Lying alone in my bed after the delivery, it was almost like nothing had happened. The lights were dimmed and everything was quiet. The only evidences of the delivery were an IV and my shaking legs, an effect of the epidural. The baby was in another wing, though it was hard to believe she was really there. Just like my first sonogram, I knew the baby was real (the picture was hard to deny), but my reality would not accept that changes were imminent.
When Tim finally returned, I said, "Can you believe we had a baby?" Nope, he couldn't either. The doctor (or was it the nurse? I was still under the influence, mind you) came in to ask if we'd like the baby to have her first of two Hepatitis B shots here in the hospital.
My reality ran away screaming, "Changes are here--run! Every self-centered creature for herself!" I thought, "I don't even know what Hepatitis is! How should I know if a baby needs a Hepatitis B shot or not? Why don't you just ask her paren--oh." All I could say was, "What do most people do?" Right then I knew the baby was better off staying with the nursing staff for the next 18 years than coming home with me.
After an hour, they moved us to a new room. A damage control nurse came in to tell me what parts of me would be unrecognizable for a time, what parts would never be the same, and what parts could go either way. She left, Tim fell asleep, and again I was alone with my thoughts. I wondered if the baby was scared. She was in a new world with strangers--did she wonder what happened to me? Did she care?
I fell asleep without even trying. I woke up, eyes wide. It had been five hours since we'd seen the baby. It was time for a face-to-face meeting.
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