Hard Work Makes a Mother

I was scrolling though my photos to see if I could find a cute picture of me and the kids for Mother’s Day. I came across this gem.

That is my foot four days after having Liam.

He was in the NICU. I was recovering from a C-section. We were staying at Ronald McDonald House, and our two year-old was up for a visit. I was desperately pumping milk and bringing it to the hospital at all hours.

My feet had been like this for a few days. “It’s normal to have some swelling after a section,” I was told. I decided to take my blood pressure. 170/100. Jon called. “Go to Emergency right now. You might be admitted, and it won’t be to the same hospital as your baby.”

We sat in the U of A ER for hours. I sobbed. A puddle of hormones and exhaustion and every emotion you can imagine. During triage, I explained that my baby was upstairs, “Can I just go up and be with him, and you can call me when it’s my turn to be seen?” I could see the nurses exchange worried glances as they took my blood pressure, “Your story is very concerning. We’re going to take good care of you, but you have to stay here.” They were kind to me and showed me a private area where I could pump.

We were surrounded by very sick people. Coughing. Puking. The last place you want to be in the middle of a pandemic. Jon brought me Starbucks, but I couldn’t bare to take my mask down to eat or drink.

A man in coveralls, his arm spurting blood, was bandaged up and told to find a seat. There were none so he crouched down on the floor. And waited. We watched him leave after an hour or so, saying, “I don’t think it’s that bad,” to the charge nurse.

We listened to muffled announcements over the PA system, “STARS is on the roof. Trauma team respond.” A young boy was rolled in on a stretcher. From what we could tell his family had been in a car accident. He was in the hallway waiting for a room. Blood curdling screams of, “Mama, mama, mama!” hung in the air. His brother stroked his forehead, and his father just sat staring blankly with his head in his hands.

I pumped in the private space and went through screening to go back to the NICU. They gave me an orange sticker each time I went back and forth. One said “Visitor.” The other “Patient.” My shirt was covered in stickers. The escalator was shut off for the night so I walked up it slowly. My incision burning, my swollen ankles feeling about to burst, my hands clutching the rail, and one tiny bottle of milk. It was a long walk. Jon offered to go, but I needed to see my baby.

It was finally my turn to be seen. Another IV. A bunch of tests. A diagnosis. Post-partum preeclampsia. I already knew because I’d had it after my first baby. A prescription. A discharge. Another slow walk up the escalator and through a maze of hallways. Whispers in a dimly lit hospital room. Quick snuggles. Back to Ronald McDonald House. A midnight call, “We need more milk.” A 4:00 am call, “He’s hungry again.”

Motherhood has not been an easy road for me. I know I’m not alone in this. I remember after Brenna was born bingeing “Call the Midwife.” The old, crusty one said, “Hard work makes a mother. We like to think something magical happens at birth, and for some it does. But the real magic is keeping on when all you want to do is run.” I paused it, and wrote it down because I thought it was so true.

I’ll never forget climbing those escalator stairs with little bottles of milk in my hands. I was scared. And exhausted. And it hurt. And nothing was going to stop me.

Hard work makes a mother.