The kimpeturin heim was the same. I was different
The kimpeturin heim was the same.
I was different.
Cradling my baby, savoring food made by someone else, I looked like the other women. But I knew I would never again enjoy bonding time with a newborn at a kimpeturin heim. Or anywhere else.
This precious baby was my last.
It wasn’t what I expected. My previous medical history put me in the slightly higher risk category, and my doctor briefly mentioned worst-case scenarios, but I roughly pushed away the fear. I was in my twenties, healthy, strong, and I had three adorable kids who needed me.
Three weeks before my due date I went into labor, and my husband drove me and my hastily packed wheelie to the hospital. In the haze of active labor, I didn’t notice the grave faces of the OB and my nurses, couldn’t grasp when things started to go wrong, but fierce panic took over as my room filled with anxious-looking staff. Orderlies rushed me to the OR, and the last thing I remember before the anesthesia pushed me into darkness was my panicked screaming.
Waking up in the recovery room, I wondered if I had dreamed the whole nightmarish scene. And then a doctor came in. She sat down next to my bed and reached for my hand.
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