Sixteen Years Ago…
Ξ October 11th, 2009 | → | ∇ Uncategorized |
Right about now, sixteen years ago, I was in labor. Sort of.
Today, sixteen years ago, it was a Monday. I had been, by this time, having contractions for three days. I had gone to the hospital on Friday, been hooked up to all those monitors, been promised I’d have a baby by the time I went home, and then was sent home sans baby. The nurse promised me I would be back well before Saturday morning, but here I was, on Monday, still pregnant. Enormously pregnant.
My mother had borrowed my car since hers was in the shop, Randy had gone to work, my estranged husband was also at work a good 40 minutes away, and I had decided that this was okay, since I was going to be pregnant for the rest of my life. I would spend my remaining years in maternity clothes, unable to see my feet or even my legs. I would be forced to develop a remote-controlled razor to shave the legs I couldn’t see - because I’d be the only one who couldn’t see them. Even sitting down didn’t reveal them to me; my stomach rested snugly on my thighs, almost all the way to my knees. I knew they were there - my legs - because the baby enjoyed lying on my sciatic nerve, causing one of my legs to ache while somehow going numb at the same time, which in turn caused me to suddenly grab on to anything or anyone in my radius to keep from going down like a building being demolished. It’s amazing how helpful some strangers can be when you’re pregnant.
I took a shower that morning, sixteen years ago, shaving my invisible legs and telling myself that I needed to just get used to doing it by Braille and to stop whining about it. Afterward, I walked back into my bedroom, my stomach preceding me through the house, entering rooms long before the rest of me. I felt like I was moving through a waist-high lake, pushing against the weight of the water, unable to see what might be under my feet, and knowing it would be that way for the rest of my life. It had been a miserably hot summer and was showing no signs of cooling off anytime soon. The house we were living in made an excellent oven, holding in the heat without losing so much as five degrees at night, somehow managing to repel anything resembling a cool breeze from outside in spite of the presence of windows on every side.
I reached my bedroom still toweling off and unable to determine if I was wiping away water or sweat, then reached for the phone. I had an appointment with my OB scheduled for that day, but since I had loaned my car to my mother and anyone who could take me was happily living their non-pregnant lives, I needed to cancel. Plus, who needs an OB when you’re never going to deliver? I called the doctor’s office and was told by a very surprised nurse that she’d already cancelled my appointment since I’d had the baby over the weekend. I looked down at my stomach, upon which was resting a saucer of cookies, and assured her that I was indeed still pregnant. “How do you feel?” she asked me.
“Like hell,” I said indignantly. “I’m learning to see with my toes. I have a kangaroo in my stomach, my knees ache but I can’t find them, I’m considering strapping a porta-potty to my back, and - ”
“Okay, okay,” she said hastily. “I’m calling the doctor right now. Just let me put you on hold and I’ll be right back.”
I waited, listening to staticky hold music, munching cookies. After a few minutes, she was back.
“All right. First off, don’t eat anything,” she instructed.
“Okay,” I agreed, stealthily wiping cookie crumbs off my hands. “What’s next?”
“Go to the hospital,” she said brightly. “The doctor will meet you there in an hour or so and induce you.”
“He…really?” I asked blankly. The baby kicked, knocking the saucer off my stomach and onto the bed, flinging my half-eaten cookie onto Randy’s pillow. I eyed it regretfully and promised to present myself at the hospital immediately.
I called my mother first, then my estranged husband, Tom, to inform him that he would be meeting his child today, then called Randy and got dressed. Before I had my flip-flops on - I wasn’t about to try and tie shoes - mom was sitting impatiently in the driveway, revving the engine. I waddled out, climbed into the car and collapsed ungracefully in the passenger seat. Without any ceremony, my mother snatched up the hem of my maternity dress, examined my legs and cried, ” Thank god you shaved!”
The ride to the hospital only took a couple of minutes. This is important because my ex worked almost 40 minutes away, yet somehow, he managed to be sitting in the parking lot by the time we arrived. To this day, I have no idea how he did it - I’m not sure I want to know, actually. The three of us shuffled toward the hospital doors, my mother bewailing my lack of luggage, my hair dripping down my face, neck and back because I hadn’t had time to dry it and Tom following along asking me about baby names. We entered the maternity ward like the Three Stooges to be met by surprise. Nobody knew I was coming. Nobody had heard from the doctor, no arrangements had been made for my arrival.
Shrugging philosophically, the maternity staff bundled me into a very nice room, proceeded to attach numerous devices to the underside of my stomach, then sent me outside to walk back and forth across a private courtyard. Mom left to go call my father and everyone she’s ever met in her life and Tom paced along beside me asking how I felt every step of the way. Randy arrived as I marched heroically back and forth, took up position on my other side and we stomped along, hogging the whole sidewalk.
After what seemed like hours, a nurse appeared in the doorway and called me in. Feeling like a kid outside past the time the streetlights came on, I obediently headed indoors. The nurse hooked me up to the monitors and we all stared breathlessly - from exertion, in my case - at the screen. A large spike appeared and the nurse turned to me in amazement. “That was a really strong contraction!” she exclaimed.
”It was? I didn’t feel anything,” I told her.
Putting her hands on her hips, the nurse glared at me. “You might at least pretend to be in pain,” she said, sounding affronted. I was saved from answering by a commotion in the hall. It seemed that The Great Man had arrived to induce my labor, even though by then, it had apparently started on it’s own. Nothing daunted, the doctor slammed menacingly into the room, wielding a knitting needle with the clear intention of using it on me. The nurse turned to leave, shooing Randy and Tom out ahead of her and leaving me alone with a doctor who only became an OB because he’s a misogynist.
“What is that for?” I shrieked, trying to cross my legs.
“How are you feeling?” He asked, ignoring my question.
“Fine,” I said defiantly. “No pain yet, even though the nurse says I should be screaming. This isnt bad, why do movies make such a big deal out of it?”
“Oh…really?” The doctor bent over the foot of the bed, peering up my hospital gown. He examined his knitting needle lovingly, as a torturer examines his collection of bamboo sticks. “Lie back, you won’t feel a thing,” he said, and leaned forward. He was right, I didn’t feel it. Until I sat up, and the first real contraction arrived.
“Oh.” I said weakly. “Okay, I think I get it now.”
The next seven or so hours passed in what is now a merciful blur. I have a few memories: Randy trying to soothe me by rubbing an ice chip across my forehead, which sent freezing little streams of water down unerringly into my ears; arguing with the nurse about why the anesthesiologist felt it necessary to hang around in an emergency surgery instead of being here to stick a needle into my spine: the surgical patient was asleep after all, he wouldn’t miss the anesthesiologist; being asked by another nurse if I had to pee after the epidural had finally been applied and watching the first nurse look at her in contempt while explaining that I couldn’t feel my bladder; them catheterizing me because I couldn’t feel my bladder; Randy sleeping in the chair next to the bed when I realized the baby had entered the birth canal and leaping to his feet still mostly asleep to run out and find a nurse instead of just pushing the call button; being surrounded by people all telling me to do something different at the same time and being unable to concentrate because they’d left the door to the hallway open; not caring that the hallway door was open; and finally, seeing DaBoy.
He was lying on me, stomach to stomach. His eyes were wide and shocked, his tiny hand curling and uncurling against my breast, staring at me as though saying, “What is this all about? This is very uncool, lady. Now put me back.”
I extended one finger and very gently touched the back of his little fist. We both jumped a bit, and he didn’t break or start screaming. I decided that this might just work out, and then they took him away to be bathed and whatever else they do to newborns.
The following morning, after being declined four times when I asked to see him because he wasn’t warm enough yet, whatever that meant, I got out of bed, hauling my IV stand with me and marched determinedly to the nursery.
“What are you doing out of bed?” A nurse demanded, running at me. “You have a zillion stitches, a fourteen-foot long needle in your spine and…and…you shouldn’t be up!”
“Well, you wouldn’t bring him to me,” I declared woozily. “Mohammed and the hilltop, or whatever. Can I sit down?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she snapped, pushing me into a wheelchair. “Here, mister,” she said to someone over my shoulder, “You deal with her.”
I looked behind me to see Randy. “Hi, there,” I said vaguely. “I wanna see my son.”
Randy, knowing better than to argue, asked the nurse where the big visiting window was. She pointed, still glaring disgustedly at me, and marched away. Randy wheeled me over to the window, where a group of people obligingly stopped making monkey faces and silly noises at one of the babies and stepped aside to give us room. DaBoy was one of four babies in the room, and the only boy, which made him easy to spot. “He’s right there,” I said, as though Randy wasn’t able to distinguish between the blue and pink bassinets. One of the visitors craned his neck to see where I was pointing.
He looked at DaBoy, looked back at me and said, “That’s your baby?”
“Yes,” I said proudly.
The man looked back at DaBoy for a moment, then turned to me. “That’s a big baby,” he said solemnly.
“Yes,” I told him. “Believe me. I know.”
on October 17th, 2009 at 11:44 am
Yeah, but weren’t you really glad you shaved your legs? Hee
on October 18th, 2009 at 9:39 am
Oh, was I ever!