Every birth has a story, ripe for the telling, though the tale varies with the perspective of the teller. The closest view belongs to the mother; it is her body, after all, that houses the new life, she who evicts her burgeoning occupant. Spin the lens 180º and it is the father’s story. Once removed from the action, he nonetheless has the most direct view. Broaden the angle, overlay a generational déjà vu, and it becomes the grandmother’s story. She observes, like the father, from the outside, but she feels, like the mother, from the inside. She is the non-impartial witness.
This birth story, told through the grandmother’s eyes, is mine.
After teaching my yoga class this morning, I find I have several voicemails from my son, Jeremy, whose wife is rapidly approaching her due date. I’ve been waiting for this call, prepared to drop everything and go for the birth of their first child; my first grandchild. And now it’s time.
As I pack with shaking hands, I think how short a time ago it was that I hastily threw clothes in a suitcase in hopes of making it to a hospital in time. To say goodbye to my dying mother-in-law. The circle of life plays out; simple, but profound. One life ends and another begins.
It’s 5 p.m. before I get on the road, with nearly 500 miles to cover. For at least a few hours, the Bluetooth in my car feeds me the comfort of my mother’s voice from far away as we reminisce about Jeremy’s birth 27 years earlier, at which she was present. We share incredulity over our advancing roles: from mother to grandmother, from grandmother to great.
And the rest of the night, speeding along the highway, I’m alone in the dark with my thoughts. A grandbaby? Surreal. This grandbaby? Miraculous.
Early in the pregnancy, Jeremy texted me an ultrasound image of a little peanut, following moments later with a phone call.
“Look at that BABY!” I squealed.
My exuberance was met with silence on the other end.
When my son found his voice, he choked out the words, “Mom, there might be something wrong with the baby.”
From miles away my heart broke. The pregnancy could terminate at any time, they were told, and if it did go to term, there was a high probability of chromosomal abnormalities. Testing would yield more information, but ultimately, there would be no definitive answers until the baby grew. Or didn’t.
We waited. We hoped and prayed.
Through the second trimester, much to our relief, evidence of the congenital defect diminished. Further testing ruled out Trisomy 13, 18, and 21. And confirmed it was a boy. They named him Ashton.
As delivery drew closer, it appeared he was in the clear. Except for one small thing: the slight possibility of a heart defect. The parents weren’t worried, but I remained guarded.
Tonight, though, I’m jazzed like a kid on Christmas Eve and all I …read more
Source: More Fitness