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The Transformation by Catherine Fulks I knew immediately when Chandler was conceived. Some people say that's impossible, but I knew. When the pregnancy test came back positive, I was estatic. My husband was elated, but very surprised. I had had a miscarriage just a few weeks earlier, and we were still grieving the loss of that child. So this time, we were cautiously optimistic. I also knew I would have a boy. It was just a feeling I had. Something told me this little creature who told me on a regular basis that my internal organs were invading HIS personal space was a boy. My best friend accompanied me to the ultrasound which confirmed what I already knew. Chandler cooperated when she asked about gender. From the start, he was never shy of the camera. I was never what anyone could possibly construe as being "maternal." In fact, I really didn't like children very much. Actually, I looked at them with a great deal of disdain. They were loud, noisy, smelly, annoying, and exasperating. Some girls dream about getting married and having a family. I dreamt about a medical career--ALONE. Marriage? Possibly. Children? NEVER. I was always a few points long on the selfish scale. I wanted what I wanted, and I didn't want to consider anyone else. Then I got married and got pregnant. I did not enjoy my pregnancy, as many women do. The "morning" sickness that many women suffer during the first trimester was "all day and all night" sickness for me, and lasted the full thirty nine weeks of my pregnancy. I had several complications, including pregnancy induced hypertension, a low-lying placenta which caused bleeding throughout the pregnancy, an almost one hundred pound weight gain, and horrible migraines. The longer I was pregnant, the more I believed my initial beliefs about motherhood were correct: it was not for me. Toward the end of my thirty-seventh week, my blood pressures skyrocketed, and my obstetrician ordered me to bedrest. The first day or two, it was actually quite nice. While the rest of my classmates were getting up before 5 am to get to clinicals on time, I slept until noon. I watched Oprah and talked on the telephone. But the longer I laid on the couch, the more restless I became. I started thinking about my own stressful childhood, and wondered how I could give my child a different one. I thought about how I was going to learn to keep my inherited hot temper under control. I wondered how I could possibly expect to raise a healthy, well-adjusted child when I hadn't ever even been able to keep a plant alive for more than three weeks. I became horribly depressed. Then, on the Monday of my thirty-ninth week, my obstetrician decided my blood pressure was getting too high to risk my being pregnant any longer, and admitted me to labor and delivery for an induction. With much fear and trepidation, I trudged across the street, with my husband bursting with excitement beside me. I had the sudden realization that when I went home, I'd have to take a CHILD home with me. A CHILD. One of those loud, noisy, smelly, annoying, and exasperating critters would be occupying the same living space as I was, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. FOREVER. Twenty nine hours later, my labor had not progressed. I was tired, cranky, and I hurt. My baby was showing signs of distress, and the decision was made to proceed with a ceasarian section. Great, I thought. Not only am I already miserable, now they're going to cut me open to take this stubborn child out of my belly. At that point, though, the thought of about thirty hours of sleep, followed by an enormous meal caused me to heartily agree to the surgery. My husband signed the papers while I was prepped, and away we went to the OR. They didn't have to tell me when they pulled him out. I knew. All of a sudden, I could breathe. Those of you who have had children know what I mean. I hadn't realized how short of breath I had been until that very moment. "Oh, my god, I can BREATHE!" I exclaimed. The operating room was immediately filled with laughter, and at that very moment, I heard the loudest, most piercing, most beautiful cry in the world. And then it hit me: as I was taking my first post-pregnancy breath, and marvelling in the wonderful feeling it had given me, my son was taking HIS first breath outside my body, and feeling a new sensation as well. At that moment, my son was born, and I was reborn as a mother. I immediately started to cry. As they lifted him up over the curtain to show me the red-faced, squirming, slimy, loud individual that had just been evicted from my womb, all the fear, reservation, worry, anger, and selfishness I'd been harboring for twenty two years dissolved into the purest love and joy I had ever known. And it all happened within the span of one breath. Chandler will be two years old in a couple of weeks. The old "curse" your mother gave you, "I hope you have a child just like you," usually stated in a moment of exasperation, WORKS. He is a smart, ornery, curious child, into everything, and without fear. He is a running, talking, jumping, Teletubbies loving, Sesame Street watching, whirling dervish with boundless energy. I wouldn't have it any other way. And I love to watch him breathe.
Catherine Fulks, R.N.
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