The Turn

One of the wonderful things about being a teacher is summer vacation.  But what many people don't know is that summer vacation is often filled with trainings for teachers.  Often, they are not particularly valuable, but I've just finished a writing workshop institute presented by Columbia University's Reading and Writing Project.  Absolutely fabulous.  While we learned to teach writing, we also had a chance to work on our own.  Here's a piece I wrote during that time.

The Turn

I leaned back on the uncomfortable exam table until I was flat on my back, exactly the position the doctors advise against when one is seven months pregnant.  The technician squirted the warm, viscous gel on my belly and began to move the sonogram wand around.

            “She’s still breech,” she announced. 

            I had been going to yoga class, practically living my life upside-down, trying to get this baby girl to turn head down.  My husband and I had been trying to get pregnant for three years, ever since Izabelle.  After more losses than I care to recall, we finally had a healthy pregnancy that seemed to be sticking.  But she was breech.  And I really didn’t want a C-section.  So I tried everything from inverted moves to playing music to shining a light at my belly. 

            “I know this is going to sound a little crazy,” said Sandy, my doula, “but let me suggest something.  You haven’t done anything to prepare for her.  Maybe this baby knows you’re not ready yet.”

            She was right.  We hadn’t decorated her room or washed her clothes or unpacked the new stroller we bought, even though our son begged for us to try it out.  Some voice in my head told me that if I didn’t acknowledge this baby, I’d be less anguished, less disappointed if something horrible happened. 

            So I invested.  That weekend, I bought a crib and asked my husband to put it together.  We got a changing table and I decorated the walls with butterfly and flower decals.  I washed her newborn clothes and put them in her closet.  As I folded those impossibly tiny pieces of clothing, I began to talk to her.

            “Baby girl, I have a story to tell you.  You had a sister, Izabelle Rhea, who once lived where you are now.  I was twenty-four weeks pregnant when I learned that her heart had stopped beating.  That was the most tragic day of my life and no one can explain why it happened.  I miss her so much but I’m so happy you have come to me.  You are not a replacement for your sister but you do complete our family.  With my age and all of the babies we have lost, doctors told me I’d never have another baby.  And yet, here you are.”  My face was wet with tears as I slowly and methodically ran my hands over my bulging belly.

            “So I’ve decided to name you Milagros Ziva, my brilliant miracle.  I love you so much already.  I’m looking forward to the moment when I can see your face and hold you close in my arms.”

            Something changed that weekend.  I suddenly felt lighter, like I could walk better, more comfortably.  I could also feel her hiccups lower in my abdomen.

            “That sounds about right,” my OB told me at our next appointment.  “Let’s see where she is.”

            And, there, on the sonogram, was my beautiful miracle, head down and ready to go.