I woke up at 4 a.m. on July 9th, 2021, with the feeling that I was peeing. Instantly, I knew: my water had broken. I was 41 weeks and 3 days pregnant. I thought, “Today she’s coming.”
I got up and took a shower. Strangely, I was calm. Happy, but trying not to let anxiety take over. I woke Leo up and he asked if we should go to the hospital right away. I told him he could have his coffee calmly. There was no need to rush. I still believed I had some control over what was about to happen.
Cecília’s hospital bag was ready. Mine was almost ready. At 5:30 a.m., I texted my mom to let her know we were heading to the hospital. At 6 a.m., we left home. By 6:30, I was at the front desk saying my water had broken.
Paperwork. Questions. Blood pressure. Oxygen levels. They asked if I had eaten. I hadn’t. I thought it was better not to — as if that could prepare me for the unknown.
Then came the cervical exam.
My God.
That was when the real journey began. It hurt. A lot more than I expected. The doctor said I was about 2.5 centimeters dilated. I felt disappointed. I wanted to be at eight already. So naïve. I had no idea what was ahead.
The contractions started to build rhythm. Strong. Intense. I was admitted and taken to a room. They told me I could stay however I felt comfortable, take a hot shower, move around. I took a shower and the warm water helped — but only for seconds. The pain came like a wave rising from inside me, as if something was tearing me open from within. I roared. I felt embarrassed by my screams, but I couldn’t hold them back. It was a pain that invaded the soul.
That’s when I understood that labor was not a plan. It was a crossing.
The doctor offered analgesia. It could relieve the pain, but might slow things down. I didn’t think twice. I wanted relief. They took me to the anesthesiologist. On the way, I had two violent contractions. I grabbed onto a nurse as if she were an anchor and I was about to explode.
The anesthesia came. I waited for it to work. But the pain continued. Thirty minutes later, I still felt everything. Another exam: 5 centimeters. About seven hours had passed since I arrived at the hospital.
They told me to walk. To use the birthing ball. But something inside me shifted. Fear entered the room. And fear is quiet — but powerful.
I began to wonder if I could endure hours more of that. If I even wanted to keep gambling. I was tired. So tired.
They said I could choose a C-section.
I looked at Leo. He said, “I’m by your side.”
For a long time, I called that decision cowardice. Today I understand it was a limit. And recognizing your own limit is also a form of courage.
Everything moved quickly. Another anesthesia. A burning smell. A sudden emptiness in my belly. A voice saying, “Everything is fine.”
And then silence.
For a few seconds, I didn’t hear her cry. My heart stopped with it. Until it came — her cry.
I cried too. But I still don’t know if it was emotion, relief, despair, or a strange feeling of defeat. Maybe it was all at once. Maybe it was the realization that my life would never belong only to me again.
Then I saw her swollen little face.
Cecília was born at 1:52 p.m., weighing 3.460 kg (7 lb 10 oz) and measuring 50 cm (19.6 inches).
They placed her on my chest and she latched immediately. I felt a strange discomfort and, at the same time, an indescribable pleasure. I thought, “Is it really you?”
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. I wanted to sleep. I started talking nonstop — probably from the anesthesia — while Leo told me to be quiet. I was officially out of myself. Or maybe I was becoming someone new.
Back in the room, I wasn’t allowed to move for hours. And there began another crossing: breastfeeding, the fear of not having milk, her crying, mine.
That day, besides Cecília, a version of me was born that I didn’t know yet. More fragile. Stronger. More human.
The birth was not how I imagined.
It was how it needed to be.
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