She was supposed to be here.
That’s all I kept thinking in the stormy hours that followed my daughter’s birth. The sky was alive with lightning. My daughter was crying out for more milk. But I just lay there in the recovery room, paralyzed by self-doubt. I can’t take care of a baby. I’ve never even babysat before. How am I going to do any of this without her?
She was supposed to be here– helping me, guiding me. But cancer fucked it all up.
My mother had been gone for a month, my child alive for two days. I was petrified, grief stricken, confused and crying. I was looking for someone to make it all better, to tell me everything was going to be okay. I was desperate to find the strength I needed to take care of my baby but I didn’t know where to start.
As the days passed in a confusing whirl of grief and hormonal imbalance, I hid in the memories of my mother. I replayed every childhood milestone, holiday gathering, and trivial event. I made a “best of” mix in my mind, and when that ran out, I lamented over petty arguments, wasted time, and all the mistakes we had made along the way.
I replayed every detail of our lives together until I realized she had already given me everything I needed to know to be a mother. As I flailed in my new role, I could still feel her in everything I did.
I could hear her yelling at me to relax, have a drink, and stop worrying so much.
I could hear her telling me to stop judging myself—about everything– because that’s not what this journey is about. “There are plenty of people who will be mean to you, Nicole, just be kind to yourself.” That’s all she ever wanted me to do.
I could hear her stern yet sincere voice reminding me, “I’m not perfect. I’m just doing the best I can.”
It was the way she ended every fight, and it used to piss me off. What a flippant response, I used to think. The best you can? What the hell does that mean? But now, staring down at my daughter, it all made sense. She wasn’t being flippant. She was being honest.
I let my mother’s words repeat in my mind until my body absorbed them. Until I didn’t feel scared anymore. I don’t need to be perfect, I just need to do the best I can. It was my new mantra.
It was a start.
About the author: Nicole lives in the Bay Area with her British husband, toddling daughter, and muppet of a dog. Before settling in Marin, she wrote for the university paper in Swansea, Wales, worked as associate editor for Tilt, a music magazine in Melbourne, Australia, freelanced for SF Downtown Weekly, and sold a comedy pilot to Warner Bros. Television in Los Angeles.