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Eight years ago, on Christmas Eve, I was sitting in a hard-backed chair in the neonatal intensive care unit, waiting for an ambulance to take my baby away.

I kept reminding myself to be grateful.

After two years of infertility, a failed round of IVF, a successful frozen embryo transfer, a low-lying placenta, a bleed at 30 weeks, a round of cortisone injections and an urgent scheduled C-section, we finally had a tiny, perfect baby girl.

Just hours after she was born – having held her only briefly before she was whisked away to an incubator – the surgeon came in to tell us how lucky we were. It turns out our baby wasn’t getting the nutrients she needed because of a faulty connection between the umbilical cord and placenta (there is a fancy Latin-sounding name for this condition I have since forgotten). The surgeon’s expression was grave as she rattled off the potential complications, and delivered the shocking news that 50 per cent of undiagnosed cases do not have happy endings.

But we had ours, and she was only a few hundred feet down the hall; I just couldn’t manoeuvre myself to get to her until late afternoon. When I finally saw her, she looked like a doll inside her glass bubble, the smallest diaper dwarfing her four-pound frame. Logically, I knew that this was our baby, but I didn’t feel remotely like her mother.

Mothers hold their babies and I was terrified to touch mine. Mothers feed their babies and I’d seen no sign of my milk. Mothers love their babies from their first mewling cry, with a fierce and instantaneous instinct that overwhelms reason. I didn’t feel much of anything, other than bone tired and damn sore.

“Your Christmas miracle,” the nurses said. I nodded enthusiastically, feeling guilty for feigning a gratitude I didn’t have the strength to muster. For years, I wanted nothing more than to have a baby, to be a mother. My wish was granted, at the holidays no less, but all I wanted to do was be alone and cry.

I kept repeating, to everyone, how lucky we were. The chorus inside my head was stuck on repeat: What’s wrong with you? Buck up. Be grateful. But it took a long time to unwrap the gift of gratitude.

Looking back, I wish I could tell my forlorn self a few things to assuage her fears. I would say, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Your hormones are raging. You’re scared. You’re in pain. You’ve been through the wringer and spewed out the other side. Give yourself a break and the gratitude will come.”

I’d explain that it’s daunting being a first-time parent, especially so for new moms and dads dealing with extra health concerns. But I’d also let her know that even scrappy four-pound babies are more resilient than they look.

I’d urge her to forget about breastfeeding if it’s causing added strife, to take her $300 electric breast pump, which reproaches with every creak and groan, and fling it in the nearest lake. “Breastfeeding alone,” I’d tell her, “does not a mother make.”

I’d promise her – cross my heart and hope to die – that her love for this baby will unfurl over days and weeks, and be just as fierce and indomitable as the kind that strikes like lightning.

Lastly, I would tell her, “Whatever you do, do not eat the hospital’s chicken pot pie! You’ve just had abdominal surgery, have soup.”

But back on Christmas Eve, 2011, as I waited for my baby to be transported to the children’s hospital for specialized care, all I felt was failure. I failed to get pregnant on my own. I failed to nourish my baby in utero. I failed to hold her and feed her. And, most appalling of all, I failed to feel anything other than totally, utterly numb.

It was too soon after surgery for me to go with her, so I watched mutely as two paramedics, a neonatal nurse and a respiratory specialist struggled to warm up the travel incubator. I only let myself cry when the kind paramedic turned to me and said, “Don’t worry, Mom, we’ll take perfect care of your baby.” Then they were gone.

My husband followed the ambulance and I got real-time updates. “They’re using sirens!” “She’s got a soother! It’s orange!” While my husband was relishing his role as dispatcher, I was feeling more disconsolate than ever. After my ill-fated supper, destined to stop me up for days, a kind night nurse sensed my distress and gave me a Christmas gift I’ll never forget. “Take an Ativan, and get some rest.”

Hallelujah.

Christmas morning roared in with a snowstorm, and I was discharged with an at-home-staple-remover kit and the number for a public-health nurse. We spent most of that week at the children’s hospital, and marvelled at the kindnesses extended to us. Our daughter had her photo taken with Santa, alongside her very first stuffed bear, a gift from the hospital. She was the recipient of a beautiful quilt, handmade by a Good Samaritan. The accompanying card read, “Cherish this time. Your baby will grow up so fast, love Barbara.”

Barbara, wherever she is, was right.

Yesterday our daughter turned eight. She’s healthy and funny and irascible. She is the light and joy in our lives. Every Christmas Eve, as I wrap presents and gaze at the tree, I think back to the year she was born.

And I don’t have to remind myself to be grateful.

Suzanne Westover lives in Ottawa.

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