The Day We Would Meet You Was Decided
My due date was January 9.
At the beginning of my pregnancy, I had thought of that date simply as the day I might finally meet our baby.
I imagined the ordinary things people imagine.
When would labor begin?
Would I realize immediately that it had started?
What would my husband be doing at that moment?
How would it feel to finally hold the baby who had been inside me for so many months?
But as the pregnancy progressed, January 9 began to mean something different.
The closer we came to the end of the pregnancy, the more questions we had.
Would our daughter be able to breathe on her own?
Would she need medical treatment immediately after birth?
What symptoms would actually be present?
What complications, if any, would she have?
The doctors repeatedly told us,
“We won’t know the details until she is born.”
There were things that no ultrasound could tell us.
Things that no measurement could predict with certainty.
We would have to wait until she was actually born.
For months, I had been desperately trying to see the future before it arrived.
I had searched for diagnoses.
Read about symptoms.
Imagined complications.
Tried to prepare myself for every possible outcome.
But eventually, I began to realize that there was a limit to how much I could know.
And little by little, my thoughts became simpler.
First, I just want her to be born safely.
I want her to be born.
I want her to be alive.
Everything else can come afterward.
We decided on a planned epidural delivery.
Rather than waiting for labor to begin naturally, we discussed the schedule with the doctors and decided in advance when I would be admitted to the hospital and when we would prepare for the birth.
My due date was January 9.
But the day we decided to welcome our daughter was January 5.
January 5.
Until then, the day I would meet her had existed somewhere vaguely in the future.
Suddenly, it had a date.
I remember looking at the calendar.
January 5.
That was the day I would give birth to her.
That was the day we would finally see her face.
That was the day we might finally receive answers to the questions we had carried for months.
Knowing the date of her birth meant knowing the date we would meet her.
But it also meant knowing the date when many of the things I had been afraid of would finally become real or disappear.
As January 5 approached, excitement and fear became almost impossible to separate.
Sometimes I would look at my husband and say,
“I’m going to do my best.”
He would be there for the birth.
When I thought back over the pregnancy, there had been so many moments when we did not understand each other.
I had cried.
I had become angry at how calm he seemed.
I had wanted him to be afraid in the same way I was afraid.
But he had driven me to the hospital again and again.
Ninety minutes each way.
Sometimes nearly two hours.
Every two weeks.
He had sat beside me while doctors explained things we had never imagined hearing.
And now, when the day came, he would be beside me again.
The hospital that had once frightened me had also begun to feel different.
At first, I had associated it with bad possibilities.
Every time we drove there, I wondered what we would be told next.
But by the end of the pregnancy, I had begun to see it as the place that could protect our daughter.
This was the hospital where the doctors already knew about her condition.
This was where people were prepared in case she needed help breathing after birth.
This was where she could receive medical care immediately if she needed it.
And for us, this was the hospital where she needed to be born.
Then the day of my scheduled admission arrived.
Because we had chosen a planned epidural delivery, the date had been decided in advance.
I knew when I would be admitted.
My bags were packed.
I had checked everything I needed.
For days, I had known exactly when I would be leaving home for the hospital.
Nothing happened suddenly.
There was no unexpected rush.
I had been given plenty of time to prepare myself.
And yet, when the day finally arrived, I felt much lonelier than I had expected.
Before leaving home, I looked around the room.
The next time I come back here, she won’t be inside my stomach anymore.
It was such a simple thought.
But it made everything feel real.
For months, wherever I went, our daughter had been with me.
When I slept, she was there.
When I ate, she was there.
When I cried, she was there.
When my husband and I argued about her future, she was there.
When I searched for disease names late at night, she was there.
Soon, for the first time, she would exist outside my body.
When we arrived at the hospital and it was finally time for me to stay there, the loneliness became even stronger.
I knew this day was coming.
I knew being there was the safest thing for our daughter.
I understood all of it.
And still, I did not want my husband to leave.
Until then, every time we had gone to the hospital, we had gone home together.
No matter what we were told, no matter how frightened I became, eventually we would get back into the car and return home.
But this time was different.
This time, I stayed.
Sitting in the hospital room, I rested my hand over my stomach.
Our daughter moved.
Soon, these movements would disappear.
Not because she was gone.
But because she would finally be here.
Outside of me.
In front of me.
For months, fear had occupied so much of my mind.
What disease does she have?
How severe will it be?
Will there be complications?
Will she be able to breathe?
What kind of life will she have?
But now, so close to meeting her, those questions began to move slightly further away.
Another feeling had become stronger.
I want to meet you.
I wanted to see the face from all those ultrasound pictures.
I wanted to know whether her eyes were really as large as they had looked.
I wanted to hear her voice.
I wanted to touch her.
I wanted to know what she smelled like.
I wanted to finally meet the child I had spent so many months worrying about.
I placed my hand over my stomach and spoke to her.
“I’m going to do my best.”
Then, silently, I added another wish.
Please be born safely.
First, just come to us.
Everything else can wait.
Whatever happens after that, we will think about it then.
For so long, the unknown had meant only fear to me.
But as I waited in that hospital room, I began to understand that the unknown also contained things I had not yet had the chance to love.
I did not know her voice.
I did not know her smile.
I did not know her personality.
I did not know what would make her laugh.
I did not know what kind of child she would become.
There were frightening things we did not know.
But there were beautiful things we did not know too.
My due date was January 9.
But the day we had chosen to welcome our daughter was January 5.
On that day, I would give birth to her.
My husband would be there with me.
And for the first time, we would see our daughter’s face.
I had spent so much of the pregnancy asking what would happen after she was born.
But now, there was only one thing I truly wanted.
Please be born safely.
Please breathe.
If you can, let me hear your voice.
And then—
let us see your face.
January 5 was almost here.
The long months of pregnancy were coming to an end, and a completely new life with our daughter was about to begin.
I still did not know what kind of day January 5 would become.
I did not know what we would be told.
I did not know what I would feel when I finally saw her.
I only sat there in the hospital room, my hand resting over my stomach, feeling her move inside me and whispering the same words again and again.
“We’ll meet soon.”
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