A birth story, love letter, and poem to her son, Ra

Amy Fraser and her son, Rawiri Rain


‘This is your baby.’

a birth story, love letter, and poem


By Amy Fraser

The night you arrived the sky and sea were at war — a blue blood moon and a king tide. Water flooded the streets, and I was 30 hours deep in an ocean of pain, illuminated by the light of you, thrashing around on the hospital bed, trying not to drown. White knuckled, teeth bared and biting down, guttural sounds I didn’t know were my own. I was on my way to meeting you. The left side of my body going slack when they gave me drugs, knowing something had gone wrong. My parents cried for me as I screamed for you. To please come safely. Trying to push, so tired of having to be strong, the loneliness of labor like a dark room I couldn’t leave. Then, the fluorescent glare of theatre, my dead weight sprawled on the operating table as the spinal tap sunk in. I turned my head to vomit and watched the jagged line of your heartbeat fall on the monitor. A swarm of doctors, one of them grabbing my face and laying her eyes hard into mine as she dragged an ice cube down my chest: ‘Can you feel this? Can you feel this?’ Before I could answer they opened my body and pulled your body out of it. I heard you cry and forgot what pain was. I listened to you as I lay there. Love like a flood. My mother bringing you to me: ‘This is your baby.’



amy founded OKREAL

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