I was pushed into the OR. The bright lights, the slow sounds of the baby’s heartbeats, my steady breath, the anesthesiologist’s voice all soothed me, and after a gas mask was placed over my face, I went to sleep.

I was buoyant, everything around me faded into gray and black and white, like when your cable doesn’t get a signal anymore; static. It was at this palpable moment that I felt a release. I had to make peace with the possibility that my baby might not make it.

So I let him go.

I let everything go in that space of almost alive, mostly asleep blackness. Because I was forced to, I had no choice. Fear wasn’t even an option anymore, only acceptance.

I was tied to an anchor and I was going down. I had to trust that the rope was tight and I would get pulled back up. I was drowning in water, but I was warm and I felt safe.

Then I was lifted out of the water and the sun poured in. A nurse called my name and delivered the news.

“You had a baby,” she said.

“Is it a boy?” I asked. We had not found out the gender beforehand. It was supposed to be a surprise.

“Yes, a boy, he’s resting in the NICU now,” she responded.

During the surgery the doctors found his head wasn’t in my uterus. It was freely floating inside my body, he was outside of the place that was suppose to protect him. My uterus had ruptured and he was losing his supply of blood, nutrients and oxygen. When they pulled him out of my toxic body, he took a great gasping breath and made his first sound of life.

Life.