Between Her Goodbye and His Hello
I think motherhood humbles you in ways you could never imagine. I still remember questioning my mother’s sanity when she would act overly obsessed with me and my brother. She would be consumed by our whereabouts 24×7, always anxious about putting food on our plates, showing up for us every single day, even when her body gave up. She was so publicly and embarrassingly in love with us that I vowed never to be like her. But losing her during pregnancy changed everything. It cracked something open in me. It’s only been three weeks since I gave birth, and I already find myself questioning my sanity; wondering if my newborn is crying in the adjacent room ‘cause of hunger while I sit here typing.
Ironically, there’s not a single moment when I don’t think of him. And I can’t help but stress about how fast he’s growing. Every day, as he curls up in bed, I try and measure how much he has grown. His perfectly carved feet that are softer than cotton, his fingers that twitch at the slightest touch. I know he won’t be this little tomorrow. To be honest, I already feel nostalgic for those first few hours following his birth — when he was swaddled comfortably next to me in the hospital bed, struggling to keep his eyes open. But he was so cosy and snug around us, feeling at home. As if his entire universe was just me and his father.
A few days after we were discharged, we returned to the hospital for our baby’s blood test. The phlebotomists refused to let us into the sampling room. They took our baby inside without us. We were furious, terrified even. How could we trust complete strangers with our newborn? Thankfully, my husband pushed his way in. My father and brother were outside with me.
Ten, nine, eight, seven … it took a few seconds, and I heard my baby crying. Loud. Unrelenting. I broke down. Tears rolled uncontrollably down my cheeks. That was the third time I became a mother.
The second was on day three at the hospital.
A team visited us for a photoshoot and casting of our little one’s hands and feet. At first, it felt like a sweet idea. But what unfolded broke us. The experience led us to wonder if we were even qualified to be parents. While we were collectively taking an imprint of his little foot, we struggled to support his fragile neck that suddenly tilted. For a terrifying moment, we almost lost grip of him. He kept crying relentlessly. It broke my heart. I started wondering if these activities were necessary at the cost of causing so much distress to our delicate baby, all for a keepsake we weren’t sure if we wanted anymore. The guilt lingered as we found ourselves choking with it. That was the second time.
The first time I became a mother was through the most clichéd of all experiences: Childbirth. The normalcy of it may have dulled its beauty and impact in writing. But the experience in itself holds so much weight that no retrospective and honest attempts at capturing the moment can ever do justice.
Turns out, our baby was in breech position. And I, as much as I would have wanted to avoid it, was also diagnosed with Gestational Diabetes. The foodie in me could practically never stay put with food restrictions. So C-section was certainly on the cards.
23rd June, 2025. 9 am. There I was, perfectly hiding my anxiety, staring at the door plate that read Operation Theatre Complex. This is where I would be examined. This is where I would be surgically dissected to do what countless women do every day. Honestly, I knew I would be fine. But the idea of having to get an incision through a perfectly functional body part was kind of terrifying.
My mind was functioning quite pragmatically, clinically, or rather, as an onlooker. It was a well-lit room. There were at least eight to ten of them engaged in their routine activities, probably for the thousandth time. I was aware that these practitioners and nurses knew their jobs like the back of their hands. For them, it was just another Monday. The entire episode, as it unfolded minute by minute, held no extraordinary thrill in their minds. For the record, I was amused at the thought of having so many heads utterly focused on me. What I wore, how I lay down, what my ECG showed, if I was feeling dizzy. When they made me lie down on the operating table, I felt like a solid experiment. Oddly enough, I think each one of us likes to be the protagonist of our own stories. This was mine.
I must have pleaded fifty times,
“Please ensure that you keep my glasses close. I’m afraid that my myopic condition will come in the way of me having a clear glance of my baby“.
I said it way too many times for each one of them to narrate this to anyone and everyone out of sheer judgment. But well, there I was, seemingly happy that one of the nursing staff had my glasses ready for the defining moment.
It didn’t take much time for me to arrive at my second plea. “Please keep me apprised of when you insert that life-threatening needle through my spine, or I’ll react in ways we’ll all regret.” The medical professionals were warned. And soon, I remember being told that they’re about to insert the anaesthesia-inducing needle through my spine. I braced for impact. I instantly started praying for my life. One of the staff held me down as if I were some prisoner trying to escape. Although I won’t deny that escaping the OT certainly did cross my mind.
Within seconds of getting those two needles into action, I was asked to hurry up and lie down, lest my legs be dysfunctional. Two white and green curtains were drawn through my chest, blocking me from what’s happening on the other side. And then, I was a puppet with cut strings. Stripped of agency.
I was paranoid when I could feel some pressure in my lower abdomen.
“Oh my God, I can feel you doing something. I am convinced the anaesthesia hasn’t started to function. Please don’t cut me yet.” I was screaming.
“Ma’am, calm down. You’ll feel a lot of pressure but no pain,” a nurse reassured me. I wasn’t convinced.
“Could you please stay next to me, just here beside my face? I need to see somebody,” I requested, rather begged.
“I’m here, don’t worry.” I was slightly relieved.
And the rest was history. They pricked me, pulled something out of me. It almost felt like they were waging war down there.
“This is the buttock! It’s the buttock”, my doctor declared, “Grab it first”. It was absurd, almost comical, hearing her describe a body part while I lay sliced open, paralysed from the chest down. My heart pounded like a war drum. But her voice had that rare, grounding calm, like a lighthouse in the chaos. Amidst the surgical clatter and the storm inside my chest, she stated it like a matter of fact.
“Get the breech towel… get the breech towel.” It felt like an action movie. They were doing something.
In that moment, I couldn’t help but pray to my mother. Losing her was hard enough. So at least from a parallel universe, she could bless my baby and ensure that he or she comes out well and thriving. I could feel shivers down my paralysed body. I wonder how. My heart was racing — trusting God, my mother, my doctor, and the nursing staff. In those few seconds, I was relearning to trust the universe after my recent loss. It was gruelling. Not the C-section, but the process of trusting again. I really wanted to trust everything. The process. Life. Despite being betrayed by it.
And then, I heard it. The first cry. My tears coincided with his.
Honestly, I thought I wouldn’t cry. Throughout my pregnancy, I was worried I wasn’t as connected to the baby. I couldn’t realise the maternal magic everyone talked about. But I failed to notice how, ever since I conceived, I have only ever tried to protect my baby at all costs. Even when it was hard. Even when I did not trust my own plans in life. Even when I knew God had other plans and we had no control. Even when I saw my mother swaddled in her shroud, with cotton up her nose, unrecognisable. I wanted to have our baby.
So when I heard the shrill, muffled cry, struggling to get past the amniotic fluid that sustained him for thirty-eight weeks, I knew. I was right at the threshold of the two worlds, between her goodbye and his hello, thankful that life could still offer some grace.
“Here you go, your cute little baby boy,” my doctor announced, placing him next to me. The lights were too blinding for his tender eyes, so he kept them closed.
And in that defining moment of our cries intermingling with each other, I became a mother for the first time.
