In this evocative personal essay, Rhea Pal shares with MyndStories her experience of being a first-time mother, and in doing so, makes it ‘normal’ to feel emotions society feels are ‘abnormal.’
The nurse walked in and said in a monotone, ‘Are you ready? It’s time to go.’ Why doesn’t she show a little more emotion, I wondered for a few seconds. The thought blended into the halls of the hospital. My husband and I walked to the door of the operating theater. Again the nurse said, a touch of love in her voice this time, ‘You stay here, sir. Madam, you go and leave your slippers here.’
I felt someone had tied a stone to my heart, and it was being dragged southward. I was scared. ‘I’ll wait for you here,’ he said quietly. And the cold steel door closed. The stone dragged my heart down a few more centimeters, this time a little faster.
I remember thinking, ‘Did they put the red light on? I have seen it in all Bollywood films.’ But I didn’t get time to mull over that thought. As I walked deeper into the OT, I saw scissors, scalpels, and knives lined up. Silver pieces on silver trays handled by people in green gowns and green masks.
They could use a little color, I thought. Just then, a friendly green-covered gentleman said, ‘Hi Rhea, I’m your anesthetist.’ My mind said, ‘Oh, the drug man.’ I smiled for a while, maybe slightly longer than required. They helped me up on the table. I remember feeling the cold against my skin. My obstetrician peeked in from the other room and greeted me. Quite chirpily.
A while later, my legs went numb, and a green screen came before my eyes. I stayed wide awake through the whole operation hearing doctors discuss new cars, training nurses online during Covid, and a few other irrelevant topics.
I couldn’t feel my lower body or fear anymore. Honestly, I was quite enjoying their banter when suddenly I heard a whimper followed by a tiny head before my face. ‘Kiss,’ the obstetrician commanded. I did. And the tiny head was taken away.
Wait. Was that the baby? What happened to tears of happiness? Where’s my ‘this is the moment I’ve been living for’ feeling? Where are the cameras? Where’s the husband crying with joy? Where’s the life made of Instagram stories, reels, and posts?
Instead, I got an ‘It’s time to stitch you back.’
I’ll feel all this when I am back in the room, I promised myself and again decided to eavesdrop on the latest car design discussion. It must have been rather interesting because I remember being plonked onto the stretcher really quickly. As they wheeled me out of the OT, I saw my husband standing right where I’d left him. Not an inch to the left or right. ‘Did he not move’? I wondered. He smiled with relief. I shivered from the aftereffects of anesthesia.
It had rained. The park outside my room looked green, gray, and clean. That’s a view I could get used to. My moment was interrupted as the baby was rolled in. Now I’ll feel like crying. Now I’ll have waves of love shooting through my half-anesthetized body. I saw the baby, wrapped in white eye bags and wrinkly skin. I saw and I waited. I did not feel tears, I did not feel joy. I just looked and waited for the moment to arrive. It did not for 3 months.
I did not enjoy being a mother. I hated every woman for telling me I would know love like never before. I did not. What I did begin to know is sleep deprivation, a body that refuses to get back into shape, a stitch that ran from one end of the waist to the other, maternity leave that seemed like a life sentence and a husband I loved so dearly, lost in the pile of parenthood.
It took me 100 days of crying, hating, feeling depressed, lonely, and tired eyes at 2 ‘o’clock rainy nights to heal. Slowly, I began to love the person I had given birth to.
Sometimes love came like a bullet. Straight out of the darkness, as a sudden toothless smile. Sometimes it came like a wafting tune – slow and calm – when he searched for me with his limited vision. The love grew in bits and pieces. He wasn’t just a baby I was ‘destined’ to love. He was growing into a person who smiled at butterflies, wanted to touch my dogs, and giggled at large leaves. I began to love him. Like a book that gets better on its 500th page. Before that, it’s a grinding slow walk to find love and interest.
Today, his presence makes me swing from absolute joy to deafening despair in moments. It’s still tough, but quiet evening walks around winding Goa lanes, smiling at strangers, feeling the sand for the first time, and watching the crimson sun take a dip in the ocean are some moments of relief.
I am growing to love him. Intensely. But it did not happen in a pop.
I wish someone had told me that it’s natural to feel like I did. Someone had told me the glibness of motherhood is over-advertised and over-beautified. It isn’t about the black-and-white small finger hugging a big finger picture.
It’s endless dirty diapers and a shrinking bedroom.
That parenthood isn’t the only reason to live.
That it’s one of the million things that’ll bring me joy and no-reason tears.
I wish someone had told me that Rhea doesn’t need to disappear behind the mother. That I’ll return to myself in time. Very very slowly, like a snail on a slippery leaf. And love my child in happiness. Not in pain. Not in sadness. Not in darkness. Not as defined by history and social media. And that love shall be honest and long-lived.
