Sunlight on My Shadow

by Judy Liautaud

  “Ahhh, oooh!” I screamed out in pain. A doctor came in and walked around to the back of the table. An icy wetness was smeared on my back. It seeped all over the middle and sides of my body, and then the cold liquid spilled down onto the delivery table; I was lying in a glob of wetness. I felt the needle prick into my back: at the same time a contraction started to build.

  I wanted to move my body. It seemed like it was going to hurt more than ever with me in this position.

  “Just lie still. You must not move.”

  “Oh, I have to move my leg. My leg, it hurts. It hurts.” The cramp felt like a dagger in my thigh.

  “Hold still, Judy.”

  One nurse had her hands on my shoulder and the other on my legs. Their grip was strong, like they were holding down a squirming dog. Within seconds I felt the needle go in, and then a rush of soothing numbness eased into my back and through my legs. The analgesic smoothed the jagged nerve endings and quieted the pain.

  My eyes filled with tears. It was gone. The pain was gone, not a shred of discomfort. Within minutes I was numb from just below my chest to the tips of my toes. That stabbing, searing pain had left, whisked away as easily as dust bunnies under the bed. I imagined Bond Lake now, glassy and serene after a storm had passed. I felt like the sun came out and the birds started singing again. I became calm and receptive. I was so grateful. I loved everyone in this room with me. I wanted to do whatever they asked. The pain was gone, and I felt like a dancer who loves the music and knows the steps.

  They rolled me onto my back again. The needle doctor packed up his spinal apparatus and left, along with Dr. Wigglesworth.

  They took these long metal arms with foot holders on the end and screwed them into the end of the delivery table. They took my legs and set them inside the stirrups so my feet were higher than my head, way in the air, with my knees slightly bent. It was a strange position, like a bug stuck on its back, flailing to turn over with its legs straight up in the air. I didn’t care, though. The pain was gone and I was golden.

  The nurse said, “It’s time to push. You hold your breath and push like you’re having a bowel movement.” Then she showed me. She took a big breath, then put her head down on her chest and acted like she was trying to blow the breath back out but couldn’t because her mouth was closed.

  The nurse put her hand on my belly, and when the contraction began she gave me the cue to start the push. I couldn’t tell. I was too numb.

  “OK, here it comes now.”

  I inhaled, but it didn’t feel like my lungs could expand much. I held my breath and tried to imagine that I was pushing against the pain that I used to feel down there. Some air escaped through my lips as I pushed against nothing.

  “No, no,” the nurse said. “You have to keep the breath in; don’t let it out.”

  On the next contraction I tried again, holding my breath for longer than my lungs wanted. I got light-headed and had to let the breath out. It seemed fruitless. It was all dead down there. I couldn’t feel anything to push out or where the muscles were to tighten.

  I did it anyway, on cue. I was happy to be a good patient. I felt good, pain free. I was a lousy actress, though, tensing my face and holding my breath as I went through the moves, trying to imitate the nurse’s example.

  “Do I still have contractions?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. They’re there. I can feel them.”

  I liked that she had to tell me when I had a labor pain. All I felt was sweet numbness. I felt like I had a round-trip ticket to hell and returned home to heaven. I was just along for the ride now. I pushed on cue for two more hours. The nurse did an internal exam and walked out of the room. When she came back in, Dr. Wigglesworth was with her.

  I felt an overwhelming desire to be cooperative and helpful. The doc was here: I was hopeful that the baby would be coming soon.

  “Should I scoot down?” I asked.

  “Just stay put. You can’t scoot anywhere. You’re numb.”

  “Well, I knew that, but I was just trying to help,” I thought.

  The doctor did another internal check of the baby’s position and shook his head with disappointment. A second nurse walked in with a tray of shiny medical instruments and set them on the table. Wigglesworth put on a new set of gloves and took two silver slats off the tray. He put one side of the forceps deep inside me and then the next. It seemed like they clicked together like salad tongs.

  Then he said, “Now on the next contraction, I want you to push like you have been doing.”

  Wigglesworth said to each nurse, one on each side of me, “I want both of you to apply fundal pressure at the next contraction.”

  The nurse had her hand on my tummy and gave me the cue to push. I inhaled, put my head down, and held my breath, pushing with mushy effort as both nurses placed their hands on the top of my belly, leaned in, and pushed the mass of baby toward the opening. At the same time, Wigglesworth pulled with the forceps. My body slipped along the table toward the doctor as he strained to extract the baby.

  Now I got scared again. The force was so great, I wondered if the child would be okay. I also wondered what they were doing. I thought the baby must be wedged in there so tight that it wouldn’t come out. What if it didn’t come out? What would they do next? Each time the contraction waned, the nurses told the doctor it was subsiding—I stopped pushing and he stopped pulling with the forceps.

  Nobody was reassuring me or giving me encouragement. No one said “We’ll get this,” or “We’re making progress.” Not a word. Just serious, intense looks on their faces. I wondered if my insides were ripping out with each pull of the forceps. I wondered what was wrong with my construction. Why wasn’t the baby coming?

  This procedure with Wigglesworth pulling on one end and the nurses pushing from the other continued for about four more contractions. Each time, my body slid closer to the edge of the table, and each time they grabbed me under the arms and pulled me back. Finally, all of a sudden, something broke loose and I felt the pressure give. The nurses left my side, and there was a flurry of action. The doctor was doing something below. I heard a suction noise. A minute later, out it all came. I couldn’t see anything, but I felt all the thickness release. I heard a sputter and a gurgle and then quiet. The silence was pronounced. “There should be a cry or something,” I thought. The baby was out. Then at last, after what seemed like minutes, a loud wail.

  I could not have anticipated what happened next. I started crying at the sound of its insistent voice. My body softened with a spiritual connection and love for this little human. Although my head knew a baby was in there, my heart didn’t know it until I heard it cry. I wanted this child.

  I was ashamed to ask, like I had no right to know. It wouldn’t be my child, after all, but I asked, “Is it a boy or girl?”

  “It’s a girl,” he said. I wanted her. Her cries were a call for me. I wanted her close to my skin, to swallow her up to my chest and keep her warm and safe. My heart ached for her. We had been through this together. I wanted her so bad. But I was ashamed that I wanted her. I had no claims.

  I did not ask to see her: I thought I didn’t deserve to see her. She was in a baby bed on the other side of the room, but I couldn’t see inside. They didn’t say anything about her, like, “Oh, what a beautiful baby!” You know, the normal delivery-room banter. Just silence. I suppose they thought they were protecting me. I suppose they thought I didn’t care, since I was giving her away. But I cared. I cared way too much.

  “Is she okay?” I asked.

  “Yes, she’s a little bruised up, but she’s okay.”

  I was thankful. I wondered why I was thankful when I had been telling myself for nine months that I didn’t care.

  They took her away. They sewed me up. “You might be a little sore down there,” the doctor said, “but we will give you some icepacks and medication to help with the pain.” He also told me that if I have another baby, I might tell the doctor that
this one presented posterior.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Well, she was face-up instead of the usual face-down.” This must have been why I felt like I had the hot poker in my back. The back of the baby’s head, not the softer face tissue, had been pressing against my spine.

  CHAPTER 35

  RECOVERY

  They wheeled me back to the recovery room and I slept for several hours. I woke up with a stabbing headache, but the nightmare was over. I had the baby. I did it. I wasn’t pregnant anymore. I wondered about the baby. Where was she and who was taking care of her? I hoped they gave her more attention than I got when I was in labor.

  They brought me some water to drink, and a tray of pork chops and mashed potatoes. I ate every shred, then fell asleep.

  Around 7:00 pm I woke and thought about calling Mom. I wanted to tell her it was all over. I asked the nurse if I could use the phone that was down the hall. The numbness was gone now. I could feel a very sore and tender bottom. My ribs ached, and my head felt like a saw was moving across my temples. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up.

  “I feel like I’m going to pass out,” I said.

  “Just sit for a minute,” the nurse said. “If you need to make a call, I can wheel you down there if you feel up to it.”

  The phone hung too high for me to reach the rotary dial from the wheelchair, so the nurse dialed the number. Since Mom was up at the lake, I had to be careful about my choice of words. We were on a party line, which meant that anyone in Wascott could pick up the phone and listen to our conversation. I had to talk in code.

  “Hello.” It sounded like Hugren.

  “Can I talk to Ethel?” I asked. I didn’t know if Hugren recognized my voice, but I didn’t want her asking me any questions.

  I waited and imagined Mom wheeling over to the phone to talk.

  “Hi, Mom, it’s Judy. I just called to tell you that Sally had her baby.”

  “Sally?” Mom sounded confused for a second. “Oh, my, that’s good,” she said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. It was a hard birth: a baby girl, eight pounds, four ounces. Delivered by forceps. Everything’s fine, though, and it’s all over.”

  “Oh, my,” Mom said. “When does she come home from the hospital?”

  “I think in about a week.”

  “OK, then. Thanks for letting me know. So everything is okay then?” Mom said.

  “Yep, everything’s fine. I just wanted to let you know.”

  Mom sounded tentative on the phone. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be calling her. Maybe that was up to the facility, to notify the parents. I suppose Mom was afraid of what I might say and who might be listening in. Maybe she had company over at the cabin and couldn’t ask any more questions. We hadn’t talked for several months.

  I hung up with a lonely feeling: Mom was three hundred miles away. I knew she was disappointed in me, and I was saddened by her cool tone of voice. Maybe she acted like that just because she was on a party line. Still, I had lingering doubts about her love for me. I was glad she hadn’t seen me during those later months: me, so young and full with child. I was glad I didn’t have to see anyone while I was in that state. It was good I went away.

  People have asked when they hear my story, “Well, where was your mom? Why wasn’t she there with you?” Since the story was that I had a contagious disease, it wouldn’t do for Mom to be coming up to visit me, and most of the time she wasn’t up to it. If the secret plan was to work, they couldn’t be taking trips up to Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. I didn’t blame Mom. I couldn’t admit she had anything I needed. I was serving out my sentence for the wrongs I had committed. But today, I think, “How could she not know I needed her desperately?” She must have ached as much as I did to know that she had to stay away. I believe she did know I needed her, but she was adhering to the plan. Even if she was healthy and up to it and wanted to come, visitors were not allowed on the hospital floor or inside the home. It must have broken her heart to know that I was laboring alone and handing over my newborn child to strangers. We were both victims of the plan.

  They told me that I could go to the nursery for visiting hours between 3:00 and 5:00 pm each day. The nursery was down the hall and around the corner from my hospital room. By the second day I was able to get up and walk around a little bit. This is when I decided to go see the baby. I stood outside the glass window, looking in. There were two cribs with babies. An attendant walked out and I asked, “Do you know if the one over there is mine?” as I pointed across the nursery room.

  “Does the baby have a name?” she asked.

  “Helen,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s Baby Helen. You can come in and hold her if you want.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  The baskets had clear sides, so I could see her even though I was peering through the glass across the room. Her beauty amazed me. I know all mothers think their child is exceptional, but compared to the wrinkled scrawny one next to her, she stood out like a rosebud in a field of weeds. There she was, a little cherub with a mop of hair and chubby cheeks. She had a big red mark on the side of her head and cheek. It must have been from the forceps. Poor thing. She was lying on her tummy, asleep in the bassinet. She looked healthy though. Her little square jaw reminded me of Mick; she looked so much like him with her dark hair. She had a perfect miniature nose. As my eyes moved over her, I swelled with pride, as if I had something to do with her beauty. I had seen newborns before, all wrinkled and squinty-eyed. But her skin was soft and plush, a perfect rosy cameo color. If it wasn’t for the bruises on the side of her head, she could have been a Gerber baby star.

  My body yearned to walk inside the nursery and pick her up. I took a deep breath and remembered how Jackie’s babies smelled when they came home from the hospital and how I loved their aroma. It was that baby powder mix with their sweet milky breath. I remembered how they would arch their backs and put their fists up by their ears as they stretched and yawned. I could imagine what it would be like to hold my baby and nestle her peach-soft skin next to mine. After I got her in my arms, I would take everything in. I would smell her babyness and run my fingers over her tiny hands and touch her toes. I would feel the light weight of her against my body and hold her close to my heart so she could feel it beating, so she could feel the love I had for her.

  I put my hands on the cold glass of the nursery window. I looked down the hall. No one was around, so I let myself cry. I wanted her so bad. I wondered if, maybe, I should go in there and hold her. They said I could. She was mine for now. No, I couldn’t do it. If I held her once, I just might not ever be able to let her go. That seemed like dabbling in fire. I could just see the frightful scene I might make, them telling me, “No, you can’t have her. You signed the papers. She belongs to her real parents,” and me clutching her next to my body, crying, “No, no, no,” unable to let her go.

  No, holding her would not do. It wouldn’t be good for either of us; there was no future in it. It would rip my heart out to have to hand her over. I had to protect myself from that hurt. It was better to cut the ties right now. It was better to forget, to never feel the sweetness of her body close to mine. That way I wouldn’t know what I was missing. Yes, it was better for both of us to leave her be.

  So I continued to watch, with tears in my eyes. I saw her yawn and turn her head. I watched her fall back asleep, then open her eyes and look around. She seemed content. She seemed to be doing fine. I didn’t want to disturb her serenity. After standing in front of the glass watching her for about a half hour, I went back to my room, lay down, and slept again.

  At the end of the day I moved back up to my room on the third floor, but I still had the privilege to go to the hospital floor during the nursery visiting hours. On the third day after the delivery, I passed a new girl on the stairs. I hadn’t seen her before and her belly was small.

  “Hi,” I said. “Did you just get here?”
/>   “About three days ago. When are you due?” she asked.

  “Oh, I already delivered.”

  I was so proud to say it. I was hoping she would ask, smug in my knowing that she had no idea what was in store for her. Poor girl. She was just starting at the home. I felt aloof and cocky inside. I hoped she noticed I came out of the door on the second floor. I had access.

  The next afternoon I went back to the nursery, but still I stayed on this side of the glass. One of the girls was inside holding her baby, but I just stood there and looked through the diamond-shaped, wire-mesh window. Baby Helen glowed with beauty, like stars on a moonless night. Her red marks were fading just a tiny bit.

  On one of my visits, I watched the nurse hold her and feed her a bottle. I was relieved that they seemed to be taking good care of her. But one time when I got there she was crying and no one was around. I went to the nurses’ station and told them.

  “Baby Helen is crying. Do you think she’s hungry?”

  “We’ll be in there as soon as we can,” the nurse said.

  I walked back and watched through the window as she cried for another ten minutes. It made me so nervous. “What does she want?” I wondered. “How can they let her lie there so hungry and needy?”

  Finally, I watched the nurse walk in with a bottle. She picked her up and fed it to her. It was wrong that it wasn’t me feeding her. The sight of it sent a shock of longing through my heart. The nurse didn’t hold her close, just laid the baby on her lap and held the bottle so she could suck. She didn’t seem to care that much. I would have cared. I would have held her close when I fed her.

  On the fourth visit, I wanted to hold her so badly and talk to her and tell her that I loved her. The ache was deepening, so I decided I wasn’t doing myself any good to be standing out there longing for her. I made the decision to make this my last visit. I went back to my room, lay on the bed, and put my face in the pillow. It was over. It was time to move on. But if it was over, why did I feel this hole in my heart? I felt worse than before I had the baby. I was supposed to be happy now. A new chapter of my life was starting, but I was having a hard time turning the page.