05/13/2020
I never wanted to be a martyr.
As my first mother’s day came and went, I thought about the way mothers and martyrs are so often combined, like the two tropes cannot exist without one another, feeding each other. It horrified me, before Amisadai, to think about a self-inflicted martyrdom for the sake of my future children.
Misa had a stroke during childbirth and after much struggle, arrived silent in this world; the first moments of motherhood were the worst moments of my entire life. She was immediately placed onto a hypothermic pad in an attempt to save her brain from further damage, a miracle of modern medicine. Our whole futures hung in the balance in the weeks after she was born and I was so, so cold. No matter where I was: under blankets in the hospital, being held by Tim in the NICU parent room, walking a well-tread path straight to her side, I was so cold. The hours felt so long.
One night during her first week of life, my shivers suddenly ceased. It was like stepping into a warm bath. My body released its grip and the chills were gone.
It wasn’t until days later that we realized: that was the same hour her doctors began to warm her, too. Across the hospital, my body mimicking what my little six pound girl was experiencing floors away as she slowly came to life.
Now I understand it. That motherhood isn’t a martyrdom, it’s just that I would shed my skin if my daughter needed shelter. It’s the joy of loving something more than your own breath. Misa, we are each other’s: if we are cold, we are cold together. If we are warm, we are warm together.
(Kendra K Photo)
