Iskra
It had taken me a little time, but I had mastered enough English to manage the hospital staff in Istanbul. I had researched every possible outcome of the birth with one goal in mind.
To remain awake at all times.
The absolute dread of waking to an empty belly and no child gave me palpitations in the months before this moment. No mother should ever have to face that horror. I had faced it once in the worst possible way. I would not face it again.
Here I lay, full term and in labour, trusting the staff around me to keep my baby alive.
No. I was here. I would make this happen.
I asked for help to sit up, then told them I needed to walk.
An older nurse nodded in approval and took my arm without hesitation.
She stayed with me the entire time—this woman who owed me nothing, who simply understood what was needed.
I could have wept. We walked until the contractions made walking impossible.
But it worked.
I was almost fully dilated.
Gravity had helped Runa find her way.
Whenever I felt I was about to tear the metal bars from the bed I thought only of her. Only of the tiny face I so desperately needed to see. The face I had been talking to through my skin for months, the one that kicked when I was still and quieted when I moved.
The nine months had passed too quickly.
As the nurse shouted for me to push, I glanced down and saw them ready. Waiting.
I wasn’t ready to lose her from my body. Fear gripped me—the specific cold fear of a woman who knew exactly what loss felt like and could not survive it again—until an almighty contraction made the decision for me.
And I pushed.
I pushed with everything I had. For Runa. For myself. For the son I never saw.
There was a flurry of movement.
Then a cry.
A fine, lusty cry.
One of the nurses moved my top aside; the other placed Runa in my arms. I pulled the blue cloth over her tiny shoulder as she pushed her hands back and forth, protesting her new environment with the energy of someone who had already decided she had opinions about it.
Her tiny nose was flattened from her journey and her eyes were closed tight. There was no mistaking the thick tufts of near-black hair crowning her head—once dried it would lighten, the way his did, the observation arriving before I could stop it and sitting there quietly.
I inspected every inch of her. Her tiny ears.
The shape of her hairline. The soft curve of her cheek.
When I reached her arm my fingers trailed down it until I found her tightly clenched fist, and I never stopped whispering to her—telling her how loved she was, how long I had waited, how the world she had arrived in was difficult and beautiful and entirely survivable.
I knew. I was proof of it.
Then she opened her fist.
I gasped at her tiny nails. Each one more perfect than the last. And so long—impossibly long for something so new.
I held her hand and kissed it.
Not bad after nine months.
I kissed her forehead.
Not bad at all with no drugs.
I kissed her cheek.
The nurses came to clean up around us and I shook my head and begged for a little more time. They gave it without argument. Perhaps they understood. Perhaps they had seen enough births to know when a mother needed a moment that belonged only to her.
My beautiful baby girl rested on my chest.
She was alive.
She was here.
And she was mine.
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There was no work.
Home delivery from the supermarket.
My cute studio apartment meant close proximity to Runa.
And I was in heaven.
Baby heaven.
Yes, my vagina was torn to shreds and probably looked like the leftovers from a butcher’s shop. But I didn’t give a damn.
After three days in the hospital I was home with my baby. I had a feeling they kept me longer because they knew I was on my own.
But now it was Runa and me.
Every second of the day. I coordinated everything around her.
I knew there would come a day when I would need to sort out a routine, but right now I was her mama. We worked on her feeding and her latch until she began to find it quicker. It took time and tears on my part, but she took pity on me.
When those eyes opened my world was on fire.
And once she had finished feeding, those eyes would droop like a drunken old man’s. Her tiny bow lips would grow slack as she released my nipple.
I learned to breathe through the trauma of trimming her nails when she worked out how to rip her mittens off.
People said changing nappies was horrible, but for me it was confirmation that her tiny insides were working exactly as they should. I cherished every moment of wiping down her cutest little tushy.
Every discovery.
Every failure.
Every triumph.
It was ours.
Within weeks her eyes would track me wherever I went.
Her smile and those fists flying in the air gave me hope.
My darling girl would never be held down.
And as her mother, I would shoot first and ask questions later.