A New Day is Born

700 words

         On that glorious spring day of April 9, 1975, in Waterbury Connecticut, when nature comes back to life, a beautiful baby was born I named April Joy.

         “What is your baby’s name?” the nurse asked when she brought the baby to me for her first feeding.

         “April,” I said, as I savored the sweet smell of a newborn in my arms.

         “Do you have a middle name?”

         I found it odd that she asked, because, in the Islands where I came from, my maiden name should be automatically my baby’s middle name. So, I said,

          “Do I need one?”

         She looked at me puzzled and explained, “Well, in this country, you do. Think of one because the registry nurse will come in tomorrow to put your baby’s name in the registry book.”

         That night I could not sleep thinking about a middle name for my baby. I couldn’t get over the thought that my maiden name will not be my baby’s middle name. The idea originated from the Spanish colonizers and was adopted to establish the family lineage.  Filipinos can trace their family ancestry as far back as five to six generations through their middle names.

         “April Joy…! Yes. That’s what I’ll name her.  She is my precious springtime joy on a glorious spring day. She has fulfilled almost every woman’s desire in me…to become a mother.

         She became the focus of my undivided attention from then on.  How can she not be? I almost lost my life delivering her.

         She was a week overdue. Dr. Gerald Moore decided to induce labor.  When the baby’s head was moving towards the birth canal, it turned around, as if wanting to go back in instead of coming out. 

         “This baby has a mind of her own,” Dr. Moore commented. He pulled her head with forceps and I hemorrhaged. That was the last time I was conscious.  When I woke up, I was hooked up to multiple paraphernalia and blood was dripping a drop at a time from the intravenous tube into my veins. The next time the nurse checked on me, she explained that I was given four pints of blood to replenish what I lost.

          “You’ll be stronger and healthier than I when you leave this hospital,” she says to me. I didn’t have much to say. I just listened to her as she kept on talking and pleasantly did her routine.

         Complicated with this difficult delivery, the baby was jaundiced, prompting the pediatrician to keep her longer than usual. Between the two doctors, they decided to keep us in the hospital for seven days.

         At my six-week post-partum doctor’s visit, Dr Moore said to my husband,

          “George, it will be better next time.”

         He smiled in reply but under his breath, he said, “Fat chance, Doctor.”

         I zipped my lips, reserving my comment when he confessed this to me because I knew that I was not going to stop at an only child.  Surely, when April Joy was 9-months old, I got pregnant again. He wouldn’t hear of it.  I could not stand the stress that he put me through, so, I agreed to abort in the first trimester.

         I had my own reason for giving in to his demand, as well. It was because I could not afford to pay babysitting for two babies when I go back to work, in as much as I was financially supporting my sister who was pursuing her bachelor’s degree. If I could not send money to her, she would have to quit school.  Deep in my heart I said to God,

          “Lord, please forgive me. I am willing to make this sacrifice because, after-all, I can get pregnant again but my family back in the Philippines will have no chance for a better life if I disappointed them.”

         Indeed, the memory of that gorgeous springtime day of April 9, 1975 has been etched deep in the picture frame of my heart, as it was the beginning of a lifetime of mothering, parenting and grandparenting for each gift of life with which the good Lord blessed our family with.