Momnesia

Ooh, Baby I Love Your Way

We had the baby, but I wouldn't have known unless someone told me. I don't remember it.

She was late. I went for my now-weekly Wednesday checkup, hoping to be rushed to the hospital in dramatic fashion by the doctor. "Get the I.V.! Outta the way! Moveitmoveitmoveit!"

"Well, two centimeters dilated. You want to come back next week?"
"No," I said. "Can I have her now?"

She looked up in surprise. I didn't care; man, I was tired. I'd been having contractions for two weeks, pretty much continuously. It kept me awake, tired me out at work, freaked out my husband - and it hurt. I guess she saw it in my face.

She returned a few minutes later: "Tomorrow night at six, ma'am. Check in and I'll see you Friday morning to induce."
I nodded, wearily, and met my husband outside.
"What did she say?" he asked.
"She said to have me at the hospital by 6 p.m. tomorrow," I said, as I struggled to stretch the seat belt. I glanced at him and saw that he had paled noticeably. I smiled, secretly. It was hitting him, too.

My parents met me at work at the next day, and I left at 4 p.m. with a merry, "See you tomorrow!" Ha ha. We all went and scarfed a big Mexican dinner and checked in. THEN came the I.V.'s, the poking, the prodding, the "No, you cannot have some water." Dang, woman! I'm thirsty!

When Nurse Ratchett and her cronies left, Scott sneaked in some Chick-fil-A and we reveled in our secret stash. Then I sent him home to get his last night of sleep for 18 years.

After some argument, I agreed to take a sleeping pill I didn't want. Big mistake. Sometime around 2 a.m., I went into labor in my own. I don't know what possessed them, but they gave me a shot of Demoral. I do not do well with opiates, and my husband was instructed to intervene. But he wasn't there. For some reason, they gave me another not too long after. Then they came in and tried to do an epidural.

Let's do the math: 1 sleeping pill, 2 shots of Demoral = 0 control over my own body. When the epidural-doctor-man sat me up for the needle, I fell over on the floor... on my face.

Somewhere around 9 a.m. I realized Scott was feeding me ice chips. Apparently, he had been for some time because my lips were frozen. I asked him to stop, but he didn't hear me. He was watching my girl-parts. Please, let my husband watch the previously enjoyable parts of his wife's body expand until he could yodel inside of them. Hoorah.

At some point, I was commanded to push. I tried.
"Am I pushing?" I asked. I couldn't feel anything.
"Oh, yeah!" the nurse exclaimed.
Cool. Thanks, yoga.

"Stop!"
"Really? Am I done?"
"No, we're waiting for the doctor."
"Can't you catch?"
But she was gone.

The ice chips, however, were ever-present.
"Honey, my head is frozen."
"Huh? Oh, sorry."

About a half hour later, the doctor shows up. Nice to see her, and all, but we've done just about everything there is to do.
"Okay, push!"
I do. I look up at Scott, and he has gone completely white. All I see are red hair and freckles. The rest of him blends in with the sterile walls.
"Okay, dad, cut the cord!"
Scott reaches out to take the scissors. His hands are shaking and I'm afraid he'll cut the wrong thing, but before I can protest, it's over. They clean her up, Scott gets all in the way with the photography, and I drift in and out. Suddenly I notice the room is silent.
"Um, how is she?" I ask.
There is still silence. I know they are doing an Apgar score. I wonder what it is. Finally, I hear a weak cry and see the nurse hand our little girl to Scott. He holds her and marvels. I smile and nod back off.

"Here, sweetheart," he whispers, and tries to hand me the baby. I do not want to hold the baby. I want to sleep.
"That's okay. I'll hold her later."
Through my opiate induced fog, I see something in his face I do not like - a mixture of fear, anger, and disappointment.
"Hold. Your. Daughter."
Okay.

Oh, yeah. This is good. Teeny baby, just 7 lbs? Give it to the drugged out lady. Under normal circumstances, this would be considered endangerment. I hold her, try to focus my eyes. I do not remember her face. The nurses sense it is time to take her away. I am grateful... but I already missed her.

I awaken in a room surrounded by relatives. God knows what I was doing in my sleep. Snoring? Talking? Drooling? Farting? I do not ask, but I am told that when they were wheeling me down to the new room I kept saying, "Wheeeeeee!"

I drifted in and out for a good 14 hours. They brought Emerson Renee McGowen Hudson in and she didn't go back until the relatives left. Then they brought her back and she slept on my chest all night.

I didn't go home for four blissful days. People brought drugs right to my bedside. I was not required to shower or change. I ordered every meal from a menu.

The downside is that random hospital employees kept coming in to check my stitches all the time. I think there might have been a janitor mixed in there somewhere, but you get so used to people looking at your hoo-ha that you just stop asking. Finally, they kicked us out. They didn't even ask us to be nice to her.

We took her down in her car seat.
I marveled at the clean car, the car seat, and the baby while Scott pulled out of the parking space.
"Honey, how does it stay in?" I asked, thoroughly confused.
"What?" He was intent on the traffic on the road outside the parking lot.
"The car seat - what holds it in?"
He glanced back: "Oh, shit!"
I giggled nervously, hysterically, while he affixed the seat belt to the car seat.

We were off to a great start.