Broken Hearts Mended
They say there is no greater bond than that between a mother and child. But as a new mother, I began to question that statement. Shortly after my first child was born, I felt as though my world was falling apart, and I wondered how I would navigate that journey of parenting. It was frightening and exciting at the same time. But, you see, my journey did not start out as that of a typical parent.
It was 22 years ago that I lay in the hospital wondering if the child growing inside of me would survive. If he did, would he be normal? Had he suffered brain damage? Would he have any memory of this brutal act of violence that took away his innocence before he could even be placed in his mother’s arms?
A young teenage girl who police believed was part of a gang had attacked me in a mugging. They said she was likely in desperate need of money to continue to survive on the streets. She wore large army boots, a symbol of particular gang the police later told me.
In a downtown mall restroom, the girl quickly grabbed my purse. I instinctively grabbed her forearm trying to keep that which was mine. In an effort to escape my grasp, the girl lifted her leg and swiftly and forcefully kicked me in my stomach; the stomach that carried my first child who had lived safely inside me for 29 weeks. In pain, I let go as my husband exited the men’s room. I had chased her into the hallway and told him she had taken my purse. Unaware that I had been injured, he chased the girl, only to slip and fall when he jumped from the escalator stairs – men’s dress shoes do not make good running shoes. In the meantime, I was doubled over with contractions. Storekeepers came out to help me. We called the doctor. “Get to the hospital,” he said. “But don’t come to ours; go to the one with neonatal care in case we cannot stop the contractions. This baby may be born tonight,” he warned.
Fear gripped me as we entered the emergency room. The doctors who greeted us were clients of my husband’s. Friendly faces eased his fears. But I was still waiting. Waiting for that kick that this active little baby had given me so many times over the past several weeks. It didn’t come. Why wasn’t he moving? Was he alive? Finally the doctor gave me the relief I was looking for — a heartbeat. An answer to my prayers, the contractions subsided a few hours later.
But it still took several hours before those kicks started again. Looking back, I now realize my son had probably been knocked unconscious. After all, the black bruises that covered my midsection were an indication of just how forcefully I was kicked — he was kicked.
The policeman who visited me gave me the best gift of all. The gift of hope. He shared stories of domestic abuse cases he had investigated – stories of pregnant women who had been assaulted and yet who had subsequently given birth to healthy children. I don’t remember the officer’s name, and I regret not letting him later know the hope he gave me that day.
Over the next several weeks I waited for the arrival of my dream, a child. After 27 hours of labor, he finally arrived. A beautiful baby boy with the most perfect features. We named him Kevin and referred to him as “Kevin our bundle from Heaven.” After all, it was God’s protection that had gotten us through the ordeal several weeks earlier.
Being the youngest in my family and Kevin being my first child, I really had nothing to compare him to. But as the days went on, it was clear that this little boy whom I desperately loved wanted little to do with me, his mom. My mother visited and shared her concern that there was something wrong. His behavior was not “typical.” Looking back on home movies of Kevin’s first days, I heard myself expressing an observation that proved true for years – Jim, Kevin’s dad, was the only one who could calm this child. My precious child did not want me to hold him. The first and only time he fell asleep in my arms, he was five months old; it was the night before I returned to work from maternity leave. Broken hearted, I did not know what I was doing wrong. How could I fail as a mother when all I had was a heart full of love to offer?
My first Mother’s Day, Kevin was nine months old. I sobbed the entire afternoon. I thought babies instantly bonded with their mothers. I was wrong. I then suffered a miscarriage of my second pregnancy. I had been three months along. There had been a heartbeat, but yet I lost the baby. Was God trying to tell me I was not cut out to be a mother?
It was not until my second child, Brett, was born nearly three years later that I realized I was not a failure. Brett and I bonded instantly and he would only sleep in my arms. From the moment he was born he would look for me in a room when he heard my voice, longing for the arms of his mother to cradle him.
But Kevin’s reluctance to be with me continued. I arrived home from work and he would cry when our nanny left. He stood at the front window crying until Jim arrived home from work.
Doing all I could to find the perfect bonding activity, I failed at every turn. As time went on we enlisted the help of counselors. We went through a few of them in an effort to find one we all liked. But there was a consistent theory expressed by a few of those with whom we met. The attack that Kevin and I experienced when he was in the womb was something that affected not only me but also affected Kevin more than we ever knew.
“You were his protector,” one counselor said. “But he was hurt and he somehow equates that experience with you.”
Farfetched? At first I thought so. It makes more sense to just assume he didn’t like me. How can a baby at 29 weeks of gestation blame me, his mother, for allowing him to get hurt? How would he even know?
But then I read books and did my own research. It began to make sense. When I shared my theory with others, some thought I was crazy, others just silently shook their heads and said “interesting” – not saying what they really thought. But in my heart I believed that this child somehow had an imprint on his soul that affected us long after my bruises disappeared.
One counselor asked me if I had ever shared with Kevin the experience of what happened when he was in the womb. I hadn’t. I took the counselor’s advice. Kevin was 11 years old at the time when I sat him down and shared with him the horrific details of how we almost lost him.
I dug deep into boxes where I had secretly tucked away a newspaper that published an editorial I had written on the need for increased police on our local force which at the time was contemplating cutbacks. Kevin asked a lot of questions, and of course he loved the story of how his dad chased the perpetrator through a downtown mall. It began the healing of two hearts.
Then one day, when he was about 15 years old, I was going about my normal morning routine. I made the bed, poured another cup of coffee, sorted the laundry and got ready for the day while keeping one ear on the morning news. But what I heard on the TV made me suddenly stop. As I listened to the words the newscaster said, tears rolled down my face. Finally, scientific evidence confirmed what I had known in my heart all along. Babies in the womb are able to form memories as early as 30 weeks of gestation – possibly earlier. As I stood there holding onto every word, I felt vindicated and angry at the same time. Angry that a young teenage girl could rob a mother and son of so much during those early years.
Interestingly, when Kevin suffered an injury in his teen years, an x-ray showed damage to one of his neck vertebras from what the doctor said was an old injury. There had never been an older injury that we were aware of, and the doctor concluded it was likely from the injury he sustained in the womb.
It was the sharing of our story with Kevin that began the healing of two hearts. It was almost as though a light switch came on. Now 21 years old and embarking on a career as a high school business and marketing teacher, Kevin and I have an amazing relationship. He is the young man I always knew he would become, with or without a close relationship with me. He is a big brother who adores his younger sibling and is loved by all who know him.
We have shared many fun memories together over the year – concerts, soccer tournaments and mother-and-son trips. We have a special bond, the one I always hoped for.
Yes, my heart broke during those early years of rejection, but now it fills with pride for being part of life’s journey with this amazing young man.
So while there is finally scientific evidence that babies can form a memory at the tender age of 30 weeks of gestation, that is something this mother’s heart knew long ago. And what those news reports did not say is that even if those memories are tragic, hearts can still be healed.
