This is, ‘The Stories We Tell’, a weekly series of true accounts in all things motherhood. These 100% vulnerable, raw and ferociously honest tales are taken from the monthly LA based storytelling event, Mothers Unleashed. This week, we’re introducing you to Rachel, who knows what it’s like to fight for her baby every step of the way, from conception to delivery, and even post delivery.

2016 was the year we decided to try for a baby. I would be considered a high risk pregnancy and would be carefully monitored because I have Lupus. After 5 miscarriages, a few complications, and a 6 month break to get married, the little embryo stuck for good this time. I had a textbook pregnancy with no complications.

July 30th, 2018, 5pm. Three days until her due date and the fifth day of severe back pain. I relax in a warm bath. The contractions hit hard at five minutes apart for at least 20 minutes. We call the doc and while waiting to hear back, I shower and a contraction hits, then lots of blood. I panic a bit. Doc says calmly, “Go to the hospital.” At six pm on a Monday night in LA traffic on our way to Cedars Sinai, my husband weaves in and out of cars, and in between contractions I finish my makeup so I can look pretty for pictures.

I am admitted and put in a beautiful room with a view of the city. Contractions are about two minutes apart, so I get the epidural before it is too late. Then everything slows down from there. I can’t feel a thing. I may have overdosed myself by hitting the epidural button 3 times thinking I had to self medicate, leaving my legs completely dead. But that’s a story for another time.

Everything is going according to my plan. After 15 hours of labor, my baby is crowning. Or sort of. She is rocking in and out of the birth canal for two and a half hours because the cord is around her neck, pulling her back in. But finally, at 10:06am on July 31st 2018, I push for the final time like my head is going to explode, and my husband and doctor together pull my baby girl out. My baby is finally here! My doctor lays her purple little body on me as she sucks the goo out of her mouth and nose and my husband cuts the cord. Elle, her name, lets out a small faint cry. “That sounds weak.” I think. Then everything slows down, again. I study my baby, her long lean purple body, little fingers and toes, she has all of them, her little nose, thick lips and slanted eyes. She is perfect... but something’s wrong.

I look at my doctor, trying to read her face, but nothing. She taps Elle on the back and rubs her ferociously but she’s still so purple. Then my doctor says calmly and with little emotion, “Get the ped’s team in here.” I know that isn’t good, but it is hard to tell with her lack of urgency. “Is my baby okay?” I ask. She responds calmly, “She’s not getting enough oxygen, so they’re going to take a look.”

Then the large solid wood door flies open as the ped’s team enters center stage and Elle is gracefully taken to the heater as the team gathers around her as if this was a well choreographed ballet. I lay on the birthing bed, legs spread open, moving my head side to side trying to see through the sea of people to get a glimpse of my baby girl or even my husband, whom I lost in the crowd of 17.

A few minutes pass and Van, my husband, emerges from the crowd and our eyes meet. The room falls silent. The sea of people part and down the middle comes a woman I don’t recognize, smiling, carrying my tiny newborn baby wrapped in a white, pink and blue striped blanket. I reach out and she slowly places her in my arms. “You only have about 30 seconds,” she says. The room stands still. It was just me and my baby. She makes slight movements and little noises. I smile and exhale, “I can’t believe I made you.” My heart melts and I have a rush of emotions I have never felt before. This is love. And it is unexpectedly painful.

Time’s up. The woman takes her from me. I have to let her go as my arms linger in the air after her. Elle is placed in a clear incubator and pushed out the door along with the 17 other people. My husband looks at me, then at her, then back at me, and I can tell he is torn waiting for instructions from me. I say, “Follow the baby! Go!” Still torn, he runs after her. The wood door shuts behind him and just like that, they are gone.

It’s only been ten minutes since Elle was born. My mom is on her phone, my doctor finishes sewing me up, and I stare at the ceiling. It dawns on me that I just gave birth. I feel proud and impressed with myself. But I also feel lost and alone in the silence.

About an hour later, Van comes back with a picture of her. She has tubes in her nose and wires all over her little body. She’s on antibiotics because they think she inhaled meconium, her first poop. Her breathing is better, she’s pink and the doctors seem optimistic, and yet I am so heartbroken. I just want to touch my precious baby girl but I have to look at her through a picture. All I want to do is hold her, snuggle with her and welcome her to this crazy world, like the movies but that is all taken from me.

A few hours later, I have to move into my recovery room. It is a crappy little room, desperate for a renovation. As I’m pushed in my wheelchair through the maternity ward, I notice little pink and blue notes, the shape of a baby’s foot on the doors. They tell the nurses that there’s a baby in there. I arrive at my room. Mine says NICU. I hate it. I feel sad and jealous. I want my baby with me. I want that experience... that happiness. I want to breastfeed. I want to wake up next to her. I want to be like everyone else.

Before I can go to see my baby in the NICU, I have to pee a certain amount, twice. It is 9pm when I am finally cleared to see my baby. That’s 11 hours after giving birth! I have the energy to run by this time, and I can feel my legs again, but I have to wait for the wheelchair. I am so frustrated. I feel like everyone is moving like a snail.

I hop in that wheelchair with my ice pack and mama diaper on, and I am ready to go! I am overwhelmed with sadness, fear, anger, and excitement all at once (mama hormones are for real). I’m wheeled into the area she’s in, I see this long skinny baby and I know immediately that she is mine! All those emotions turn into pure joy at the first glimpse of my little one. All the other babies are so small. She is 20.5 inches long and 7 pounds 12 ounces. She is the most beautiful alien baby I’ve ever seen! This little human is mine. I am so in awe of her. I want to hold her so badly but I am told I have to wait until tomorrow. I am so disappointed yet so happy because she is pink instead of purple. She is healthy, alive and looks to be doing well. They tell me that she is the largest baby they’ve ever had in the NICU. That’s my girl.

The next morning I dress in my sweats, a new ice pack, mama diaper and head up to the NICU. She looks even more perfect! The nurse asks, “Do you want to hold her?” “Can I?” I say like an eager child.

The nurse juggles my baby, switching hands a few times to gather all the cords. My nerves grow as I watch! I’ve never held a newborn before or really any baby. So I shyly ask, “How?” The nurse says nothing and just places her on my chest. I am a natural. She smells so good, her skin was so soft, and her head was still slightly cone shaped. She calmly lays there next to a familiar sound, my heartbeat. I start to sing. I don’t know any lullabies so I sing Taylor Swift and Nirvana.

On August 2nd, two days after birth, I am released from the hospital, but I have to leave my baby behind. I gather my stuff and make my way to the exit. I feel so empty. Fighting back my tears, I get in the car. We drive in silence and I can’t hold it in any longer and I quietly cry the whole way home. As we pull up to our building I wipe my tears away, sit up straight, and put on a brave face. I begin what feels like a walk of shame through the lobby passing the front desk staff. I am embarrassed. Do they notice I am no longer pregnant but I have no baby to show? I don’t know why I cared. I hide my emotions and smile at them like nothing is wrong, then go inside and cry myself to sleep.

The next morning, all of her wires are gone. She is just a beautiful baby taking a nap in an incubator. As long as her temperature remains stable without the heat lamp, we can take her home TODAY! She is released at 1pm, and we have her home by 3pm. I finally feel complete.

The pregnancy and giving birth were the easy parts. The after birth caught me by surprise. There were so many obstacles I had to overcome to have my baby. From getting and staying pregnant, to her rocking back and forth in the birth canal, to not being able to hold her, feed her, soothe her, to not being able to take her home. I felt like the first most important days of motherhood were taken from me. But thankfully, I have a lifetime with her to make up for it.