by Janis Powers
As if the room wasn’t crowded enough with those two, a pair of doctors, my nurse and a couple of other tourists stuffed themselves inside. Then Dale got serious. “Who’s the doctor here? How is my wife doing?”
“Mr. Pedersen,” piped up the on-call physician, “I’d love to be able to check on your wife, but we’ve got a bit of a full house. Only immediate family is permitted in the L.D.R.s.”
I winced in pain as I said, “Thomas, thanks a lot for getting Dale up here so quickly. See you soon, I hope.”
But he didn’t leave. “Maxine, don’t you want an epidural?” Then he looked at the medical crew and said, “Is one of you going to get her an epidural?”
Meanwhile, Dale’s phone started to ring. He put it on his chest when he said, “It’s your parents. They just got here. Should I send them up, or what?”
“ENOUGH!!!” I shouted so loudly, the woman across the hall momentarily stopped screaming. Then I regained control of my voice. “Thomas, you take Dale’s phone and find my parents. Go to a waiting room somewhere.” Thomas did as instructed. “Dale, all I want you to do is hold my hand and help me. O.K.?”
“Got it.” He placed himself on my left side and held my hand tightly. He looked at me, smiling, his eyes glazed over with moisture. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too,” I replied. My eyes welled up with tears—tears of joy, pain and relief. Through the bustle of the doctors and nurses around us, Dale and I both realized how close he had come to missing the birth of our son. I never thought I would have said it, but thank goodness for Patrick O’Shaughnessy.
21
I never got my epidural.
Dale got a bruised hand, an earful of profanity, and an eye-full of afterbirth.
We got a baby boy. Henry Hamilton Pedersen.
With Dale’s arrival, I went into full-on labor. There had been no time to administer an epidural without the risk of spinal paralysis. At the time, that seemed like a good trade-off. Through the pain, I wondered why I had waited so long in the apartment before I had left for the hospital. But I was assured that I had followed protocol. Nothing I could have done would have controlled what the baby was going to do. It was a rude initiation to a phenomenon I was sure to experience again and again over the course of Henry’s life.
Once Henry had passed into our world, I asked Dale to fish the camera from my tote. That brought him in plain view of the birthing site. He looked like someone who had just witnessed a gruesome car accident and couldn’t stop staring at the convoluted mess of the remains. His mouth started to move and he began to stammer about hospital infection rates and patient privacy. I just shook my head, since at this point, the worst had to be over.
One of the nurses, probably familiar with his expression, guided Dale and the camera out of the room. I remember hearing the nurse tell Dale that his responsibility was to follow her around with the camera and document everything for me to see later. Mechanically, he nodded his head in compliance.
Katie and a few other saints helped clean me and the room up. “We’ll be moving you to a postpartum room pretty soon. You’ll be able to see your parents and any other visitors,” she informed me.
“So where’s the baby?” I knew the answer, but couldn’t articulate a better question at the time.
Katie tied up a big trash bag of debris. “The nurse will bring him to you. You’re going to nurse him, right?”
“Yeah, but I mean, already?” When I had mentally committed to nursing, I hadn’t realized that it was going to happen almost immediately after the arduous delivery process. I could barely sit up, I was connected to a million tubes and, oh, yeah, I had just endured more pain than I thought humanly possible. “How am I supposed to start nursing? I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.”
With a loud smacking sound, Katie filled a new garbage bag full of air. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And there are plenty of lactation coaches here to help.” She handed the bag over to somebody else. “I’ve got to go check on some other patients. Good luck with the baby!” She darted out of the room, and in a few minutes, I was rolled to my next destination.
Dale helped move me to the postpartum room, my home for the next day or so. Henry was in tow, in a rolling bassinet. He was crying. It was such a hopeless feeling to hear him upset, and to know that there was nothing I could do to help.
My husband was oblivious. In the elevator, Dale tried to show me pictures he had taken of Henry’s first minutes outside the womb. He had one of Henry being weighed, one of Henry being measured, a few of Henry making his first footprint and even a video of Henry being cleaned. I couldn’t concentrate on any of it due to the wailing.
As we proceeded to the room, I felt embarrassed by Henry’s behavior. People were staring at me and then the rolling bassinet. The baby was barely one hour out of the chute and already, I was being condemned as a bad mother.
The nurse wasted no time in re-hooking me up to whatever monitoring equipment was in the new room. She instructed me to lie down so I could breast feed the baby. I shimmied as best I could, and then, per her instructions, I shoved myself back towards the side of the bed to make room for Henry. She told me where to put my arm, moved a few pillows around and then positioned him right next to me. But all he did was cry.
Even the nurse seemed frustrated with poor Henry. I was trying to feel empathetic, but I was so exhausted myself that I wanted her to just take him out of the room. And then my mother came in.
She was fully made up, wearing a black knit pants suit and dress pumps. The nurse stood up, presumably to allow my mother to give me a hug. But Mom went straight for Henry. She scooped him up and the crying stopped. I hoped that I, too, would inherit this magical gift of motherhood. Maybe I had to earn it first, through years of body deformation and mental anguish.
Mom handed Henry back to the nurse, who was successfully able to get him to “latch.” I was not happy that a term synonymous with a piece of hardware was being used to describe the intimate bond between mother and child. On the one hand, nursing was natural, peaceful and calming. But if I thought about it too hard, I felt like I was the featured gorilla on Animal Planet.
And then I considered what a joy it must be to be a man. Dale’s greatest physical transformation was the grin pasted on his face. I’d never seen him so happy, texting pictures of Henry to the team at Worthington, bragging to O’Shaughnessy over Henry’s bright eyes and burgeoning intelligence. For nine months, as my body morphed and Henry grew inside it, Dale hadn’t changed. And for some naïve reason, I thought that once the baby was born, I’d be back to normal, just like Dale. Now, as the primary food source for our baby with about 15 pounds to lose, I had no idea what “normal” was anymore.
The 36 hours following my arrival on the postpartum ward can only be described as agitated relaxation. Almost all the concerns that would normally occupy my mind—work deadlines, social commitments, working out, foraging for meals—were either addressed or temporarily put on hold. I was officially on maternity leave, everyone came to visit me, labor was a monster work out, and all of my meals were brought to me on a hospital platter.
The vacant spots on my mental to-do list were more than occupied by the new activities of motherhood. I could have taken a month-long seminar on nursing alone, what with all the positions, the side-switching, and that ridiculous apparatus known as the nursing bra. And once I got Henry latched on, I had to record the duration and frequency of the feedings. The self-calibration and monitoring was eerily similar to recording my contractions. What was next—monitoring bowel movements? I didn’t want to think about that since I hadn’t even changed a diaper yet.
When I was told I would be discharged come Saturday morning, I couldn’t get out of the hospital fast enough. I was anxious to enjoy the serenity and privacy of home with my husband and new son.
22
I carried Henry down the hallway to our apartment, snuggled in a thick blanket. Dale struggled behind, carrying everyt
hing else. Aside from the tote I had packed for the hospital, Dale was now juggling a bag of supplies from the postpartum room, assorted presents, and a vase of flowers.
We stared at each other when we got to the doorway, each of us laden with cargo and unable to open the door. At some point soon, I’d have to learn how to hold the baby and unlock the apartment. But since my keys were in my tote, attempting that feat would have to wait until later.
Dale awkwardly placed the vase of flowers on the floor and then dumped everything else. A couple of roses had been bent in transit, which I could remove once I got settled inside. “Good thing my parents brought the rest of the flowers home with you last night,” I said. The arrangement from Worthington, I had to imagine, must have required its own seat in the cab. Knowing my mother, she probably artfully arranged everything around the apartment before returning to Westchester to take a Xanax.
Dale unlocked the door and rushed inside with the bags. The door closed in front of me, which gave me a moment to consider if what I had just seen was a figment of my imagination.
“Oh, my God! I’m so sorry!” said Dale as he opened the door again. I walked into the vestibule and froze. The apartment, which I had tidied up so neatly in between contractions just a few days before, was in shambles.
Navigating the cardboard boxes that once contained the crib was like stepping through an obstacle course. It would take an hour just to break them down and neatly tie everything up for recycling. Then the Royal We (i.e. Maxine) would need another hour to pick up the packing debris, which had managed to wedge itself into every crevice of the apartment. Lord knows what I would find if I looked in the kitchen sink.
“Jesus Christ, Dale! What happened?” I pulled Henry closer to me so he wouldn’t have to see the chaos of his new home. It was pointless, since, from what I had read, he couldn’t see farther than the distance to his own hand. I kicked a pizza box out of the way as I walked further into the apartment.
All the vases were grouped together on the kitchen counter. “What went on in here? My mom dropped off the flowers and you had a kegger? I thought you said you were coming home to assemble the crib last night.”
Dale grabbed a garbage bag and started to clean up the mess. “Look, I’m sorry. Mike came over to help me put together the crib—which we did do, by the way—and then I just got distracted. You know, last night of freedom.” He picked up a crinkled beer can near my foot and then wiped off some mysterious goo from the floor with a soiled napkin.
“Well done,” I said, looking at the array of dirty glasses on the coffee table. “It looks like the kitchen threw up into the living room.” Henry started wriggling in his blanket. His little hands, covered with mittens, grabbed at his face as he started to cry.
Dale stopped and peeked into the blanket. “What’s wrong with him? Is he O.K.?”
“I’d like to put him down somewhere. He’s kind of heavy.” It was odd to think that a 7 pound, 14 ounce infant could cause so much muscle strain, but my back was killing me. “If I put him on that spot on the couch,” I swung my elbow towards the one clear spot on the couch, probably where Dale had been overseeing the destruction of the Pedersen household, “he could fall off.”
“He’s not going to fall off the couch, Maxine,” said Dale, as he rushed to that location to tidy it up.
I didn’t want to argue. Not knowing which way to go, I started to swivel Henry in my arms. “You know,” I said, “we do have a maid. You could have arranged for emergency service this morning.”
“Well, you always take care of that, and I don’t have her number, and I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Bother me? Wow. How considerate! Because let me tell you, bringing our son home to a pig pen doesn’t bother me at all!” I started walking towards the nursery, when I almost slid on something underneath a McDonald’s bag. “No wonder you didn’t want my parents to come home with us this morning. If my mother had seen this place, she would have jabbed you in the eye with the Wii console.”
“If she could find one,” said Dale, sarcastically. “Besides, I thought we should have this time together. . . .”
“Whatever.” I safely made it to Henry’s room to see that, as Dale had claimed, the crib had been assembled. And that was it. “Where’s the mattress? And what about the sheets and the bumper?” Henry was picking up on my agitation, his crying intensifying. “I gotta put this kid down, Dale.”
“Try the changing table. There’s a mat thing on there.”
There was a mat thing on there, but the fabric cover was soiled with grease. Dale and Mike must have put their tools on it while they were assembling the crib. I’d have to baby proof the entire room again, scouring for hidden bolts, washers and, potentially, an abandoned power drill.
“O.K., I am going to the bedroom,” I declared, it being my final option aside from depositing Henry into the bathtub.
“You sure you want to do that?”
“Don’t have a choice Dale,” I said, my voice cracking. My back hurt. Henry was crying. The apartment was a pit. Why had I been in such a rush to leave the hospital? I carefully stepped through the wreckage and opened the door to our bedroom.
Dale dropped his collection bag, and in two long leaps jumped over to my side. “So, what do you think?” he asked, grinning.
The room was immaculate. Not only was the bed made, but the duvet was cleaned and pressed. Shams were seeing the light of day for the first time in months. Bedside table drawers and armoire doors were closed. Even the rugs on the floor were plainly visible.
“Well, now I know how you cleaned this place up. You just threw everything into the living room,” I joked, a tear running down my face. “I am impressed Dale. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I hate to burst the bubble here, but there’s no way I could—or would want to—do this. Not that I don’t love you.” He kissed the tear off my cheek.
I laid Henry down in the middle of the fluffy bed and flopped down next to him. I pulled over a pillow for my head. The end of the pillowcase was stuffed inside the pillow, just like my mother used to do it. “So, I guess my mother was here.”
“Yes, she was,” said Dale from inside the closet. “I thought it was a master stroke to get her over here and away from you in the hospital. Killed two birds with one stone, eh?”
Henry’s cries were fitful and constant. I checked my watch. “Maybe he’s hungry again. I fed him about two hours ago, but the pediatrician said I should feed him as often as possible.”
I sat up, considering what position to use. I was too tired to hold him anymore, so I lay down for the side-lying position. Henry just sat there crying while I frantically removed my sweater and then my shirt. I couldn’t help but think that things might have been a lot easier if Henry had been born in July. But when I got down to the nursing bra, which was damp with milk, I began to appreciate the concealment benefits of winter layers.
Stripped down to just my motherhood, I tried to engage Henry in nursing. He wanted nothing to do with it and showed his frustration by punching me in the chest. I told myself to be patient. Nursing was hard. “Come on. Come on,” I pleaded. But the punching and crying continued. Dale waited near the doorway, ready to bolt right out of the room once Henry latched on. I tried changing sides, and even positions, but nothing worked.
“Maybe he doesn’t want to eat,” offered Dale. “Maybe he’s tired.” I grabbed my sweater and put it back on, leaving the front unbuttoned in case I wanted to try nursing again. Dale pointed to a circular wet spot on the duvet. “Is that drool or milk?”
I just collapsed in a pile at the end of the bed, with Henry crying helplessly behind me. Through the fingertips that covered my face, I pleaded with my husband. “Dale, can’t you pick him up and walk around with him or something? Please try to calm him down! I have been dealing with him non-stop! I need a break! Please!”
“I don’t know what to do for him.” Dale backed into the doorway, his face blank. “Uh . . . I’m goin
g to finish cleaning up and I’ll leave you alone. Maybe you just need some privacy.”
“I don’t need privacy! I need help!” Raising my voice only irritated Henry more. Nevertheless, I kept talking to try to keep Dale in the room, since I didn’t know what to do either. “Maybe we should call a lactation consultant.”
“Now? Are you crazy? And what are we supposed to do until she gets here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Henry will cry himself to sleep.” It was a completely irresponsible comment which seemed rational when I said it.
Dale put his hands on the door jamb. He let his head fall forward through his arms, where it hung for a few drawn-out seconds. Mercifully, he picked Henry up off the bed. He started walking around the room, coddling his son. I was going to ask him to wash his hands since they had to be filthy from the garbage he had been handling, but Henry stopped crying. Too bad Dale couldn’t lactate. He seemed to be a better parent than I was.
“Is he sleeping?” I whispered.
“No. I think he’s just getting used to the place.” I lay down again, the smell of fresh linens lulling me to sleep land. “Come on, little guy,” whispered Dale, as he carefully laid Henry down next to me. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and walked out the door.
With no distractions, Henry and I were able to tackle the latch-on problem in quiet solitude. It was a short meal, though, as Henry fell asleep. I had already learned that short meals meant shorter breaks between feedings. If I had any shot at a nap, I’d need to get him into the bassinet, pronto.
I laid out a blanket and made a several attempts to swaddle him. For all the folding and unfolding I was doing, I probably should have supplemented my pre-natal classes with a course in origami.
Dale came in right when I had perfected the swaddle wrap. “Well, that seemed easy enough,” he said with a smile. Joking aside, his expression was full of relief. We both knew that despite our collective years of education, neither one of us had any practical experience in being a parent. Trial by fire never seemed so sweet.
