from the Sibylline Press Series: Sibyls on Motherhood
Un-Maternal
by Donna Marie Hayes
My pregnancy was fraught with 7 months of strict bed rest, preeclampsia, aggressive fibroids, gestational hypertension, and violent morning sickness that made no distinction between morning and night.
So when my labor was induced two weeks early, and my daughter came screaming into the world, I was very happy that I was no longer pregnant– but not happy that I was someone’s mother.
I shared a room on the maternity ward with a woman who had given birth to a son on the same day my daughter was born. Although, I was in no mood to talk, she chatted incessantly about finally having a son after two girls, about his decorated nursery, her supportive wonderful family and all the baby stuff she had received at her baby shower. I feigned interest. I was tired and depressed, feeling the weight of my own circumstances.
I was living in an apartment in a semi-abandoned building in the south Bronx where rats and water bugs roamed freely. My husband was having several affairs. I had very little money. My newborn baby owned two outfits: a blue one with a whale on the front and a yellow one with flowers all over it. The odds were stacked against us, and the road ahead seemed daunting.
I was 23.
The nurse walked in with my daughter and placed her in my arms for feeding. My roommate stopped talking long enough to admire her before continuing with her stories.
I studied tiny fingers and toes, a perfect little nose, and a sleepy gummy smile. But no magic. No sweet maternal joy. Something had to be wrong with me. After all, all mothers were supposed to feel an instant connection with their new babies. Some even experience the intense bond during the pregnancy.
What I felt was more akin to a sentencing. For decades to come, I would be responsible for the well-being of another whole human. To care for and keep happy and safe. Well, I wasn’t happy, and I was far from safe. So how was this supposed to work?
A woman with a sweet smile and a heavy Jamaican accent brought in our breakfast trays and placed them on our tables. She looked at my daughter and smiled, before leaving the room. I watched her walk away, pushing the industrial-sized food cart. She reminded me of my estranged mother. I wished I had her to help me, to teach me, to guide me. To love me. Wishes that would never come true. Tears hovered.
“I wonder when they are going to bring my son to me?” My roommate’s voice pulled me back.
I looked over at her worried face and tried to reassure her. “I’m sure they’ll bring him soon,” I said, then turned my attention to the television as we ate our bland hospital breakfast.
I was quite thrilled when my roommate nodded off. I needed the alone time with my thoughts.
About an hour later, the doctor walked in followed by a short, stocky man. They said good morning to me and walked over to my roommate’s side of the room. The doctor pulled the curtain and whispered, which seemed silly. They were less than three feet away. I heard everything the doctor said.
“There were some complications with your son’s heart…last night… emergency open heart surgery…we did everything we could…we lost him….”
Something clanked against her breakfast plate and her heart-wrenching scream followed. The other man’s voice came next.
“I told them not to wake you last night. I wanted you to rest. They tried to s-save…” His voice cracked.
All the air was sucked out of the room. The doctor left. I looked down at my perfect child, sleeping in my arms. Survivor’s guilt filled me. My relationship with my own mother was broken and dysfunctional and had left me traumatized. I had convinced myself that motherhood was not for me. I wanted no part of it, if there’s even the slightest chance that I would do to a child what had been done to me.
Yet this woman who had wanted a third child more than anything, just lost her one-day old son on a cold operating table in the wee hours of the morning while we slept. I felt selfish. Guilty.
Soon the man left.
The silence in the room was now deafening. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. I looked at the images on the TV. Registering nothing.
About a half hour later. She broke the silence.
“I’m sure you heard.” Her voice cracked on the other side of the white curtain.
“I did. I am so sorry.” I said softly.
My daughter stirred and whined. The small sound of my alive child filled our room. I prayed that my roommate would not pull the curtain to look at us.
The survivors.
Eventually, she did. She spoke as if nothing had happened. As if her son was not downstairs in the morgue. She told me about her daughters, her garden, and her wonderful husband. Then she offered me Pampers, baby bottles, a high-chair and some of the stuff from her baby shower, that she now had no use for. Although I had little to nothing for my daughter, I politely declined. It just felt wrong to accept the gifts.
The next day I was released into the wildness of my own circumstances. My husband walked out on us shortly thereafter. I was left to navigate postpartum depression, recurring ear infections, doctors’ visits, sleepless nights, financial woes, childcare and a myriad of other issues, alone, while trying to be the best mother I thought I could be.
* * *
Thirty-eight years have passed, and my beautiful daughter is the apple of my eye. Each Mother’s Day, I honor the woman in the bed next to me who wept for a child who didn’t survive, and the 23-year-old version of me who wept because she didn’t want to be someone’s mother.
In the vast tapestry of life, there are experiences that test our strength, challenge our beliefs, and leave an indelible mark on our souls. For me, it was motherhood.
It gave me a purpose.
Someone to fight for. To love.
A reason to live.
Motherhood is often romanticized and idealized in our society. We are bombarded with images of glowing mothers with perfect baby bumps and the sparkly maternal bliss that follows. But the truth is, that’s not the norm and motherhood is a deeply personal and complex experience.
As we celebrate Mother’s Day, I wish to hold a space for all the mothers who may be swirling around in feelings of inadequacy, isolation, guilt, regret, and confusion about being a mother.
It’s perfectly okay to feel like you’re not living up to the idealized image of motherhood. You don’t have to.
What matters most is the love and care you choose to give to yourself and your innocent child, regardless of the circumstances.
It’s perfectly natural for some of us to feel un-maternal. But—
Feel what you feel.
Do what you do.
Give it time.
You are not alone.
You got this!
Love always wins.
About Donna Marie Hayes
Donna Marie Hayes is the author of These Broken Roads: Scammed and Vindicated, One Woman’s Story. A New York City resident and performer Donna can be found on a stage or in front of a camera, and is a SAG-AFTRA actress and cabaret singer. She has been featured on the Dr. Oz Show (Defy Your Age), Orange Is the New Black (Netflix), Black Girls Rock (BET), Celebrity Ghost Stories (Biography Channel) as well as in several other New York City Off-Broadway and TV productions.
Most recently, she was cast in her first regular role in a TV series, Miss Education, set to debut soon. Her corporate life includes serving as a senior human resources professional in the financial services industry. She is an ICF-certified coach and owner of a coaching practice company. Hayes immigrated to the United States from Jamaica at age 14.
Donna Marie Hayes is the author of These Broken Roads: Scammed and Vindicated, One Woman’s Story published in October 2023 by Sibylline Press. Click here to purchase her book.
