Regrets, I've had a few (2012) ~with apologies to Frank Sinatra Leigh M. O'Brien   © Copyright 2024 by Leigh M. O'Brien

Image by Aline Ponce from Pixabay

So when the baby began running out of space and labor was finally induced, why was there fetal distress? Why were all those medical personnel rushing in and out of the room? I could hear the faint, separate beeps of the heart-rate monitor. Why, then, did the nurse keep repeating, “Come on, baby. Come on!”? Why did I have to be moved from the lovely birthing room to the harshly lit, antiseptic operating room with a neo-natal team on standby? Why did my beautiful baby girl come out blue and not breathing? And, after she finally did start breathing, why were her APGAR scores so low?

All these questions were put aside when Hannah was 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 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. But it soon became apparent that Hannah was quieter than other babies. She didn’t interact with the world quite as much or quite as intently. Compared to other children her age she seemed to be a little slower to develop, not quite so clever or able. I loved her without reservation, but couldn’t help wondering: Was something wrong?

Still, when during Hannah’s second-year checkup her (then) pediatrician, not the world’s most sensitive doctor, proclaimed her “iffy,” my husband and I were devastated. No one wants to believe their child is “less than,” regardless of the evidence. But I had to face facts and so began to consider whether she needed to be evaluated for possible disabilities. To make a long story a little shorter, just before her third birthday testing revealed that she had numerous delays and challenges. (Not so incidentally, and apparently not so atypically when children have so-called “special needs,” it was at about this time that her father moved out, so it was left to me to deal with all this.) 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 perhaps medical neglect or malpractice during her birth had led to my daughter’s “problems,” and I should consider filing a lawsuit. She recommended a couple of local lawyers who specialized in such matters, and I met with one in his seedy downtown office. “Well,” he said, “for $1,000 I’ll take it on, but I have to tell you that these cases are hard to prove, especially against that hospital.” I gathered some more information, talked to another not-especially-encouraging lawyer, and decided, given my financial circumstances, to put the decision off – for years. Then, shortly before we moved out of state, I called another attorney who told me I was, and I quote, “SOL,” since my daughter had just turned 11. I finally had to give up on this idea.

Another frequent thought was that I had not done the right things during pregnancy – there was that 15-minute hot tub soak, after all, and I did have a little breakthrough bleeding once when I was riding my bike before I even knew I was pregnant – or that I was too old to produce a healthy child. Why did I wait so long to get pregnant? Was my career that important to me? Could I not have married younger?

But my main regret is not having asked the blasé and frequently absent delivery-room doctor (his comment to the nurses as he strode from the birthing room: “don’t call me until you see her eyes”) for a Caesarian instead of insisting on a vaginal birth. I should have been less focused on doing the natural thing and more focused on doing whatever it took to make sure my baby was healthy. Why didn’t I respond to the nurse’s concerns? Why didn’t I ask the doctor to stay in the room – or at least provide more information? And what of her father? Couldn’t he have spoken up? Shouldn’t I have insisted he do so? Would things have turned out differently for Hannah? Would she have ended up a typically developing child instead of one who needed special educational services throughout her compulsory school years?

I wish I had been less reliant on medical “expertise” and more reliant on mother instinct. I wish I had been more realistic, less concerned about doing things the way I had planned, and more aware of the many possible complications lurking. I wish Hannah’s father, instead of falling asleep in the beige plastic chair next to my labor-room bed, had taken on the (older, male, very-confident) doctor.

I obviously experienced – and continue to experience – what has been called mother blame: No matter what was or is wrong, I was, and am, often assumed to be responsible for the problem. Because Hannah’s “special needs” had no clear etiology, perhaps I had caused her delays somehow. I thought this and others, including her father and my mother, apparently thought this as well. In ways both overt and implied, I was told that if I only were stricter or expected more of her or made her do many things herself, maybe everything would be okay. Maybe her disabilities would disappear. Maybe then they could be proud of who she was instead of embarrassed by her.

The passage of time has forced me to give up these “what ifs,” and has forced me to stop second-guessing the decisions I made. I have had to confront the knowledge that no matter how much I might want to turn back the clock, and 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. Hannah just turned 19 and is a lovely young woman who recently got her learner’s permit – on her first try, thank you very much – and is heading off to a two-year college this fall.

She’s an excellent reader, an accomplished singer, and a caring person. She loves ice skating and dancing, hanging out with her friends, animals, and her mother, thank god. Yes, she will probably always struggle with math. 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 figure things out easily. But this does not mean she’s not a worthy – in fact, a wonderful – human being.

So yes, I’ve had a few regrets. But, in the end, I wouldn’t change a thing. Living with Hannah slowly but surely helped me lose the belief that I can always control what happens. Living with Hannah forced me to give up the idea that life is predictable; that good things always come to those who plan carefully and work hard. Living with Hannah has taught me to appreciate individual variation and to love her with every fiber of my being.

When I took the plunge and became a mother, I thought I could see the path to the end of the pool clearly delineated by thick black lines. But I have learned to swim without lane lines and I am blessed.