An Open Letter to My Maternity Ward Roommate
Dear Maternity Ward Roommate,
I remember, ridiculously, being worried about the sushi I'd had delivered to the hospital right after giving birth — all that soy sauce, guzzled in the recovery room as I waited for my overnight room assignment. My baby boy had been born healthy and squalling and had "pinked right up" as the nurses called it. And after nine long months of fretting, I let my mind indulge that most superficial of female fears as my giddy husband cleaned up our take-out containers: bloating. Swollen ankles from too much salt.
My nipples weren't raw and scabbed yet; the stitches down below hadn't started stinging. I hadn't yet fought with my husband or my mother. Or wept on the subway as I returned, too soon, to work. And the baby? He was a little maki himself, rolled up snug in the hospital's flannel swaddling blankets. "Go have dinner with the grandparents," I told my husband. "Go get a good night's sleep. I'm fine here on my own."
Finally, they gave me my assignment, the bed by the window. Another victory, and so far, no roommate either.
The day had been terrifying, and then euphoric, and now finally dark and peaceful and pleasantly numb. I breathed in the antiseptic hospital air, alone. Or, alone except for my baby. Maybe I'd never be alone again the whole rest of my life. Wasn't that what I'd wanted?
I woke a couple of hours, or maybe minutes, later, to a cry, and startled alert with a burst of adrenaline and panic. And then a deep ache through my belly from the effort. But, roommate, that was your baby crying, behind the curtain that divided us, not mine. He sounded a bit like a cat. Piercing. Then there were more cries, adult ones, and yours too, I think. More people, lights on, no attempt at quiet. There was weeping and anger, and laughter, and soothing voices that sounded like the tone someone might use while stroking your hair.
In the moment, I wished for quiet. If I'm honest, I felt a wave of exasperation as I closed my eyes on the other side of the curtain. And then suddenly, I understood too much. Something was wrong over there, something that defied the late hour and our mutual need for rest.
The visitors came and they came and they came. They came with food smells and cell phone calls and rustling of papers what felt like all night long. I drifted asleep again, awake again, and asleep some more. The toilet flushed. A machine beeped. We slept.
In the morning, as the sun streamed in the dirty window and beamed across my sleeping baby, I realized: You were gone. Taken away to some other room, some other place where the sicker babies go.
I never saw your face.
But eight years later, you're still with me. At first — and this is awful — I wondered about you with great curiosity and pity. But then, quickly, motherhood was harder than I'd imagined, harder than I'd planned for. People wanted to help and I refused. They offered their food, their advice, their presence. The baby's head left sweat marks on my shirt from so much closeness. Thank you notes piled up, half-written, unmailed.
It took me years to figure out what you learned that first night we become mothers.
We need people — with all of their noise, and intrusion, and meddling and love — to help us mother. Out of necessity, you let all those people into your shock that night. Out of instinct, you loved your son, just exactly the same way I loved mine. I wish I'd figured that out sooner, that we're all the same. But I'm so grateful to the memory of that night with you for helping me learn, eventually, that no mother should ever be alone. That as parents, we must accept that stroke of kindness on our heads, if not for ourselves, for our children, who need us to. I hope your heart and your home are full and loud, and messy, like mine.
With love,
Lauren
Lauren Smith Brody is the founder of The Fifth Trimester, a company that helps businesses and parents improve workplace culture, and the author of The Fifth Trimester: The Working Mom's Guide to Style, Sanity, and Big Success After Baby (Doubleday).
This is part of a special series, "Thank You, Mom," highlighting letters of gratitude from celebrities and notable writers leading up to Mother's Day. To view the full collection, which will be added to throughout the month of May, go here.
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