Reflecting on my journey to motherhood as Aarush turns one year old. After 4 years of marriage and extensive travel around Europe, Santanu decided to move back to India to pursue a better professional career. Life as a couple wasn’t always filled with excitement, but we were content and carefree. I used to scoff at the idea of having kids, brushing off the topic whenever it came up, and resisting the pressure from elders. However, upon returning to India, this pressure started weighing on me, while Santanu seemed unaffected.
After much contemplation, we decided to embark on the path to parenthood after 3 and a half years. Although we knew it wouldn’t be an easy journey, we took the plunge. Initially, we were quite uninformed about the process. I engaged in activities one should avoid during pregnancy, thinking, “If other pregnant women can work, why can’t I?” I traveled in locals, buses, trams, climbed stairs, did chores, and even consumed papaya almost daily. The result: an unavoidable abortion in the fourth month.
Following the doctor’s advice, I took a five-month rest before considering it again. I felt the ticking of my biological clock, while Santanu seemed less interested, perhaps apprehensive about taking the path again. After discussions and seeking a second opinion from doctors, a life formed inside me for the second time. Unfortunately, this coincided with the untimely loss of Santanu’s father.
Even before conception, the doctor informed me that I had to be on complete bed rest. I was advised to quit my job and refrain from any household work. Accepting that I wasn’t considered normal, like 95% of other women, under medical grounds was challenging for me.
The journey began; each day was filled with anxiety and fear. I prayed fervently for my child’s safe arrival, especially as life threw unexpected challenges our way.
At times, I felt trapped by well-wishers who unintentionally added to my stress. Some saw it as an opportunity to challenge me rather than offering support. There was no easy escape from these situations, and everyone had their opinions. Many speculated about the gender of the child, a curiosity I found puzzling considering they had chosen to be parents—after all, what does the sex of the child matter?
Maintaining excitement amid the stress of baby-making, enduring weekly injections, and preparing for the birth of my dreams was no easy feat. I received almost 40 injections throughout the 9-month journey, along with a cocktail of nutritious food and various medicines. To complicate matters, Santanu had to travel for a month for work to Singapore. Although scary, looking back, it might have happened for the best.
As months progressed, dietary restrictions increased. Cutting down on salt, sugar, and spice was challenging for a foodie like me. Additionally, bed rest was imposed on me from the 6th month after a sudden need for a c-section, which led to a 4-day hospital stay. After being discharged, life became even more challenging, akin to a bird in a cage.
I was only allowed to get out of bed for toilet and shower. My bed was inclined from the leg side, and sleeping on one side was tough. Santanu arranged my essentials before leaving for the office, creating a routine that continued until delivery day. A doctor visited every week to administer injections.
My parents visited me for the baby shower on the seventh month. Feeling the movement in my belly brought joy, but it was coupled with the frustration of not being able to stand in the balcony for a glimpse of the outside world.
In the first week of January, the doctor removed the stitches, and I was allowed to move around in the house. Carrying the extra weight felt awkward, and I feared doing something foolish at the end of the journey. I counted every moment until the day we would finally meet. I visited a baby shop for the first time, taking advantage of the doctor’s permission to pick up the essentials.
On the long-awaited delivery day, a planned c-section was opted for to avoid risks. I was admitted a night in advance, and anxiety kept everyone awake. On the awaited day, around 12.07 PM, the baby emerged with a high-pitched squeak and wailing, looking as though he had just been in a fist-fight—bluish, covered with blood and cream-cheesy glop. After a while, a nurse came to me, saying, “Pamela, it’s a male child,” holding a delicate baby wrapped in green cloth, with a short neck, chubby cheeks, tiny curled fists, pink toes, quivering eyes, puckered lips, and a button nose.
