“You’re not bringing your BlackBerry into the delivery room, right?” I asked him yesterday. “Because I will get very pissed off if you start answering your e-mail while I’m in surgery.”
“Of course I’m not going to be checking e-mail while you’re in surgery.”
“And you’re not going to bring your cellphone in either, right?”
“Of course not,” the fiancé answered, laughing.
“Not even on vibrate, right?”
“Right.”
“Because that buzzing really annoys the hell out of me.”
7:00 a.m.
I just showered and blow-dried my hair.
7:30 a.m.
I am not allowed to eat breakfast. I haven’t eaten anything since midnight last night. I’m starving.
I light up a cigarette from a secret stash I have hidden in a kitchen cupboard. I inhale. What damage can it do now? Plus, I’m nervous.
8:00 a.m.
Where is the fiancé? I’m all ready to go. Where is he? Has he forgotten about me? Has he forgotten we’re having a baby today?
8:15 a.m.
We’re lost. The fiancé has decided to take a new, “faster” route to avoid rush-hour traffic. Why is it that new, “faster” routes always get you lost? I knew we were headed for trouble when I said, “Hey, is this the way we get to the hospital?” and the fiancé answered, “I think this route will also get us there.”
“You think? You think?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll get there. Don’t freak.”
Don’t freak. Trying not to freak.
“I think it will be very wrong to be late for a C-section. This isn’t like being late for a restaurant reservation.”
“We won’t be late.”
“We have to be there in ten minutes!”
“We won’t be late.”
“We have to be there in nine minutes!”
8:30 a.m.
Phew. We made it.
8:46 a.m.
“Oh, I almost forgot to give you this,” I say, handing the fiancé a crumpled piece of paper.
“What is it?”
“It’s a list of my friends’ phone numbers. You have to call them after and tell them what happens. It’s not that exciting since most of them know I’m having the baby today and that it’s a girl, but they might want to know the weight.”
“Okay. Funny how this is the one thing that no one had to remind you to do.”
8:59 a.m.
Time to have a baby. I am now naked, except for socks and a blue hospital gown (which, of course, does not do up at the back), waiting in the “prep” room. The fiancé is in scrubs, accessorized with an ugly paper hat over his hair and matching ugly paper slippers to put over his shoes.
The anesthetist comes in to introduce himself and explain how the needle goes into my spine for the epidural and that I’ll be frozen from my breasts down to my toes. I’ll still be able to move my arms. He is super friendly and puts me at ease immediately. He tells me his wife has had two C-sections and she was fine. He tells me he’ll be at my side the entire time.
I have given my last pee sample. My blood pressure has been taken for the last time. An IV is hooked up to my wrist. I am being wheeled to the delivery room.
9:00 a.m.
The operating room—or, rather, the delivery room—is very cold. I’m shivering. There are half a dozen people in scrubs standing around. Where is Dr. Bono? The fiancé has been directed to a viewing booth where he has to watch me get the epidural. After that’s done he can come in the room and hold my hand during the C-section. I see him watching me through the glass. I miss him. I need him beside me right now. He gives me the thumbs-up sign, which is all he can do to show his support from where he is watching. I hate the thumbs-up sign almost as much as I hate people who want to high-five me.
Something is going to fuck up. I’m going to end up paralyzed. I know it, even though the super-friendly anesthetist has told me that the chances of that happening are one in a million. I could be that one in a million. It is possible.
9:10 a.m.
Gaa! Who is this woman armed with a needle coming toward me? I shouldn’t have looked at the needle. It is huge. That’s going to hurt, I think. That’s going to hurt.
“This is another anesthetist. She’ll be helping me out,” the super-friendly anesthetist tells me. Do not freak, Beck. Do not freak. They wouldn’t let her stick that needle in me if she didn’t know what she was doing, right?
If the fiancé does not stop giving me the thumbs-up sign, I’m going to hurt someone.
9:11 a.m.
OWW! The pain! “That really, really hurts,” I tell the super-friendly anesthetist, who is behind me with the female anesthetist. I’m not being super friendly. I start to cry. “OWW. Seriously . . . Is it supposed to hurt like that?” I ask, sobbing. “It really, really hurts.”
The female anesthetist takes the needle out from my back. “We’ll try it again,” she says.
The super-friendly male anesthetist starts giving directions to the female anesthetist. “Oh, you were putting it in a little high. You should try a little lower down in her back,” he tells her. GAA! Wait! Is she practicing on me? Do they not know that I can hear them? Do they not know that this is my spine? I want to scream out to the male anesthetist, “YOU DO IT! YOU DO IT! I AM NOT A GUINEA PIG! I TRUST YOU!” But I don’t want to be a prima donna. I don’t want to be a brat. Instead, I really start bawling, resorting to my “tears work” theory.
“Okay, you know what?” the super-friendly male anesthetist says, seeing my distress. “I’m going to do it.”
God is listening. Thank God. The needle goes into my back effortlessly.
9:30 a.m.
I’m lying on the operating bed. I can’t feel my bum. My legs are tingling, getting more and more numb by the nanosecond. The fiancé comes in and grabs my hand. A sheet is drawn right at my neck level so I won’t be able to see what happens on the other side. Dr. Bono comes in. At least I think it’s Dr. Bono. I can’t tell because this man is wearing scrubs and a face mask, which covers everything but his eyes.
“Are we ready to go?” Phew. I hear his accent. It’s Dr. Bono.
“We’re ready,” everyone else in the room answers in unison.
It’s definitely too late to turn back now. I look into the fiancé’s eyes. I love you, I think. I’d better be frozen. I’d better not feel anything.
9:35 a.m.
“Did you just feel that?” the super-friendly anesthetist asks me.
“No. Feel what?”
“It’s good you didn’t feel anything. The doctor just did something really nasty to you.”
What?? What was Dr. Bono doing behind the sheet? Nasty does not sound good.
9:40 a.m.
“You’re going to feel some pressure very soon,” Dr. Bono calls out from behind the sheet. To get the baby out, he says, he uses his elbow to push her down the opening he has cut in my lower stomach. How can a baby fit out through a six-inch opening, the length of the cut Dr. Bono said he would make? Not going to worry about it. Not going to worry about it.
9:43 a.m.
“Ow. I can feel the pressure,” I cry out.
“You’re doing great,” the super-friendly anesthetist tells me. “Everything is going great.”
“How much longer? How much longer?”
“We’re almost done,” says the super-friendly anesthetist.
“You’re doing great,” says the female anesthetist.
“You’re doing great,” says the fiancé. At least now people are telling me that I’m “doing great” as opposed to “looking great.” I do not let go of the fiancé’s hand, though my palms are super sweaty. Or are those his palms that are sweaty?
9:58 a.m.
“She’s coming out now,” someone says. “Here she comes.” This is my last second being a non-mother.
9:59 a.m.
WAAAA!! I hear the scream of a baby. Dr. Bono holds my baby up over th
e sheet so I can see her. That’s my baby? She looks slimy and wet and pink and squiggly.
She’s perfect.
“Time of birth?” someone calls out.
“9:59 a.m.,” answers Dr. Bono. A nurse takes my baby to a corner in the room to check her out and clean her up.
WAAAA!! That’s me crying now. The fiancé kisses me. I kiss him back. I’m crying, this time because I’m happy and relieved. I feel . . . I feel . . . happier than I ever thought I could ever feel. Ever. I have never known happiness like this, and I am savoring it, like a juicy first kiss. This feeling is better than any first kiss. I am convinced I can never feel this happy again. I want to remember everything about this moment.
The fiancé keeps kissing me and kissing me. I want to inhale him, too. But where is my baby?
“Can you go check on her?” I ask him, and he goes to where they are cleaning her off. I have the overwhelming urge to make sure everything is okay. This must be the maternal instinct that everyone told me would kick in.
“Do we have a name yet?” someone calls out.
“Rowan Joely,” I call out. Rowan Joely. Rowan Joely. My daughter.
10:05 a.m.
Baby Rowan is in my arms, wrapped in a blanket with a cap on her head. She fits perfectly. She is beautiful. The fiancé is looking down at us, beaming. We kiss again.
The sheet is still up. Dr. Bono is taking out the placenta and stitching me up. At least that’s what I think he’s supposed to be doing now. I don’t even notice.
10:12 a.m.
I’m in the recovery room. A nurse has taken Baby Rowan and is weighing and measuring her. She weighs 7 pounds, 3 ounces.
The fiancé’s parents come into the room with my mother. They all gather around the baby. They aren’t paying any attention to me. Baby Rowan is everything. I’m still weepy. The fiancé has taken off his gown and cap. I notice that there are huge sweat stains on his shirt under his arms. He’s forgotten to take off the paper shoes. Camera clicks and flashes are going off at breakneck speed. The fiancé is holding my hand.
“We have a baby,” I say to him. He too looks teary.
“We have a baby,” he responds, holding my hand even tighter.
Baby Rowan is again in my arms. I never want to let her go.
10:00 p.m.
A nurse comes into the room and kicks out my mother and the fiancé’s parents. The fiancé is allowed to stay as long as he wants, or as long as I want him to, which is forever. The nurse tells me she’s taking out my catheter—I didn’t even know I had one—and helps me to the washroom. Walking to the washroom, only a couple of feet away, is difficult. I’m getting caught in the tubes and IV, which pump liquids in to keep me hydrated. And my stomach feels clenched as tight as a fist. I can finally feel my bum and my legs again. I’m not paralyzed, thank God.
The nurse helps me sit on the toilet seat. “You’re going to try peeing on your own now,” she says. I see I’m wearing disposable one-size-fits-all mesh panties. How did those get on me? And who put that huge maxi pad in there? The nurse takes off my underwear and changes my maxi pad for me. Ronnie is right. I don’t care that a stranger is watching me pee and changing my maxi pad. My baby is healthy and lying in a crib beside my bed.
OCTOBER 16
THINGS THAT NEVER HAPPENED
DURING MY PREGNANCY
My hair never got super shiny.
Strangers never touched my pregnant belly without asking.
My fingernails never grew.
I did not work out to the very end, nor did I exercise after six months.
I did not entirely stop smoking.
I did not enjoy being pregnant.
THINGS EVERY WOMAN SHOULD
KNOW ABOUT GIVING BIRTH
Presents do work on hospital staff. Nurses did treat me nicer after receiving bottles of wine and boxes of chocolate.
You can wear socks during delivery—no need for a pedicure. A bikini wax is a good idea, though.
You will not care once the baby is born how many humiliating positions strangers see you in.
It is the most rewarding thing you will ever do. Whether you have a vaginal birth or a C-section, the first time you see your baby will be the happiest moment of your life.
Take whatever drugs they offer you.
OCTOBER 17
9:00 a.m.
Though I have done no real physical work in giving birth to Baby Rowan—no pushing, no huffing, no puffing, no punching the fiancé in the face—I am exhausted. I feel more tired than I’ve ever felt after finishing spin class. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon, and I don’t do marathons. But I’m too excited to sleep or nap for more than a half hour at a time. What if I miss something? Baby Rowan is better than any reality TV show. I can’t stop staring at her. She’s so small. Look at her tiny feet! Look how much hair she has! Look how beautiful she is! Look how cute her hands are! Who the hell does she look like? Plus, have you ever tried to sleep in a maternity ward? At any given time there is at least one baby crying somewhere. Which is the problem with babies. Just because it’s lights out at 10:00 p.m. in the hospital doesn’t mean the babies shut up. Babies don’t understand time or that their mothers have just given birth to them and are exhausted.
One of the nurses showed the fiancé and me how to change diapers yesterday. It’s easy. What was I freaking out about? Only an idiot couldn’t figure out how to put on Pampers. The fiancé actually seems to enjoy changing Baby Rowan’s diapers. What is wrong with him?
Me? I enjoy feeding her the most. The hospital provides mini bottles of ready-made formula. I hold the nipple up to Baby Rowan’s perfect miniature mouth and she sucks away immediately. Such a smart baby! She knows exactly what to do! Could it be that I have just given birth to a future Nobel Prize winner? She falls soundly asleep for a couple of hours after every feeding. I don’t turn on the television the fiancé has ordered for me in the room. I can miss an episode of The West Wing to watch Baby Rowan. I feel proud. This is my greatest accomplishment.
“Everything going okay in here?” says one of the friendly, motherly nurses walking into my room. (They are all friendly and motherly. It would be wrong not to be friendly and motherly if you work on a maternity ward, after all.)
“Yes. Everything is fine. Do you think I could get some more codeine pills?”
“It’s been four hours. So yes. I’ll bring you some in a minute,” the nurse responds.
I’m not sure if I still need them. But why chance it? Plus I kind of enjoy the woozy feeling they give me. Despite Ronnie’s warnings that I would not be able to hold my baby let alone walk after the C-section, I can and do. I’m not going to let a little thing like a C-section get in the way of holding my baby! I’m not even in that much pain unless I try to jump out of bed, which I can’t really do anyway. The nurses have told me that I’m recovering extremely well. Maybe I’m just lucky. Of course, I play up what little pain I have— just a bit—so the fiancé will continue fetching me ice water and sandwiches from the cafeteria downstairs. I should be pampered and waited on after giving birth! The fiancé also makes me take walks around the maternity floor with him every couple of hours. I had been told that recovery is much easier if you force yourself to walk as soon as you can after getting a C-section. It’s good to walk. (I’m not paralyzed from the epidural! Yay!) I also want to check out the other babies in the ward to see how Baby Rowan measures up. She is the cutest of them all. And I’m not just saying that because I’m her mother. (Of course, I did hear another new mother holding her newborn whisper to her husband, “Jake is cuter than any baby here!” She’s just plain wrong.) I also found a scale on the floor while taking a walk, which I hopped on, much to the fiancé’s dismay.
“I can’t believe you can’t even wait to go home to weigh yourself.”
I can’t bear to say aloud what I weigh. Oh, the pain. Finding out what I weighed even after Baby Rowan was out of me was more painful than any C-section.
OCTOBER 18
&
nbsp; 9:00 a.m.
I’m being kicked out of the hospital. The fiancé has not come to pick me up yet. He left late last night. It can’t be time to go home already! I’ve only known Baby Rowan for three days! I don’t know what to do with a baby. What if something goes wrong? What if I drop her? What if I can’t figure out how to make formula on my own or she doesn’t like the formula I make her? (There are plenty of adults who hate my cooking. I even hate my cooking, which is why I don’t cook! What if my baby hates the food I make her?) What if I break her neck putting on her undershirts or she suffocates in her blankets? How can they expect someone who doesn’t know anything about a baby to go off on her own and take care of a baby? No, I can’t leave. They can’t force me to leave. (Actually they can, and they are.)
No, I’m staying here forever and everyone is just going to have to deal with it. Who am I kidding? I have to leave. I do want to take a long, hot shower in the privacy of my own home. I think I’m starting to smell. I do want to sleep in my own bed. I do want to walk around my own condo in bare feet without the fear that I’m going to catch some nasty foot disease. (The hospital is nice, but it’s no Four Seasons.) Oh God. How can this be happening?
The nurses check me over one last time. “How’s flow?” one of them asks me. Flow? Flow? Who’s Flow? Do I know a Flow? Is this nurse mixing me up with another patient who has a friend named Flow?
“Flow? Oh, do you mean the blood coming out of me?” I couldn’t believe there was blood coming out of me from Down There. No one warned me about this. I thought if you have a C-section then nothing happens Down There. But it turns out that any way you give birth, the uterus still starts shrinking back to its normal size, which makes you bleed for up to six weeks! How can a person function with so much blood loss? There’s just so much blood. To say I’m disappointed in my uterus would be an understatement.
Knocked Up Page 24
