. The excitement and anxiety of labor were overshadowed by the indignity of having an enema shoved up my backside and being sternly instructed to “hold it” until I was placed over the commode. As if my brain, my contractions, and my fear were going to cooperate. I was alone, and they wouldn’t let my husband in until I was “all settled.”

Once that ordeal was over, they began prepping me for an epidural. Still no husband. Still scared. The anesthesiologist explained the risks, including paralysis, and my mind spiraled into worst case scenarios. When the epidural was finally placed and working, they allowed my husband to return but warned us that the medication would slow my contractions. I was expected to deliver in the morning.

Around 7 a.m., my doctor examined me, frowned, and announced that things needed to “speed up.” They started Pitocin. An hour passed—no progress. Two hours—still nothing. I felt fine, couldn’t feel a single contraction, and was lying in bed watching TV while my husband snoozed.

By 2 p.m.—about 17 hours after labor began—the doctor decided it was time for the delivery room. He was prepared for a forceps birth, though I didn’t know then that he was rushing because he was leaving for vacation. Everything moved quickly. When he used the suction forceps, he gave me an episiotomy from hell—not a small cut, but a massive one to make room for the forceps and my son.

It all happened in a blur. Steve was held up for me to see, I heard his cry, and then he was whisked away while I was stitched and sent to recovery.

Afterward, I kept asking for my baby, but I was told I couldn’t hold him until I pooped. The epidural had worn off, the episiotomy hurt like hell, and the idea of eliminating anything was unbearable. I didn’t get to hold or feed my son for the first 24 hours. They brought him into my room so I could look at him, but I wasn’t allowed to touch him until I “proved” I had a bowel movement.

On the second day as I prepared for feeding time with my newborn the pediatrician came into my room with alarming news. He had examined my son and he had concerns. His soft spot was enlarged, and he wanted to rule out encephalitis and so he was transporting my baby to Children’s Hospital. He suggested I call my family and prepare them. My first call was to my husband who acted calm as if this was no big deal. I then called my mother and dad who informed me that ‘God would not give me more than I could handle”, not comforting at that time. My cousin Gloria called me and when I broke down on the phone she told me how much she loved me and she believed everything would be all right.

Within 24 hours, encephalitis was ruled out. But because Steve had been started on IV antibiotics, he needed to stay in the NICU for seven days. I was released so I could be with him, and at last, I could begin being a mother.

Fifty-one years later, that entire experience is still vivid—one of many milestones that shaped me. It was my first true lesson in strength. We only control what is within our power, and we don’t know what that power is until life tests us.

Today, my firstborn is half a century plus one year young, and I am deeply grateful to be his mother and his friend. Our road has been rocky at times, but we’ve learned how to smooth the ruts and travel together with loving kindness.

This past year, he has carried what some might call a burden—the deaths of his uncle and his stepfather, and the emotional weight that fell on me. He has handled it with grace, dignity, and compassion. I pray that I will not become the burden some might assume I am. I pray for his continued health, happiness, and evolution.

And I celebrate the strength that began the day he was born—his and mine, intertwined.

Please join me in on my journey.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com

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