15 September, 2002
The worst night yet for aches, pains, difficulty turning over and lack of sleep. I woke at 4.22 a.m. with the conviction the Braxton Hicks (false labour pains) had changed nature and were stronger. Fortunately, I remembered to breathe.
Some people dismiss keeping journals, however when you’re looking back at one of the major events of your life, after a period of fourteen years has elapsed, and you think, I’ll look that one up, you realize the wisdom in keeping a record of every day.
You have notes on the milestones in your life. This forms a precious record of your thoughts and words at that moment in time. Not sanitised by the mind, not romanticised by distance, but the fresh, raw “moment” captured.
At this particular point in my life, 14 years ago, I was newly married to my second husband, expecting my second child. My first born child had been delivered when I was a teenager, under crisis circumstances. I’d always had the dream of getting to experience a planned pregnancy, in a family situation.
15 September, 2002
It was great to have my husband here, because I felt like a ‘space cadet.’ My head was spacey, my belly felt firm like a melon, my whole body seemed to be vibrating, the cells skittering. Throughout the day, the contractions fluctuated in time and intensity, sometimes bearable, sometimes unbearable. I didn’t feel afraid. Rather, I felt joy; at the “second chance” I’d been given.
Whew. This excerpt takes me back so clearly to this day.
After a long, difficult and traumatic birth, I remember, I climbed from the birthing pool into bed, at last. My husband and I waited for the baby to be cleaned up and examined.
I wrote in my journal, Instead of our emotions rushing into euphoria, we both felt there was something wrong with the look of his face. Our midwife said she had to tell us, she thought our baby might have Down Syndrome and our emotions rushed into shock and fear instead. We held him and looked at him. He was born at 1.26 a.m.
My own words bring it all back so clearly.
I sit here shedding a few fresh tears at the memory of how devastated we were at the time.
The day followed in a blur of visitors, texting, breastfeeding, and talking, and at the end of the day everyone left.
16 September, 2002
After dinner, I wrapped Sam in blankets and lay him on the bed in front of me, so I could sit with my legs stretched out on either side of him.
Watching my baby and stroking him, I began to truly connect for the first time and feel my heart start to break free of its bonds to stretch towards him.
At 9 pounds 11 ounces, and long-bodied with it, he was a lovely plump size. And his nature was beautiful, compared to the other babies I could hear wailing and crying, Sam never cried at all, he radiated a gentle sweetness.
From that moment on, Sam and I began our mother-son bond, a connection that has steadily built with every day.
It has been a long and interesting road these last fourteen years with my middle child, my special boy.
We went from the grief and devastation of the early days, to the dawning realisation we’d been graced with a little Buddha in our midst.
This masterful character who has a heart as pure as driven snow, a spirit as unbreakable as steel, and a wisdom that is as earthy and real and grounded as you’re ever going to meet, has changed us and our lives for the better, forever. None of us in Samuel’s immediate family or even range of influence altogether will ever be the same again.
Little did we know, in our “green” state back in 2002, the miracle that had taken place on that day.
On the 16th September, at 1.26 a.m an angel was born to us. And, we had been forever blessed.
16 September, 2016
I woke this morning and my first thought was of my middle child, my wonderful son, Samuel, who turns fourteen today.
Happy Birthday, my darling son
You are perfect in every way
You teach me every day how to slow down, how to listen and be happy
I love you!
Talk to you later.
Keep on Creating!
Yvette K. Carol
The hero’s redemption (and ultimate victory) hinges on their transcending their self-concern. And it rarely happens unless the writer brings the hero to the point of despair. ~ PJ Reece
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