October 29, 2013

To my dearest Solana,

Let me tell you about the day you were born. 

It was a Monday, 9:21, exactly a year ago.  It was a day earlier than planned.  I was asked, you see, by Dr. Manahan to choose a delivery date when it became clear that I was going to have a C section.  At first I didn’t want to choose, I said I wanted to wait to go into labor to make sure that you were ready to come out.  He said with his usual charming sarcasm “Don’t be a martyr na. It will really be easier for everybody if you just choose.”  So, wanting to make sure that I arm you with whatever is necessary to help you succeed in life, I quickly consulted google on ‘lucky dates to give birth in 2012, fengshui.’  October 30’s luck was off the charts. 

You probably didn’t think you needed to be that lucky because you chose to come out on a still very lucky day, October 29. 

I woke up at 4 to pee.  I panicked at the sight of blood on the tissue and immediately woke up papa and called Dr. Manahan.  We were told to go the delivery room of St. Lukes.  We did. 

When we got there, the nurses strapped a thing on my stomach that could monitor you.  Your heart rate would drop at regular intervals.  Not good.  A little blood was still coming out of me.  Not good.  At around 6:30, Dr. Manahan decided to deliver you that day at 9am.

Despite the weirdness, confident that everything was okay, your papa and I started getting very VERY excited.

We started calling family, friends, officemates to tell them that it was all about to happen.  I had a stupid smile on my face I couldn’t get rid of.    

A little before 9 am, I was wheeled into the delivery room.  They were just going to call Papa when it was time for your grand entrance na.  Or is it exit? 

I was given a GA, was shaved, and cut open.  I heard Dr. Manahan say what a big myoma I had.  It was the first thing he saw. By the way, they say that only 30% of women who have myomas are able to conceive.  Arnt you amazing?

Papa finally came in with his ipod and speakers  waiting for the doctors go signal to play your song when you were about to come out.  The Beatles’ Here Comes the Sun was the first song you ever heard anak.  You’re welcome.

After a few seconds, the doctor said two words that all mothers are scared to hear  – cord and coil.  I closed my eyes and held my breath. “Your baby had a cord coil but she’s okay now, “ Doc said.  Maybe that’s why her heart rate was dropping. I think I heard him explain. 

“And her eyes are open,” he said amused as he pointed it out to the rest of his team.  And that’s how I remember seeing you for the first time, slimy and wailing with your eyes open.  They put you on top of my chest and I said “Hi baby” and I thanked God for you.

I started talking.  To everyone.   A lot.  Apparently a no no.  But I had a lot to say that evidently could not wait.

At the recovery room, I sang to you what I decided was going to be my song for you, Eraserhead’s with a smile.  Over and over I sang.  Eager to build the bond right off the gate. 

Whether or not my non-stop talking and singing inadvertently caused the medical disaster that was waiting for me after your birth is still up for debate.  I’m not sure it did.  But yes, if I had to do it all over again, maybe I would have just shut up and enjoy the quiet of those first few hours with you in my arms.  I’ll have the rest of our lives to sing to you anyway, whether you like it or not.

I don’t know how much of what happened in the next few weeks affected you.  The chaos in the room when mama had chills when the fever shot up, the inability of mama to breastfeed you, the need to drink from a cup at 3 days old, the inability of mama to hold you, the week that you had to be away from papa and mama because mama had to recover, the fragile emotional state of mama that sometimes made her so sad those first couple of months.  I hope, with every fiber of my being, that none of those things left a lasting mark on you. 

Instead I pray that what you got from that whole thing was how lucky you are.  Lucky that you had Abuela and ninang Guada who took such good care of you those days that papa and mama couldn’t, lucky that you had ninang Claude’s milk to nourish you when you were hungry, lucky to have had a steady stream of visitors  who showered you with hugs and kisses when you were deprived of your parent’s hugs and kisses. 

I will never forget what Dr. Manahan told us when we went to visit him a month after “Cherish each other,” he said.  “After all the both of you had gone through, you are both lucky to be here.  Cherish each other.”

I love you. 

Always,

Mama