It is 9 AM, April 16th, 2006. Exactly one year ago at this time, I was sitting in a room with my husband and my stepmother. I had already been stuck 6 times while they tried to get an IV started. Apparently, I am an awful stick. The first attempt went clear through the vein, and my right hand – the better of the two – is swollen with the fluid from the IV drip. The doctor comes in to let me know she is there, but we are running a few minutes late. In just a few minutes, I will be wheeled into surgery, where before they actually lay me down on the table, my nose begins to bleed, I begin to cry, and a rather unsympathetic nurse tells me to calm down.
But by 10:30, I am in a recovery room, my husband by my side, and my brand new baby daughter, Granuaile Frances, is in the infant nursery, being oogled and ogled over by my mom, my oldest daughter, Brighid, and my stepmom. The next few hours, days, and weeks, are a whirlwind of good and terrible things in my life, but I know, at least in the minute that she is born, that my world is absoloutely perfect. They tell me that she has a head of thick, dark hair, a comment that makes me wonder if they’ve got the right kid – my other two were not follicularly blessed. Her little screams and cries are like a musical – thank goodness, because she is making lots of them. When I get to see her, this is the longest that they have ever let me see a new baby of mine. I don’t know what to do, really – can you kiss her? Can you touch her? Shouldn’t you be taking her to have stuff checked?
Despite a rocky pregnancy, she is, indeed perfect. She has beautiful eyes, gorgeous toes, amazing little nose. When I look at her now, a year later, she is still all that – and so much more than I could have imagined she would be.