I stood,
legs shaking, heart pounding, toes gripping the edge of the tall
diving board. I waited and waited and waited – until I could
wait no more. Finally, eyes shut tight, I threw myself off the end
into the deep, dark, unknowable pool below. I shot to the surface
hours later as my daughter fought her way into the world, and I
became a mother for the first time. Baby held tightly against my
chest, I struck out for the far side of the pool with sure strokes,
secure in the knowledge that the lane lines would guide me to where I
wanted to go.
Little did
I know…
Without a
doubt and with no expectation that it would be so, the most important
day of my life was the day my daughter was born. Virtually all
first-time mothers say this, but having Lacey changed me in ways I
could not begin to understand that day. I was aware of all the things
that everyone said would change: no more uninterrupted sleep, no more
form-fitting clothing because no more flat stomach, no time for my
husband, no time for me. But I couldn’t imagine that my
understanding of how children develop, how mother-daughter
relationships can grow and change, how genetics work, how the world
works – would be wrapped up tightly in the swaddled bundle that
was my infant daughter.
But let me
back up a little. As a later-in-life (although nowadays 39 doesn’t
seem so very late) and more-than-a-little-anxious mother-to-be, I did
all the “right” things during my pregnancy: I stopped
drinking alcohol and ingesting caffeine two months before I even
started trying to get pregnant and took all the recommended vitamins;
I ate right, exercised moderately, and gained the prescribed amount
of weight; etcetera, etcetera.
My husband
Rob and I attended child-birth classes, I saw the ob-gyn – part
of a highly regarded group practice – at the recommended times,
because of my age I got an
amniocentesis
test, we fixed up the nursery to be bright and cheerful but not too
“girly,” I bought educational, non-gender-specific toys,
and I read everything about babies I could get my hands on. (When I
asked Rob if he wanted to read one of the books I had gotten about
babies and child rearing, he responded, you’re doing enough
reading for both of us. Hmmm.) In sum, I typified the
over-educated, over-prepared parent it’s all too easy to make
fun of.
As
the baby kept growing, I kept trekking to the ob-gyn, and then,
toward the end, to the teaching hospital where she was to be born.
They would check her and check me, hoping for some movement, some
change, but her due date came and went. Finally, at the last visit,
the nurse said, “I
think we should induce labor. She’s running out of space.
Someone
told me to
contact my husband and ask him to bring my overnight bag, and they
took me to the ‘birthing room’ I had requested. The
nurses took my vitals and the doctor on call, a member of the ob-gyn
practice I had never met, came to start the Pitocin. He did a cursory
check, then jauntily told the nurses, call
me when you can see her eyes, and
hurried out the door.
If
all was well, why, then, did the beeping monitor, which never seemed
to be in the right place, indicate fetal distress? Why did the nurse
mutter over and over, come
on baby; come on baby?
Why was the idea of a Caesarian floated? Why did I have to be moved
from the quiet, dimly lit ‘birthing room’ to the bright,
sterile operating room with a neo-natal team on standby? Why did my
beautiful baby come out blue and not breathing? Why were her APGAR
scores so low?
All
these questions were put aside when Lacey was finally brought to me
to begin nursing – which she did with no trouble at all. And
once we brought her home, other than a brief bout of jaundice, a few
rectal suppositories to get things moving, and saggy new-baby skin,
she seemed just fine. She ate well, had no illnesses, made eye
contact, and babbled; in short, did all the things healthy newborns
are supposed to do. We named her after my mother’s maternal
grandmother, Lydia Lacey Bunnell Mowry. In fact, her name has been
used in my grandmother’s family since at least the 1600s when
that part of my family came to North America; there’s even a
Laceyville near where my grandmother grew up. But that long, strong
“motherline”
was not a talisman against life’s slings and arrows.
Lacey
seemed quieter than other babies. She didn’t interact with the
world quite as much or as intently. Compared to other children her
age she seemed to be a little slower to develop, not quite so clever
or talented. I loved her without reservation, but couldn’t help
wondering if something was “wrong.” At her two-year
checkup, her (first) pediatrician, not the world’s most
sensitive doctor, proclaimed her “iffy,” and we began to
seriously consider whether she needed to be evaluated. To make a long
story a little shorter, around her third birthday – which was
also, perhaps not so coincidentally, when her father moved out –
testing revealed that she had numerous delays and challenges. I was,
of course, distraught and began the on-going process of trying to
figure out what was going on with her and why.
The first
thought, suggested by my divorce lawyer, was that there had been
medical neglect or malpractice during her birth that had led to her
“problems.” I also worried that I had not done the right
things during pregnancy – there was that 15-minute hot tub
soak, after all – or that I was too old or that I should have
asked the blasé and frequently absent delivery-room doctor for
a Caesarian instead of insisting on a vaginal birth. This testing and
worrying and guessing went on for many years until I finally gave in
and accepted that she is who she is.
These
revelations have inevitably led me to questions of free will and
personal responsibility. I have come to believe that the world is
often not a very fair place. As someone who was born White,
middle-class, and able-bodied, that is, with most of the attributes
that set a person living in the Western world on course for a
promising life, my awareness of the crapshoot that spells a life
trajectory might never had occurred to me had it not been for my
daughter’s birth and life. I probably would have continued on
my merry way believing, as so many favored folks do, that I have made
my way in life solely by my own hard work, my fortitude, my good
character. That’s the easy thing to believe when you’re
“successful.” That’s the comfortable thing to think
when you don’t want to acknowledge privilege and its converse,
disadvantage.
Who Lacey
is no longer allows me that option. I have been forced to confront
the knowledge that no matter how much I love her, no matter how hard
I try, no matter how hard she tries, she will
always be who
she is. And, and…that’s a good thing. She is now 15 and
is a lovely young woman. She’s an excellent reader, a decent
singer, a social butterfly, and a caring person. She loves ice
skating, dancing, music, animals, and her mother, thank God. Yes, she
will probably always struggle with math concepts. Yes, she is often a
little slower than others to get a joke or to respond appropriately.
She will likely never be a scholar, never understand social cues as
well as most others do, never find life easy. But this does not mean
she’s not a worthy human being. She deserves love and accolades
and successes as we all do. If she is seen – and treated –
as a person who is able, strong, and rich in potential, rather than a
person who is disabled, who is “less than,” she will
shine, and the world will be a better place for her being in it.
My life
was changed on the day my daughter was born in ways too numerous to
count and too all-encompassing to fully describe. I have had to learn
to swim without the guidance of lane lines, and I am grateful.
Contact
Leigh (Unless
you
type
the
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