It's a Boy!

The radiologist’s face hovered an inch from the screen. "So," he said. "Do you want to know the sex of the baby?"
            My mouth fell open. "Really?"
            My husband's eyebrows rose. "Right now?"
            The doctor rolled his stool around to face us. He rubbed his thighs briskly.
            "This is West Virginia," he said. "I don't want to start a family feud. Do you, or don't you? Want to know?"
            I nodded. My husband shook his head. I huffed.
            My husband shrugged. "I like surprises. So does my family."
            I clasped my hands in front of my face and opened my eyes super wide.  "Pretty please? I won't tell anyone inside the state."
            My husband sighed. "Oh, all right."
            The doctor wheeled the stool back to face the screen. He tapped it with his pen.
             "See that right there?" he said. "That's what makes your little guy, a guy."
             I grinned and clapped. "I did it!  I made a boy!"
            The doctor gave my husband a little shove. "You okay, Dad?"
            My husband leaned closer to the ultrasound screen. His breath fogged it. 
            "It's a boy? Really?"
            The doctor smiled and clapped him on the back. "It's a boy, a healthy son. Congratulations.”

~~~~~

  

Fluid, surprisingly warm, gushed from inside me. I glanced down. A puddle formed on the back porch, between my flip flops. I shut my eyes and groaned.
            The girls were swinging. "Watch how high we can go," the older one said.
            The younger one squinted at me and slammed her feet down to stop. "What, Mommy?" she said. "Why's your face all funny?"
            I toed the splat on the porch. "Someone bring me the phone please."
            "Mommy, you wet  yourself."
            I shook my head and spoke louder. "Just get me a phone."
            "Right now?" my husband said. "It's coming right now?"
            I exhaled my answer. "Yes."
            "My dad's in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer and I have someone here in the office with me. It’s really right now?"
            I nibbled my lip. "Last baby was born 20 minutes after my water broke."
            "I'll be right there."

~~~~~

"You could stimulate your nipples," the nurse said as she glanced at her watch. "Since your labor doesn't seem to be progressing."
            My eyes bulged. I touched my cheeks. Hot. I crooked my finger to bring her closer, so the whole world wouldn't hear.
            "Excuse me?"
            "Stimulate your nipples," she said. "It makes the body release oxytocin which can move the process along. Just slide your arms inside your gown." She busied herself tucking the sheets around me, adjusting the monitor beside my bed. I tapped her shoulder.
            "Can you close the door, please?"
            "Sure thing, honey. Your doctor's been paged. He'll be here any minute.” She pointed at the control panel near the bedrail. "That's the nurse call button if you need me. Don't forget, stim—"
            I pressed my finger to my mouth. She laughed as she eased the door shut behind her.

~~~~~

I had my birth plan for my little guy all figured out. I'd asked for an epidural with child one, liked it a lot. On delivery number two, the nurses talked me into going natural.

“If you’re cracking jokes at seven centimeters, you should have no problem going all the way, sweetie.”

So I did the I-am-woman-hear-me-roar thing that time around, thought it pretty cool the way I could walk to the bathroom to pee right after. Even so, given a choice, I wanted drugs on my third and final labor and delivery.
            "Can you write it in my chart now?" I said to my doctor. "Put it in all caps: PATIENT WANTS EPIDURAL AS SOON AS SHE ENTERS HOSPITAL.”
            Dr. Davis had laughed. "We'll see."
            "What do you mean I can't have an epidural?" I said to my labor nurse. "It's in my chart. In all caps. Look it up!"
            The nurse fussed with my sheets, patted my hand, avoided my eyes. “They said the anesthesiologist has a more emergent situation right now." 
            My fingernails bit into my palms. I gnashed my teeth. "What is more emergent than a baby emerging from my body?"
            The nurse cringed. Her hands were like nervous butterflies in the air between us. She moved toward the door.

"Let me try to get a hold of your doctor. Again."

Within five minutes I was speaking in tongues, or so my husband says.  I'm pretty sure the Mardi Gras documentary on TV was to blame. I remember one minute focusing on the drums—their primal beat—and the next, how my head started flopping side to side, to match their rhythm.
            I began to chant under my breath. "I want drugs. I want them now. I want drugs—"

             When another contraction started, I stopped my head flopping. My stomach churned. My eyes wouldn't focus. I heard someone enter the room. I turned toward the door. The person seemed to be moving in mist. Something was in his or her hand. I squinted at it, wary.
            "How about some Nubane, honey?" It sounded like my nurse.
            I snarled my nose. "What's that?"
            She brushed a stray hank of hair from my face. "I think you'll like it," she said. "It'll take the edge off, help you relax."
            I shrugged. "Okay."
            Prick. Ow!  Warmth. Oooh! I collapsed against my pillows. A moment later a noisy breath leaked out of me.
            "That's nice," I told Nurse.
            I grinned at the corner of the room by the door, thinking that was where my husband was. 

"I'm the queen of Mardi Gras. And I'm floating. See? I'm on a parade float on 

Bourbon Street. That's in New Orleans, right? Want some beads?"

            I felt as if I might pour off the edge of the bed. I attempted to purr. Nurse’s teeth flashed white as she swabbed my arm. On the other side of the room she deposited the needle in a red box on the wall.
            "Hey!" I said. She glanced over. I smiled coyly, blinked a couple times. "Some more, please?"
            She chuckled. "Sorry, no.” She perched on the bench at the end of the bed and nudged my knees apart.
            I stuck my tongue out at her.
            "You're almost ready now," she said. "I'll call Dr. Davis. Again."

           "You sure you want me to stay in this chair?" my husband asked when she left.    

           "Yes, please. It feels like you're stealing my breath when you come closer."            

~~~~~

A half hour later I scooted myself up on my elbows. "I want more Nubane. Now!" I glared at the med student behind my doctor. "And I want Doogie Howser to go away, immediately."
            "Be nice," Dr. Davis said. "He's just observing. I won't let him touch you."
            I snorted. "Is he old enough to hear cuss words?"
            The med student cowered. Dr. Davis gave my ankles a squeeze.
            "You ready to do this?"
            I winced as another wave of pressure and pain seared me.
            "Can't you just grab its head and yank it out?"
            "Easy," my doctor said. "Don't hold your breath. Breathe. That's it."
            When the fire started in my girl parts, I headed for my pillows, determined to escape it.
            "Will whoever has their hand on my— Dang it!  I can't even say the word 'cause Doogie—"
            Dr. Davis stood. "Keep pushing!  You're so close!"
            The med student approached me from the side. His hot breath steamed my cheek.

“Ma'am? Do you want me to pull the mirror down, ma'am?" he said, "from the ceiling? So you can see?"

            I took a swing at him. "Ew! No!"
             A fresh more urgent pain arrived. I fell back on the pillow stack and sobbed. Doogie slunk back to his corner. I wanted it over. Now. I heaved myself forward once more and clenched all my muscles and shoved, forced everything inside of me down between my legs. The skin on my face felt tight. And I was so hot. The sprinkler system would trigger any minute, surely it would.
            I panted. "Someone fan me!  Fan my face!  I’m serious! And where is Nubane Lady? Get her back here this instant!"
             Suddenly the pressure in my groin dropped, diminished. I squeaked, attempted to sit up.

             "What happened! What's going on?"

           "We have a head!" Dr. Davis said.
            I felt my nose drain, then my eyes. When the stretching sensation returned, I arched my back and moaned, dug my fingernails into the mattress. More flesh of my flesh slipped out of me.
            "And we have a baby, a perfect baby boy."
            Everything in me softened, went limp, as if I had no bones. I hung in the moment, concentrated on the freedom from pain, listened to the pounding in my ears slow.
            Dr. Davis brought my boy child to me, still slick with his white icing of vernix.
            "Tell him, 'hello,' Mom. He's a little blue. He needs oxygen."
            I stroked my son's face with my pointer finger. Tears spilled onto my cheeks.      

"Hi, little guy."
            "Gosh, he looks like his dad," Dr.  Davis said. "Dad, come over here. Check this little guy out." After a minute Nurse gently pried him away from my husband. "He needs oxygen and a belly button, Dad."
            "I made a boy," I declared.
            Dr. Davis laughed from across the room. "You get what you get, you know."        

I shook my head. "Nope," I said. I tucked my husband's hands inside my own. "I made a boy, with some help, just a little."

*Forever Changed*

On the steering wheel, my husband’s knuckles shown white. I leaned forward to watch the pink dawn illuminate the Cincinnati skyline.

            He glanced over. “May I speed?”

            I winced and nodded. “I reckon this is the only time you can.”

            He snickered as he ran a red light. I stared out the window and murmured. He kept his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road, but leaned his body toward me.

            “What’d you say?”

            I spoke louder. “Nothing’s ever gonna be the same, is it?”

            My husband shook his head as he skidded to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance at Christ Hospital.

            “Nope,” he said. “Today everything changes.”

~~~

The beautiful, willowy brunette nurse perched beside me on the hospital bed. She picked up my hand and flipped it over, traced the creases of my palm with a maroon fingernail as she talked.

            “Did no one give you an enema?”

            My eyes bugged out. “No, ma’am,” I said. Kinda glad about that, I thought.

            She huffed. “I swear. So many nurses think it’s old-fashioned, but I don’t want my ladies pushing out poop with their babies. It’s not sanitary.”

            I heard a gagging noise. I peeked in my husband’s direction. He stared at a spot on the ceiling and cleared his throat.

~~~

When Dr. Lum arrived, I immediately noticed the peace signs on his socks. He'd rolled up his scrub pants so they'd show. He patted my cheek before he sat down at the foot of the bed.

            “Sorry I’m late. Had to finish recording a Pink Floyd concert.”

            He stood suddenly and struck an air guitar pose.

            “We don’t need no ed-u-ca-tion.”

            He grinned as he tugged on latex gloves.  “You feeling okay, missy?

            I felt fine. I’d had my epidural. Tall, pretty nurse made sure of that as soon as I hit four centimeters dilated. I hadn’t checked out the needle, but my husband did. When his eyes bulged, I gulped and leaned over the bedside table, did snifftas like our Lamaze teacher had taught us. Sniff in with the nose, ta out through the mouth.

            “Husbands,” the instructor had said, “you can use this technique too. Like when you’re in line at the grocery store and you have to go to the bathroom—number two.”

            I liked my epidural. A lot. Too much really. Because of it I never had the urge to push.

            Dr. Lum waved stainless steel tongs like a conductor’s baton. “These are forceps,” he said. “If need be, we can use these to yank baby out.”

            I squeaked. “Fine!  I’ll push.”

            I couldn’t feel pain but I could feel pressure, and its absence. I was fully aware when the baby slicky slid out of me.

            “It’s a . . . . girl!” Dr. Lum said. “Nancy’ll take her over and shine her up, bring her back in a jif.”

            I reached down to touch my belly—empty now—after almost a year. I pressed my fingers in as far as they'd go. My flesh felt like a pouch of Cool-Whip, all wooshy and gooshy.

            “I need you to bear down one more time,” Dr. Lum said, “to deliver the placenta.”

            I wrinkled my nose. “Ew!”

            I pushed half-heartedly. Surely the exodus of an empty membrane sack didn’t require the effort a seven pound baby did.

            The blob Dr. Lum held up resembled a large man ’o war jellyfish. “What’s your baby’s name?”

            “Josephine Joy,” my husband said.

            Dr. Lum pounced the placenta from side to side—first left, then right.

            “This is the house that Josy built, Josy built, Josy built. This is the house that Josy built—” He paused to look at his watch, “on December 7, 1991 at 12:34 p.m. on a Saturday.”

            I tilted my head and squinted. Thought him a bit odd but didn’t say so out loud.

            He peered at the giant Jell-O jiggler. “If we were in—can’t remember which country—we’d cook this puppy and eat it for dinner.”

            My stomach lurched. I cupped my hand in front of my mouth, just in case. 

~~~

The lovely labor and delivery nurse finally brought us our baby girl. Her face, the baby’s, was alarmingly scarlet. Dark, silky hair wisped out from under her white-with-a-pink-pom-pom beanie cap. The nurse cooed as she tucked the warm flannel package into my arms.

            “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

            I gazed down at her. How long had it been since I’d held a baby? Was it my niece? Six years ago? I stroked my daughter’s velvety cheek with my pinky. 

            “She kinda looks like a Conehead,” I told my husband. “You know, like on Saturday Night Live?”

            Nancy the nurse snapped her fingers. I glanced over at her. "What?"

            She came close and gripped my face, rotated it toward the baby's. Josy seemed even redder than before and her chin was like an ocean wave, coming at me then retreating, over and over.

            I turned to Nancy. “What do I do? What’s she want?”

            Nancy cocked her head. “You really don’t know? Did you never babysit?”

            I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I had a paper route.”

            She grimaced. “Oh, my.”

            Making tsk, tsk noises, Nancy placed one hand on my shoulder, the other under the baby bundle.

            “How do I say this, honey? Nothing’s ever going to be the same for you, ever again.”

(Happy 21st birthday, Beauty!)

Out of the Box

It has always been clear to me that you adored your folks and sister. That your life with them was one of faith, love, and charity. But then your sister went away. In sickness, not health. Her leaving left a pockmark on your insides. A small but permanent, life-will-never-be-the-same nick.

            God holds your tears in a bottle. You know that, right? In my mind’s eye I see it. It looks like a cordial glass carved out of amethyst Swarovski crystal.

            So I thought, as writers often do, what if? What if the “H” family had one more daughter? No, that’s not it. What if Mr. “H” walked out on the front porch to fetch the Sunday paper and there was a baby girl. Freshly hatched. In a lightbulb box, swaddled in a khaki cardigan.      

            Wait a minute. There has to be backstory. How exactly did this infant come to be?

            Well, my birth mother was a young thing, and unwed. Her father, all Magic Marker eyebrows and flailing hands, accused her of wantonness. She insisted she was merely putting on weight. Consumed huge quantities of Wonder bread slathered in Parkay margarine to make it seem true.  Every day she wore her father’s scratchy, mud-colored sweater. Tugged at it constantly to make her stomach seem more corpulent than expectant.

            When my time came she made her beau bring me into the world. In the back of his dad’s car. She’d brought towels. Rubbing alcohol. And a library book on midwifery. He had a flashlight.

            The windows were rolled up and steamed. My birth father said surely the folks closing up inside the hardware store would hear her screams. She didn’t care. “Get it out of me!”

            “Now what?” he said. His face was pale and slick with sweat. He held me in his arms, but not close.

            My mother wouldn’t look at my face. She cracked the window to release the scent of my beginning.

            “Cut the cord,” she said. “My sewing scissors are in my purse. The outside pocket.”

            My father’s face blanched as he balanced me on his knees and leaned to fish for the scissors. They rattled against his class ring. My mother struggled to sit up.

            “Here! Give ‘em to me! I’ll do it.” She snatched them from him. Pinched the cord and severed it. I cried my first cry when the cold of the stainless steel fingerloops brushed my belly. 
           My mother made him drive to your house. Because she knew, was positive, that Mr. and Mrs. “H” would do the right thing. They did.

            We three girls grew in wisdom and stature and in favor with God and man. Most of the time we could finish each other’s sentences.  Every Monday Becky would pass her lima beans to me under the kitchen table and I’d lean forward and stuff the whole handful in my mouth and chew, chew, gulp. We watched The Brady Bunch every week on the living room floor and fiddled with each other’s hair. You were the only one who knew how to French braid though.  Sometimes late at night in your all’s bedroom, we took turns kissing a handmirror, so we’d be ready for the time when Daddy let us car date.

            Almost every evening at supper, he’d stare at each of us for a moment, and then he'd nod.

            “Yes, indeed. Three is surely a charm. The good Lord knew what he was doing with our family.”

            But then after college, your sister— our sister passed. And once again, back in our childhood home, you and I huddled under the covers. Only there did we dare to say, why and if only. We sobbed until we were ugly and had the hiccups. Finally the exhausted slumber of grief consumed us.

            At the church, we sat thigh to thigh. In blue dresses because blue was her favorite color. You gripped my hand and blotted my face every now and then with a handkerchief our grandmother embroidered decades before.

            “Hand me your purse,” I said (Lord knows I never carry one). “I think I have to throw up.”

            “Breathe deep,” you whispered as you traced circles on my leg. “Remember what Daddy said. She’s absent from us but present with the Lord. And surely we’ll see her again one day. When the roll is . . . When we . . .”

            I let out a raggedy sigh. “I know. But now three's not a charm." 
           Your breath stirred my hair. "Even so, God still knows what he's doing, right? Right?"