I just spent a pleasant night at the home of my oldest child who, with his brother, is away celebrating his birthday today. Sleeping with his tiny Boston Cricket and his new beefier rescue dog Roscoe was quite the experience. Id forgotten how Bostons love to slip under the blankets, pin themselves against you and create the infamous Dutch oven effect, radiating heat and emitting noxious fumes. I used to love to read far-fetched stories of people and spontaneous combustion. Had anyone lit a match within three miles of Wills clapboard house during the wee hours of the morning, I am convinced Cricket, Roscoe and I would have burst into flames in our sleep. Today is one of those daysI straddle both past and present, as it marks 34 years since I became a mother. (Yes, I glance at the clock on my childrens birthdays and replay hour by hour the events of their birth.) In the end, I find it isnt the pain or the pushing I recall, but rather the quirky, funny moments I relive with uncanny clarity. When I labored with Will, an unfortunate and too talkative young woman mopped the hallways. I guess she felt compelled to give me a pep talk, but her story was far from comforting. Her exact words: I had a baby once, but it didnt make it so I had it cremated and put in a jar. In another unforgettable moment, a maintenance man popped into my room, took one look at me and at the clock and announced (in very dramatic fashion), We have a situation here young lady. It turned out the clock was running fast, so he fiddled with its settings, turned back time and robbed me of two hours of hard work. One other vivid memory is of the deafening sucking sound that filled the hallway. I wasnt the only woman in labor. In fact I think there was a full moon which brought out all the crazies and the pregnant women. That night, I think most of the crazies were pregnant women. As I would find out later, we came in all shapes, sizes and from all walks of life. We had a few things in common, though: we were hungry, thirsty and in pain. (No epidurals back then. Only a much-begged for whiff of pain-numbing gas delivered through a face mask you practically inhaled.) Hospital policy allowed us all the popsicles we wanted, thus the sucking, chomping and crunching noises that formed their own strange symphony of shared suffering. When I was gifted with the last orange popsicle, the gal it in the next room cried out, Thats aint fair; I wanted an orange popsicle. (A maternity ward is more cutthroat and dramatic than an episode of Survivor.) That same woman (who bore an uncanny resemblance to Edward G. Robinson) would later attempt to give her newborn a swig of Faygo Orange Soda. When I narced on her, she became my worst enemy. We shared a room. When she thought I was napping, I heard her telling her enormous gathering of family, Shes the one with the fat kid. (Yeah, okay, I know twelve pounds is big for a newborn, but I chose to wear the recognition I got with pride. Will was my red badge of courage.) Well, when I heard her talking smack about my baby, I would have jumped out of my bed and let her have it if the bed rail, my lingering spinal block and my stitches hadnt held me back. In those days, maternity wards were like prison wards. (I know this because I recently watched both seasons of HBOs Orange Is the New Black in one 24-hour marathon. In doing so, I experienced a few deja vu moments that put me back in Wood County Hospital, circa 1980.) Each year I revisit the day I gave birth to my infant/toddler son: both the bizarre and the heartwarming memories have melded together over time. In the end, meeting my oldest son, made the whole crazy, scary and beautiful experience one I will never forget.
Posted on: Sun, 19 Oct 2014 12:18:39 +0000
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