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November 25, 2002 - Monday's Child - Part I
7:30 PM. Sunday, November 3. I'm on the phone with my mother - she's calling from Hayrick Hall with a funny/scary story about being harassed by a policeman in an unmarked car - and I hear - hear! - my water break, like the distant report of a starter pistol. The analogy's an apt one. A bare seven hours and thirteen minutes later, she is in our arms. My last doctor's appointment had been on Tuesday. I was dilated to 2 and 80% effaced. Which was lovely, as I hadn't felt a thing. I had noticed the mucus plug starting to come out over the course of the next few days, but didn't even call the doctor - this can be an indicator that labor is imminent, or it can still be several weeks away. Even the water breaking isn't a reliable indicator - that, too, can happen days before the big event. But my water - though there wasn't much of it - had indeed broken, and I was seeing tiny streaks of blood where there hadn't been any before. So I called the doctor and explained what was happening, but added that I wasn't feeling any cramping or contraction. She'd never heard of "hearing" your water break before, but my mother had told me that she'd definitely heard something with me. It was like - hearing someone cough underwater, and there was a little tug that went along with it, and I was concerned a little, and even though I was pretty sure I wasn't in labor when the doctor suggested we come to the hospital just to check things out I agreed right away. We called Violet to come and get Ruby, just in case. While we waited for her, I hopped in the shower and washed my hair. I also shaved my legs - for the first time in months. It's an awkward thing to do when your center of gravity keeps shifting, but over the next few days I was profoundly grateful I'd taken the time to do it. Violet showed up, I slipped into some clothes. Toby put a few last-minute things in my bag - just in case - as he watched the Simpsons Halloween special I was not destined to see. Violet said she'd stick around awhile, just in case we came home. I told her that was a good idea - I figured only a 1 in 5 chance we'd have to stay at the hospital. Save your excitement for the real thing, I told her. Toby and I headed for the car about 8:15, and I began to feel the first low twinges. I felt perfectly calm, almost sure of being sent home again, but Violet told my parents later that my eyes were blazing. We broke no traffic laws on the relatively drama-free ten-minute drive to the hospital. I told Toby they'd probably tell us to go home until I was feeling for-sure, regular contractions, so there was no need to hurry. We timed my twinges as we drove - short, but close together. I wish I could remember more of what we talked about. He let me off at admitting, where the nurse took my blood pressure and asked me how I was feeling. By this point, the twinge in my lower belly and the twinge in my lower back were starting to work in concert. The nurse asked me - as women are always asked when gotten alone - if my domestic situation was an abusive one. I'm glad this question gets asked - there are a lot of women out there who need help - but I hate for Toby to be suspect simply because he is there. I told the nurse no, everything was wonderful, he'd be in as soon as he parked the car and she could see for herself. He came in. I began to say things like, oh my, from time to time. And the nurse invited me to put on a hospital gown and lie on a table so that they could monitor the contractions. Contractions? Okay, lady, fine, if that's what you say they are. What followed was probably the worst part of the evening. They needed to "get a pattern" of the contractions. This required me to lie on my back for the better part of an hour. Now the main pressure of the contraction for me was in my lower back. My mother had told me over and over to remember that no matter how difficult the contractions were, I'd get a "break" between each one. The pressure of the table on my lower back, though, made the break almost impossible to perceive. I thrashed my head around some, mostly because of the huge effort required to keep the rest of my body still for the instruments. But not then, not ever, in fact, did I swear aloud, or scream for God, or for my mother. When they came to put the IV in, it began to dawn on me that we weren't going to be sent home. I resisted the IV - did it have to go in so soon? didn't labor go on for hours? wasn't I just getting started? - but the nurses advised it was for the best. It hurt going in, the needle like a wasp sting. And then something went wrong. The nurse called another nurse, who said "Oh dear." They rubbed my forearm as they consulted with one another. I didn't look. I looked at the ceiling, at the place where the walls meet it, and when each contraction started I followed that join around the room with my eyes. I didn't want to look at a clock, I didn't want to count, or, worse, listen to someone else reel off numbers to mark a pain that they couldn't feel. The movement of my eyes across the room gave the illusion of time passing, of progress. It helped. I looked at Toby briefly when the IV was going in, and after that I didn't look at him for a long time. Too focused on what was going on inside myself, afraid of how much I might need him if I gave in to that need. From time to time, he touched me, just to let me know he was there. The doctor came, the one I'd spoken to on the phone. She told us that I was dilated to 4 and 100% effaced and that our baby had dark hair. They moved us upstairs. Room 8. A good omen - eight has always been my favorite number. The ride through the halls on the stretcher was nice. The cool breeze felt good on my skin, and I asked the nurses if they could just push me around all night. Being in Room 8 - it was just about half past ten now - was kind of a shock. It seemed to both of us like everything was moving so quickly. Contractions were strong and definite now, but I was mentally trying to prepare myself for long, agonizing hours of them. They sent for the anesthesiologist right away, which surprised and worried me. Yes, I wanted the epidural, but not at the expense of a long, drawn-out labor. Wasn't it too soon? No, they assured me. It wasn't too soon. The next block of time was tough. I spent a bad five minutes in the bathroom, tracking that place where the ceiling met the wall and screwing up the courage to come out again. I stood with one leg on the floor, one knee bent up and on the bed, as they fiddled with machines and monitors and things. The anesthesiologist showed up, and there was a nurse, too - Jessica. God rain blessings on this woman. A young girl - no older than twenty-five - who nonetheless was the only person in the room who made me feel that everything was going to be OK. Time for the epidural. Jessica - I called her name. We held each other's forearms, I pressed my face up close against her, my eyes closed. I asked them to wait until I was finished with the contraction and they did. Numbing needle. Hardly felt a thing. Then the main event. I can't say that I felt anything exactly, but I heard something - two clicks, deep in my lower back. Toby, poor love, might as well have been on the moon for all the attention I was paying him. He was worried about the epidural, watched the whole thing from across the room, told me later he began to pray God please heal her. And the thing kicked in, and this was around eleven because Jessica my angel of mercy left soon after. And the pain in my back went away and suddenly I could perceive the pain in my front, which was kind if a nasty surprise, but they told me that would go away too, and it did. Oh oh oh oh oh. I have never felt so good in my life. They swore there was nothing narcotic in it, and rationally I know it's true, but oh - oh - never have I felt so good. Like I'd had a few drinks and was all floaty and relaxed. I raised my eyes to look for my husband and found him right at my side. The next few hours passed in a wonderful daze. Another nurse came on - if I ever knew her name, I've forgotten it. A young one, this one, too, with dark hair. The room was soft and dim, and it was just the three of us, and I felt so relaxed that I had to periodically ask Toby to stop touching me because his touch was so relaxing and good I was afraid I'd fall asleep. They checked me, right after the epidural. I was dilated to 9. (In case you don't know, this is out of 10.) My left leg went entirely numb, so I had to lie on my right side. This was sad, because it put Toby behind me and left me facing a bank of machines. But we managed, and we talked, and the time flew by, and they came some time around 1:30 and said we could start to push. Again, this seemed so fast. Pain-free or not, didn't I still have hours of work ahead of me? Maybe, maybe not. We pushed, but it was tough because the sensor on my stomach that monitored the contractions kept slipping out of place. I thanked the nurse, though, for not calling me "Mom" and for not saying "push push push push push!" in a stupid, high-pitched baby voice. Then the doctor and another nurse came in. This nurse called me Mom and did the push push thing, but she did something else that really helped - she grabbed the sole of my right foot and sent a message to my brain that the lower half of my body was still there. I believe it was at this point - as they were telling me to "push through your bottom" - that I made reference to the somewhat vulgar expression regarding not being able to find one's backside with two hands and a flashlight. Really. I couldn't have done it. Even if you threw in a map. They dialed down the epidural and gave me a little pitocin - to speed up the contractions - and things moved pretty quickly after that. The doctor goes, OK, why don't we switch on the warmer. Toby and I stare at each other in amazement for the dozenth time that night - they plunk the baby in the warmer right after its appearance, and switching it on meant things were really getting serious now. They asked if I wanted a mirror. I said no. Actually I could faintly make out most of the action in the darkened screen of a television mounted above the bed, and that was as much of a view as I wanted. Toby later told me that there was so much blood that the table looked like a butcher block. Toby grabbed my concrete left leg. The pushy cheerleader nurse grabbed the other. The doctor took her stance at the foot of the bed, and everyone began saying things like, good job, just a few more and you've got it. In my best estimation: I had maybe fifteen pushing sessions of 3-4 pushes each with the quiet nurse, and maybe 10 with the doctor and the pushy nurse. Then they all started saying look down, look down - and I couldn't believe it, it was really time. I looked instead at Toby's face and I saw an expression there I'd never seen before and can't describe but will remember always. He was the first to see her face, and I saw it reflected in his. I felt - a presence. Look down, look down, reach for her reach out to her gather her out of you and into you in one smooth motion. I don't remember what I said, only the feeling. Her flesh as soft and yielding as whipped cream - I grasp her to me and it seems as if my fingers will go right through her to the other side. But strong, so strong at the core of her, right from the start. And the odor - again, indescribable, unforgettable. The scent of the atmosphere of another planet, distant and all but forgotten, unknowable in this life again by any of us but that in the beginning sustained us all. Monday's child. Her dark blue eyes are wide open, framed by soft, pale, perfect brows. Her skin is exactly the same shade as mine. I think I promised to protect her. I think I promised to keep her warm. Someone asked, what's her name? Toby opened his mouth to speak, but I said wait, let me see her first. I've known her name for months now, but there was always a chance that she'd arrive and it would fit all wrong. It's been torment keeping it a secret. I first knew during the final chaos of the move - like a great calm at the center of a storm, it suddenly came clear to me what her name must be. It was no longer a choice. There were no other possibilities. Throughout those terrible weeks I clung to that name like the log snagged at the top of a waterfall that keeps you from going over. It is the name of my mother's grandmother, and this is why we couldn't tell. Over and over my mother would sigh, how wonderful it would be if you named her XXXXX. I know you won't, but everyone would be so happy if you did. Now knowing that my mother (and her entire extended family, including my aunt who has the same name) felt like that, and knowing that there was a chance we'd change our minds once our baby arrived, what choice did we have but to keep it a secret? My family has been patient, but every visit, every phone call, ended with pleas for Toby and I to part with our secret. As tough as it was, we held firm. I told Toby that my mother might faint dead away when we told her, and when he did - over the phone that morning, she and Dad preparing to leave Hayrick Hall - he said there was a long, long silence. I didn't name her XXXX primarily to make my family happy, though it is a happy side effect. I did it because the minute I made that decision, I never even considered another name, never looked back. Toby had lobbied hard for a few others, but in the end he came around. If he'd truly hated the name, we would have found something else (though honestly I don't know how). And the Jewish tradition is not to give a new child the same name as a living person. But my aunt who shares this name I've seen twice in ten years - at Nana's funeral and at our wedding - and since this aunt is not Jewish I felt this canceled out the custom. There's a middle name - Louise, my own middle name - that's always gone with XXXX, and for a long time I wanted to give her that whole name, just like my aunt and my grandmother. In the end, though, Toby asked for the chance to honor his own great-grandmother with a middle name. It was a good decision - she is definitively XXXXXX Esther. XXXXXX Louise would have been all wrong. (Editor's note: there is no pseudonym yet - that's why all the X's. This is because, as much as we love her name, we haven't really got in the habit of using it yet. And I don't feel right about hanging another name on her when I don't fully associate her real name with her yet. A name is a powerful thing. Give me time.) Anyhow, back to the hospital. They took her and weighed her and I said, give her to Toby, and they did, and he held her close, brought her back to me, and our family was, for the first time, complete in an entirely new way. Her eyes dart around the room and I say to Toby, she's alive! she's really alive! We held her and talked to her as they stitched me up. I only tore a little - five days later it was hardly noticeable at all and the pain was never very bad - but they kept talking about it as they did it! (Do you feel this? Are we hurting you?) I wanted to shout at them, don't talk about it, just do it! I really don't want to think about what you're doing down there! There was a trash can against the wall. A big one, not kitchen-size but like the ones you haul to the curb. It was full to overflowing. I asked them, is all that just from this delivery? and they said Yes. My goodness. The placenta got away. I'm not one of those people who attributes powerful spiritual properties to the afterbirth, but I did find it odd that in all the books I've read, all the films I've seen, the placenta never gets so much as a cameo role. How often in your life do you create an entire major organ and get to see it with the rest of your gutbag still intact? Someone was going to bring it over to me, but it never made its way to my side. Oh well. And one of the nurses cut the cord. Neither Toby nor I felt that it was necessary that he do it -"maybe next time" was the general consensus. And Oh the dread that shot through my heart to see such a huge pair of scissors so close to my little baby! The sound they made cutting through! The anesthesiologist came back and took out the epidural. Now here's the funny part - when he started peeling off the tape that held the tube to my back, I wanted to scream like a banshee for the first time all night! That tape being pulled off my skin hurt worse - in terms of sharp, tearing pain - than anything else that happened to me the entire time I was in the hospital. Swear it. That was about it for the delivery room. I had to roll from the bed onto a gurney - not easy when your left leg is dangling like so much dead weight and there's an IV in your arm. I hated that IV so much - wanted to rip it out so bad. I was so afraid of pulling it out accidentally that I hardly dared move. Worst of all, it seemed to keep me from holding her properly. But they told me it had to stay in until I'd peed a time or two. They wheeled us downstairs, Toby in tow. No comfort in the breeze this time - I pulled the sheet up to cover her face and mine, to shield her from the chill and the lights. Again I told her I promised to keep her safe and warm. More nurses helped me into another bed. Toby and I said a temporary goodbye to our sweet, beautiful baby - this was harder than either of us expected - and then to each other. Though there was a sort of pull-out chair in the room, I wanted Toby to get some rest. I rested too, then rose and made it to the bathroom with just a little help from the nurses. I gave them what they wanted (um, pee) and my agitation at the IV was so great that they actually took it our at the 7 AM shift change, rather than waiting for me to stage a repeat performance. My gratitude was as profound as my relief, and at last I slept. |