Saturday, May 21, 2011

Pieces Of Me, Part III

When I was 23 I found out that I was pregnant for the third time. We had lost our son Steve to SIDS and had decided to never, ever have another child. We doubled and tripled birth control when I was feeling especially fecund. We watched the calendar like hawks always knowing exactly where in my cycle we were so that we wouldn’t have any unexpected ‘incidents’. Who knew that a quart of moonshine, terrible weather and a good night with new friends would undo 5 years of caution?

We had moved to Georgia and were living in an apartment with single pane windows and no air conditioning that had been old when I was born. A mountain man that hunted with my husband had given him the moonshine and several of the men he worked with came over with their wives for cards and corn likker. The evening was wonderful, full of laughter and amity. My daughter had been charming and well behaved. The food we had prepared had been well received. Everything had been wonderful and we were feeling relaxed, happy, and as people left, more and more amorous. The weather outside was frigid so when we realized that we had no more condoms we decided to just trust my cycle. This is called the rhythm method and explains why so many Catholics have huge families. I woke a couple of hours after our tumultuous meeting in the throes of a horrific hot flash and feeling a bit queasy. I wanted to blame it on the moonshine, the corn likker wreaking havoc with my system, but I knew as surely as I was laying there sweating and shaking that I was pregnant.

I couldn’t tell my husband for a while. This was so huge, and so scary I just worried it in my own head until I was certain that I was expecting. When I told him he turned a bit green, said okay, grabbed his motorcycle helmet and shot out the door like a bullet through a barrel. That was our only discussion about the baby for 8 months. He simply refused to acknowledge it at all.

I had learned something the last two times I had delivered. I knew that I could expect to feel vaguely uncomfortable for some period of time and then deliver the kid in roughly five minutes. The baby was due the Monday my daughter was supposed to start kindergarten and all signs pointed to this one being on time. I made plans with my mother for us to sleep at her house the night before and for her to baby-sit just in case this delivery actually progressed like it was supposed to.  The official due date dawned hot and sunny and I felt pretty sore. When I stood up I felt a tremendous shift in my pelvis and yelled out excitedly, This is it! This is it! My husband who had successfully pretended for the entire pregnancy that I was just getting really fat in a weird way leapt up and took charge

We got to the hospital at 7:30 AM and were in a delivery room within five minutes. My favorite midwife was in attendance along with my husband and my mother. My mom had had eight children and six grandchildren by this point and had not seen a single birth. She had been sedated for hers for no other reason than that is how they did it way back when.  

This baby, our son, was delivered in less than 30 minutes, though not with the fanfare of his older brother. This was my third delivery using only curse words and jokes as a means to mask the pain of it and it went off without a hitch. They asked my mom to cut the cord, and, while she looked a bit green in the gills (caused by both my language and the birth), she did and with a purpose that surprised me. She kissed me good bye and left to take my 5 year old to her first day of kindergarten just an hour late.

I, who had carried this child, this beautiful boy for 9 months not knowing if my marriage or he would survive his coming was suddenly terrified. When the nurse handed him to me I started shaking like a leaf and my terror was so palpable that it made him wail and shake as well. His father, who had not talked about him, or gone to the doctor with me, or looked at little clothing or painted walls or bought toys, took him gently and he quieted instantly. My husband touched his little face with a work worn hand and turned his head so that his tears would not fall on the milky new skin.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Pieces Of Me Part II

Having had a baby once, and being incredibly young and stupid, I assumed that I knew what every birth thereafter would be like.

My daughter had come in mid October. It had been easy, and drawn out and quiet, full of naps and whispered conversations with my husband about the future. My second child came in a much more frenzied manner. I woke knowing that this day (December 1rst, 1978) was it. We couldn’t afford a phone so I put on my parka and boots (contractions 10 minutes apart, no big deal), grabbed my small bag, plopped my 14 month old in her stroller shrouded in heavy quilts  and headed out the door into a 10 degree winter morning for the one mile walk to the base.

My husband’s unit handled nuclear devices so security was tight. I stopped at the gate and identified myself and told them what I needed. A phone call was made. A second, higher ranking man came to the gate and took my ID. For some unknown reason these soldiers always felt the need to remark on the fact that my husband had an American name and was Belgian and I had a French name and was not. My contractions had begun coming closer together and this lieutenant showed no signs of being in a hurry. I hopped from foot to foot, patting my woolen mummy of a child on the head and tried to see around him. He was jovial and talked to my daughter and complained about the frigid weather and asked did I like the snow and were we ready for Christmas. By this time the contractions had sped up considerably coming about 3 minutes apart and the hospital was 15 miles away.  I heard my breathing take on the tenor of a steam locomotive, I felt a terrible urge to put both hands between my legs just in case I had to catch the little bugger myself, I was just about to lose control of my mounting temper (as any army wife knows, permanently destroying my husbands chance of ever being more than a PFC) when I saw my man running flat out across the parade ground toward me, waving the car keys and shouting Breathe! Breathe! He leapt in the car, gunned the engine and shot out of his parking spot He did a sliding stop at the gate, throwing the door open, allowing me to stumble in as he snatched up my daughter and threw her face first into the back seat leaving the stroller where it sat.  Sliding back in he gave a wicked grin as he saluted through the window and ratcheted the car into reverse and then back into gear and we peeled out spraying ice and salt all over the starched officer.

The hospital was old, six stories with the OB-GYN rooms being on the top floor. Normally a rickety old elevator, pre WW-II, serviced the upper floors but as luck would have it the thing had died during the night and was taped off. I looked at the stairwell, feeling like someone on TV, looking for hidden cameras. What could I do? I took off my coat and began the hump up 120 stairs. My husband took my elbow but was called back by the young soldier behind the desk. Government institutions, any government institution, runs on paper and this military hospital was no exception. He turned around to fill out what seemed to be fifty forms in triplicate while I heaved myself up.

On the ground floor my contractions were about a minute apart. By the fourth floor they were hitting me like surf, constant, and by the sixth floor I was done. I slung open the fire door with a bang and grunted NOW. A young corpsman stood in front of me looking terrified and glued to the spot. I can only imagine the hot, sweaty, red-faced, pissed-off, heavy breathing behemoth that stood in front of him at that moment. Two men, who thank heaven turned out to be doctors, literally lifted me off the floor by my elbows, through a door and plopped me unceremoniously on a bed. I yelled ARGGHHHH or something similar as my drawers were ripped off and whoosh, one fellow stood at the end of the bed, drenched in amniotic fluid and holding a freaking gorgeous 10 pound baby boy like he was a football while the other was struck immobile in the process of closing the door. I still had my coat clutched in my hands.

We remained frozen in place, a vivid tableau with the only sound that of water dripping off the bed frame until my husband burst in the room with our daughter on his hip and a disbelieving look on his face. He hit the puddle and slid into the bed and gave me one of the best kisses of my life. I started laughing, he started crying, my daughter and the new baby both started howling and both doctors started whooping with glee and adrenalin release. The entire thing took less than an hour. I resolved to climb stairs and walk miles if I ever went into labor again.

I found out later that the officer was a friend of my husband and had been sent to occupy me while he finished up whatever a gunner does. He appeared at the hospital an hour after our son was born bearing flowers and a toy for my daughter and a cigar for my husband. I often wondered what happened to him. I haven't seen him since.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Pieces Of Me, Part I

I have had a lot of truly wonderful things happen in my life. Glorious things that make me stop and thank the heavens above. There are moments I have conscientiously tucked away thinking this is a perfect instant in time and so should be treasured. I want to keep them near my heart. I pull them out with a child’s delight, savoring the unfolding memories and laying them like quilt pieces, seeing the beauty in the squares, the lovely pattern that is my life.

I have the birth of my children for instance.  My first took place in a dark quiet room with only myself, my husband and a young doctor, just reassigned and catching me as his first patient. He is so new to this base that his bags are quite literally lying in the corner in a heap. There is a second heap, my husband’s kit. He is going off on a three day maneuver to Greece as soon as the baby comes (if it comes before 4 o’clock).

Like everything else before and since nothing has gone according to plan.This baby is four weeks past due. My husband had taken his vacation the week it was supposed to come. No baby. His parents had come to stay the week after. No baby. My neighbors and friends checked on me constantly the week after that. No baby. This week was the worst possible week ever for me to deliver. Hey! Baby! My parents are thousands of miles away and my friends are all busy helping their husbands get ready for the same trip to Greece. We have been mostly undisturbed in a room in an empty ward, chatting about the future, doing crossword puzzles and dozing in and out since 3 AM. I have no idea what the baby will be. I hope it is a girl, my husband is sure it is a boy. My doctor is 'not available' which bothers me a bit but they all seem calm so I am too.

My husband keeps looking at his watch, the clock on the wall, my watch, all the while trying to not seem as if it matters, though it matters terribly to both of us. At three o'clock in the afternoon a young, harried looking man comes in to the room, dumping a pile of stuff behind the door and introduces himself as my doctor. I am barely 18, my husband is barely 21 and the doctor looks barely 12.

Right when I am sure something is  wrong with this child who refuses to come, that the doctor is really a kid who took the wrong bus and said what the hell, that we are the only living souls in Bonn on this rainy October afternoon I feel a tremendous push, then another and bam. In less than five minutes 12 hours of really easy labor comes to a screeching halt and I am holding a stunning little girl. My husband, with 29 minutes to spare is crying. The doctor, who blames it on jet lag, bursts into tears as well and soon confesses he has never delivered a baby before. My daughter and I size each other up. I am sure I am found lacking. I must be, because I am a mere mortal and she is the epitome of perfection.