A Birth Story - Pt. I

Pt. I Pt. II Pt. III

4:00 AM : oh, not again... not again not again not again. Soft indigo light wafts through the mini-blinds, birds sleepily practice their scales... and I have to pee. My requests for an extra-extra long homemade catheter having been thwarted ("Do you know how disgusting it would be to trip over a fifteen-foot long tube of urine?"), I must lamentably get up. I yawn, fling aside blankets and begin the long dismount. I am 38 weeks pregnant, an unwieldly pink globe. Much like "Kirby" from the classic Nintendo game, jellybean-devouring proclivities and all. While Kirby was capable of unassisted flight, however, I'm incapable of taking a whiz without an intricate series of contortions. I wriggle to the left... wriggle to the right... inch my hips towards the edge... and finally, thank Yaweh, slide off the bed. I manage to take a single step towards the bathroom before feeling a tiny gush of warmth. My underwear's soaked. My eyes are wide. "Well," I think, brain whirring like an overtaxed hard drive, "My life thus far has been mercifully free of urinary incontinence. This... might... mean something."

4:15 AM : some people panic in an emergency. Some lead, some follow. Others shut down. Geek that I am, I troubleshoot. Which might explain my current position - pantsless and crouched above a paper towel. Might as well use the scientific method, I muse, retrieving the towel. It's stained with pale pink fluid. Pee? No. Female ejaculate? I wish. "Well, it ain't Crystal Lite," I mutter, sealing my rosy specimen in a Ziplock bag and sliding it into the fridge for safekeeping.

4:30 AM : The Best E-Mail Our Heroine Has Ever Composed

Sent: 04/__/05
To: Jul's Boss
Subject: I Will Not Be In Today...
Body: ... and I think you know why. Thx.

4:45 AM : "... and then I collected some on a towel? And it LOOKED kinda, um, amniotic?" On the other end of the line, my obstetrician yawns. "Yeah, you're going to want to head in." "Now? Like, right now?" I say. My doctor murmurs his assent. Some months earlier, I'd tested positive for Group B strep. GBS is a member of the "common-yet-rogueish" subset of infectious agents (such as escheria "E-Dogg" coli). 25% of the population harbors GBS at any given time; it's generally an innocuous little beastie. Under certain circumstances, however (such as the gooey operetta of childbirth), GBS rages out of control. It throws a microscopic keg party which grows way too large, way too rapidly. An infection that boisterous can be problematic... sometimes fatally so. As as result, Group B strep carriers generally receive IV antibiotics during labor. Which - if the telltale towel is any indicator - I've just begun. Surprise!

5:15 AM : these are my last moments as a childless individual. Do I panic? Do I ponder? Do I laugh? Do I cry?

No. I waddle into the kitchen and devour a protein bar. "No eating during labor?" I sneer, "My hormone-bloated ass!" It is not my most flagrantly defiant move as a patient; that honor belongs to "removing own stitches after oral surgery." Nonetheless, brushing soy crispies from my chin, I feel a twinge of pride.

Or is that a contraction?

6:00 AM : Rousing the Baby-Daddy

"Psssst!"
"Whuuuu?"
"Pssssst!"
"Whaddisit?"
"Um... I think my water broke!"
"Huh? What?"
"We have to go to the hospital!"
"Ohhhhhhhh. Really? Wow. Do you feel anything?"
"Maybe a twinge? I think?"

6:15 AM : the Toyota MR2 is a fun, feisty little death trap; a Hot Wheel-sized convertible with plenty of pickup and not much side-impact protection. I have no way of knowing if I'm the only laboring woman who has ever arrived at the hospital via MR2... but I secretly hope so.

"Uh... so how are we getting the baby home?" I ask, attempting to hoist myself from one of Ladybug's deep bucket seats.

Earlier that week, my Accord had thrown an uncharacteristic mechanical wobbly. We weren't pleased, but as my due date was two weeks away, we'd assumed it would be off of jacks and back in action in plenty of time.

"Well... huh. I guess we borrow a car... or rent one... or something?" ventures Baby-Daddy. We giggle nervously. Sure, there are disadvantages to having kids early in life. But the ability to shrug off "lack of non-deathtrap vehicle" as "Eh, Something That Kinda Sucks, But Not Too Bad"? Priceless. We grab my suitcase and lock up Ladybug. Holding hands, we walk towards Baby Mill Memorial Hospital's automatic double-doors and our new lives.

7:00 AM :

"First, do no harm" - Hippocrates
"Another day, another potential malpractice suit" - Baby Mill Memorial

It is a squat suburban behemoth, acres and acres of tidy brick and close-cropped grass.

As you turn into the hospital's main entrance, an LED sign cheerily informs you that "BABY MILL MEMORIAL HAS DELIVERED ___ BABIES THIS YEAR!" It's early spring. "___ " already requires a comma. Ushering a new life into the world has historically been a sticky, erratic business. Baby Mill Memorial holds no truck with all of that. It is their aim to ensure that each infant arrives as smoothly and predictably as a new Volkswagen rolling off the line.

"No, you can't do that."

I hear it within minutes of being admitted. I'll hear it dozens - perhaps hundreds - of times over the next several days. It is by virtue of exhaustion alone that I refrain from shivving an allied health worker in the ass with a sharpened otoscope.

Minutes after trundling up to the intake desk, I am tagged, classified, handed a standard one-ply hospital gown and parked in a semi-private waiting area. Triage Terrace features an uncomfortable-ass molded plastic chair, an uncomfortable-ass bed (to which I'm promptly confined) and several pieces of relentlessly benign wall art ("Thomas Kinkade Tossses Back Too Many Brandy Alexanders and Spews All Over the Canvas"- 2005). Baby-Daddy and I crack jokes as nurses bustle about... filling out forms, recording vital signs, taking fluid samples, denying any and all requests.

"Um... I really have to go to the bathroom...".

"Can't do that."

"But I - "

"We're still waiting for your lab results. Here, use this."

Baby-Daddy is handed a gleaming metal bedpan. We stare at each other in mute horror. Somehow, this is not what we envisioned when we sealed our love with fifty orders of Poulet Chasseur and "'til death do us part."

Nurse Wretched scurries away. We manage to position my lower half atop the bedpan - an operation not unlike squeezing a banacle-crusted freighter into dry dock - and I am granted sweet, sweet urinary relief. After a hearty sigh of relief, I reach over my globe, delicately dab my female region... and pull back a prop from "Saving Private Ryan". I stare at the handful of bloody goo, shocked. "Damn it, look somewhere else!" I tell Baby-Daddy. "Good news, it looks like your water DID break!" says Nurse Wretched, stepping through the (semi-)privacy curtain. "Ummmn... YEAH," I mutter, displaying my palmful of gore.

TO BE CONTINUED...