I feel your rawness and regret before I even pull back the curtain to move you to your labor room. You are timid. Jumpy like a beaten puppy. I walk cautiously to you as you tear at the stretcher during a contraction. The color palette of bruises on your body give me a glimpse of your broken story. One I'm sure you want desperately to numb again as you slip down this mountain of your last high.
"I'm your nurse tonight."
You won't look me in the eyes, but you confess your illicit drug use as I sit perched on the stool next to you. "How often? How much? When was the last time?" I wish you knew how brave you are right now. How many mothers I wish were strong enough to strip down to the truth in these hospital beds.
Your apologies flood the air as the contractions crash in and out of your abdomen. You mean them. I know a very real, raw part of you, wanted the strength to stay away from the meth you abused this entire pregnancy. Desire isn't always strong enough.
You are judged. By yourself more than those of us you have surrendered to receive medical care from. Trust me. I know you saw some of those scrubs ignoring you, eye rolling, and shame talking about your choices in the middle of your remorse filled room. But what you missed, as you recoiled under your sheets in all that shame, is me quieting them. You didn't see my eyes warn them in your defense.
I am not here to judge you. I try to make your room a safe space. Maybe the only safe space you've ever known. We all are artists of bad choices. Numb our stories in destructive ways. I have numbed mine in ways you'll never know. Our vices are just different.
I help you deliver a little boy into this unfair world. Witness your courage when I call you sternly by name, and tell you he needs you to get him out of your belly in that last push. Peer into those small windows of your courage and see fragmented, sober pieces of you. Maybe one day you'll see them too.
He is born wild, wet, screaming. His hands clenched tight mimic your own. You cry in unison. I place his tiny pink body against your heaving, bare chest. You chant "I love you" as tears roar down your cheeks. Most do not believe your words. I do: you're signing custody over to his adoptive parents tomorrow.
We are all love's teachers,
A Cool Grandma's Cool Granddaughter
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