Birth

I am checking my watch (because in the olden days, there were no brightly lit cell phone screens to scream the time) every five minutes, convinced that the pressure I am feeling is my first child, making her way into our world. I question everyone around me, not sure I even know what to expect with labor. They all give me varying ideas, and so I convince myself this is it. I expect more fanfare- flags, trumpets, a baffled and eager husband to leave me stranded in my driveway a la She's Having a Baby, but business goes on as usual, and eventually the contractions go away. My work phone still rings, I still answer it, and another day passes with no infant to bring home. Each day is a mystery, not knowing how it will end. Perhaps I will go home and eat a burrito, or perhaps I will squeeze a newborn through my loins. I get butterflies every time I feel a contraction, I have a bag packed. And then repacked. And then packed again. I have utter conviction that I will do it all naturally, and argue with everyone who debates me. What an absurd idea that I will take drugs to do something so many women before me have done. I am standing in my kitchen when my water breaks, and it seems so un-monumentous, that I question whether it has actually happened. Unlike my third child, whose water will break like the unleashing of a tsunami, it is a thin trickle, like a whisper, and then it is gone. I am calm, and Jake is calm, and we even remember to feed the dog before we leave. I have a pillow, and a bag, and it is an easy route to the hospital, where it seems like such a farce to see so many cars in the crowded lot. Surely these other patrons have very small ailments, and why in the world would there be no parking for the women who have tiny skulls urging their way through the birth canal as they walk the spanse of blacktop. It is an absurdly hot day in July, in the one hundred teens, and for just a fraction of a moment, I think I would rather go back and rest in the pool. Once inside the doors, the universe changes. The mellow afternoon becomes a blur, with overhead speakers, and rushing gurneys, and the smell of antiseptics lingering around every corner. I accidentally make eye contact with an old woman who is surely dying, and I grip my stomach and pull it closer, so the death can not reach out and take hold.

Once inside, they discover I have had a slow leak for many days, and that my womb is filled with meconium. I am hooked to antibiotics, and petocin and am left in an ugly sterile room, a large but oh so small 21 year old girl, who is thinking there is no turning back.

It is a long labor, we play cards, we watch TV, and as I am denied food, I grow weaker and more tired. The pain begins in a bearable way, but becomes ferocious and when I try to rest, it snarls and snaps its angry jaws at me. I fight as long as I can, and then ashamed, admit defeat while they administer the epidural. The pinch in my spine is something I would never classify as a pinch, and then the pull of the drug as it goes through my blood is oddly hypnotizing. I can follow its path as it surges, and kisses the booboo all better. I am suddenly at peace. The beast within is asleep, and it allows me my own rest. The sleep is not deep, and often interrupted, but it has allowed me strength to push when morning comes. I do not feel the urge to push, but they tell me I must, and so I do. I had fear that I would not know how to push, but the instinct is animalistic, and I am only along for the ride as my body does its thing. I push for a long time. I wonder later if I was ready to push, or if my doctor wanted to make a tee time, but I will never truly know. When she begins her descent, it is a remarkable feeling. The fanfare is suddenly there. It dawns on me that of course there would be no fanfare during the labor, because it is all saved for this very moment. I am looking into Jake's nervous face and telling him I love him, while he holds one leg and my mother holds the other. I am watching a tiny bald head leave my body, and though I am seeing it through a mirror, I am feeling it as an out of body experience. There is no pain as she graces us with her presence. There is an immediate relief with no worldly comparison, and then suddenly there are frantic rushes around me. The cord is around her neck, she is blue, there is no breath. She is whisked from me, brought simply miles from my beating heart and suctioned and handled with such roughness, it is as if watching a petulant toddler with a ragdoll. I am vomiting, and seeing fear in my mother's face, which sets my blood cold. They are now delivering my placenta, so stained with the meconium that it is green, looking like something pulled from a Hollywood movie about aliens. And then there is the blood. A bucket below me catches it, and I wonder where it is all coming from. They are straddling my body, attempting to contract me down, but still the blood is everywhere, up to elbows, on the floor. I think I might die. I might die without holding my little blue baby.

And then, the chaos stops. The nurses and doctors leave the room, with sullied gowns and gloves, and barely a nod of recognition my way. Jake is holding our little girl, who has gone from a deep purple to a luscious pink. He cries, as he will every time I give birth (and in the case of Lucas, will hop around the room like a confused rabbit), and it brings tears to my eyes. He places her in my arms, my bleeding stops, and she looks at me, and I think, "I know you."

And I can tell from her complete and focused gaze, that she knows exactly who I am, as well.