| Pt. I Pt. II Pt. III Pt. IV |
2:05 PM : a United States Marine can field-strip his M16 in three minutes. Baby Mill Memorial Hospital can prep a delivery suite for business in about the same amount of time. Both enterprises feature a good deal of sweating, cursing and grunting. Only one of them, however, offers the option of an overhead mirror for your viewing pleasure.
"No... no... mirror," I eke out as nurses and med students swarm the bed. I'm usually quite eager to watch any medical derring-do; "America's Most Thrilling Cranial Lawn Dart Extractions" is my idea of fine prime-time programming. In this case, however, I feel it might be prudent to minimize distractions.
It's showtime.
Well... not strictly speaking. I haven't gotten any "push pains", overwhelming urges to bear down or little bottled-up notes from the Uterine Archipelago reading "OKAY, TIME TO PUSH NOW."
However, I'm incredibly fed up with labor. Labor sucks a big fat speculum. I want to do something - anything - other than continue to be ravaged by contraction after incessant, Pitocin-amped contraction. As "have a nice tumbler of single-malt in the sitting room with the lads" isn't an option... I elect to push.
2:10 PM : A Few Words of Advice From Dr. Professional
"Start pushing on the count of three. Don't hold your breath. Ready?"
Ready as I'll ever be, cap'n.
2:12 AM : After spending hours in relative silence, it's a relief to be able to talk once again.
Well, "talk" is something of a misnomer.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
It's a scream typically heard in more phallocentric venues... gymnasiums, rubgy fields, World's Strongest Man competitions. It's the sound of extreme exertion mixed with deep personal satisfaction. And while I'm not using my uterus to, say, drag a mobile home across a football field, I'm suffused with a similar level of macho pride. I'm delighted to finally be DOING something... something which, wonder of wonders, doesn't hurt one bit. As a matter of fact, I feel fantastic. I share this sentiment with the medical staff.
"PUSHING ROCKS!" I shriek.
The medical student to my left giggles. I dig my sweaty head into the pillow and grin.
"Okay, another push?" asks Dr. Professional.
"YES! I'M NOT YELLING BECAUSE IT HURTS I'M YELLING BECAUSE THIS IS PRETTY INTENSE BUT IT'S GOOD I LIKE THIS PART!" I say, bracing myself for another round.
"Ready?"
"YES! AAAAGGGHHHH!"
In between primal screams and giggles, I furrow my brow, bear down and push harder than Salt, Pepa and Spinderella combined. Baby-Daddy and the cadre of med students cluster around my upper half, holding my splayed legs, murmuring encouragements. Dr. Professional patrols Birth Canal Concourse, briskly massaging the exit ramp and dispatching orders.
"Push harder," she snaps, "Harder!"
Erm... excuse me? Are my shrieks not quite hearty enough? Have I burst an insufficient quantity of facial blood vessels?
Oh, I'll give you harder, bitch!, I think. I take a deep breath, bear down and pretend I'm trying to expel Orson Welles rather than a being the size of an Oven Stuffer Roaster.
"Harder! Try to push HARDER! Look, look, dad... you can see the head!"
"DON'T YOU DARE - "
Baby-Daddy scampers to the foot of the bed before I can dissuade him, whether verbally or via a vigorous jab to the scrotum. I sigh. So much for that particular illusion remaining intact. Baby-Daddy seems more excited than repulsed, however. As he returns to my side, Dr. Professional resumes her litany.
"Harder!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!"
"Harder! One more push! One more!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!"
"Just one more!"
"Hey, you just SAID thatTTTTTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!"
Dr. Professional's hands, previously just "busy", are now twisting and turning as though she were conduction the London Philharmonic.
"This is the last one!" she barks, "Push!"
There is no pain... just pressure and single-minded purpose. I clench my fists, give one last emphatic push...
2:32 PM : ... and seconds later, a beaming Dr. Professional is holding up my child.
"Look at all that HAIR!" she says.
"Look at all that HAIR!" say the nurses.
"Look at all that HAIR!" says Baby-Daddy.
It is the first thing one tends to notice... J.Q. has a wild mop of jet-black hair. His eyes are closed, seemingly in a scowl. "What the hell's going on here?" he seems to be thinking, "I was just settling in! I was going to put in a wet bar!"
I'm given a cursory glimpse of the kiddo before he's whisked away to be weighed, wiped off and Apgar'd. His first cry comes as the nurses administer a bath. Apparently, warm tapwater and sterile towlettes are a piss-poor substitute for the comforts of the womb. J.Q. howls in protest, I keep a wary eye on the proceedings and hospital staff bustle about. As my de-gooed and blanket-wrapped infant is placed in my arms, the reality of the situation hits me.
"Hey! I did it without drugs!"
Baby-Daddy gives a brief, bemused smile and adjusts J.Q.'s blanket. The baby's tiny hands are identical to my own; I tuck one into my palm and grin. We have a gorgeous, healthy little son... the specifics of his arrival should be largely irrelevant. However, I can't help but feel tickled. I survived labor - labor augmented by Pitocin, the bat-wielding thug of obstetric medications - armed with nothing more than grim resolve and a few sips of apple juice. There is a miniature human snoozing on my chest... squished-faced, cone-headed and much beloved. And save a few ministrations from the nimble-fingered Dr. Professional, he was ushered into the world via force of will alone. I should be exhausted... instead, I'm exhilarated. I've spent years as a Zen master of self-loathing. Feeling this powerful, confident and competent is a better drug than any of the controlled substances available down the hall.
Dr. Professional appears with a clipboard and a smile. "You really ought to teach pushing classes!" she says. I grin and blush. "Oh... well... y'know... those damned contractions...". Immediately after she leaves, my fantastic mother-in-law walks in the door bearing a celebratory post-labor meal of takeout barbecue. The room smells like baby powder and hickory smoke, both intoxicating.
The following weeks will be difficult... exponentially harder than delivery. There will be nursing problems, sleep deprivation, guilt, doubts and projectile defecation. However (as Dick Valentine says), the future is the future; I'll surf those choppier waves when they arrive. For the moment, I'm at peace with the world, awash in residual endorphins, enjoying a pulled-pork sandwich (and being careful not to drip sauce onto J.Q.'s spiky black 'do). Life is a struggle, parenthood particularly so. They're deep and complicated, unruly fractals. This moment, however, is a single crystal... the essence of simplicity and clarity. My belly's full of cornbread, my heart is bursting with love. I cover J.Q. in kisses. His tiny nose feels like it was custom-designed for the contour of my lips. It - and him, and me, and this, and the world - is absolutely perfect.
2:10 PM : A Few Words of Advice From Dr. Professional
"Start pushing on the count of three. Don't hold your breath. Ready?"
Ready as I'll ever be, cap'n.
2:12 AM : After spending hours in relative silence, it's a relief to be able to talk once again.
Well, "talk" is something of a misnomer.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
It's a scream typically heard in more phallocentric venues... gymnasiums, rubgy fields, World's Strongest Man competitions. It's the sound of extreme exertion mixed with deep personal satisfaction. And while I'm not using my uterus to, say, drag a mobile home across a football field, I'm suffused with a similar level of macho pride. I'm delighted to finally be DOING something... something which, wonder of wonders, doesn't hurt one bit. As a matter of fact, I feel fantastic. I share this sentiment with the medical staff.
"PUSHING ROCKS!" I shriek.
The medical student to my left giggles. I dig my sweaty head into the pillow and grin.
"Okay, another push?" asks Dr. Professional.
"YES! I'M NOT YELLING BECAUSE IT HURTS I'M YELLING BECAUSE THIS IS PRETTY INTENSE BUT IT'S GOOD I LIKE THIS PART!" I say, bracing myself for another round.
"Ready?"
"YES! AAAAGGGHHHH!"
In between primal screams and giggles, I furrow my brow, bear down and push harder than Salt, Pepa and Spinderella combined. Baby-Daddy and the cadre of med students cluster around my upper half, holding my splayed legs, murmuring encouragements. Dr. Professional patrols Birth Canal Concourse, briskly massaging the exit ramp and dispatching orders.
"Push harder," she snaps, "Harder!"
Erm... excuse me? Are my shrieks not quite hearty enough? Have I burst an insufficient quantity of facial blood vessels?
Oh, I'll give you harder, bitch!, I think. I take a deep breath, bear down and pretend I'm trying to expel Orson Welles rather than a being the size of an Oven Stuffer Roaster.
"Harder! Try to push HARDER! Look, look, dad... you can see the head!"
"DON'T YOU DARE - "
Baby-Daddy scampers to the foot of the bed before I can dissuade him, whether verbally or via a vigorous jab to the scrotum. I sigh. So much for that particular illusion remaining intact. Baby-Daddy seems more excited than repulsed, however. As he returns to my side, Dr. Professional resumes her litany.
"Harder!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!"
"Harder! One more push! One more!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!"
"Just one more!"
"Hey, you just SAID thatTTTTTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!"
Dr. Professional's hands, previously just "busy", are now twisting and turning as though she were conduction the London Philharmonic.
"This is the last one!" she barks, "Push!"
There is no pain... just pressure and single-minded purpose. I clench my fists, give one last emphatic push...
2:32 PM : ... and seconds later, a beaming Dr. Professional is holding up my child.
"Look at all that HAIR!" she says.
"Look at all that HAIR!" say the nurses.
"Look at all that HAIR!" says Baby-Daddy.
It is the first thing one tends to notice... J.Q. has a wild mop of jet-black hair. His eyes are closed, seemingly in a scowl. "What the hell's going on here?" he seems to be thinking, "I was just settling in! I was going to put in a wet bar!"
I'm given a cursory glimpse of the kiddo before he's whisked away to be weighed, wiped off and Apgar'd. His first cry comes as the nurses administer a bath. Apparently, warm tapwater and sterile towlettes are a piss-poor substitute for the comforts of the womb. J.Q. howls in protest, I keep a wary eye on the proceedings and hospital staff bustle about. As my de-gooed and blanket-wrapped infant is placed in my arms, the reality of the situation hits me.
"Hey! I did it without drugs!"
Baby-Daddy gives a brief, bemused smile and adjusts J.Q.'s blanket. The baby's tiny hands are identical to my own; I tuck one into my palm and grin. We have a gorgeous, healthy little son... the specifics of his arrival should be largely irrelevant. However, I can't help but feel tickled. I survived labor - labor augmented by Pitocin, the bat-wielding thug of obstetric medications - armed with nothing more than grim resolve and a few sips of apple juice. There is a miniature human snoozing on my chest... squished-faced, cone-headed and much beloved. And save a few ministrations from the nimble-fingered Dr. Professional, he was ushered into the world via force of will alone. I should be exhausted... instead, I'm exhilarated. I've spent years as a Zen master of self-loathing. Feeling this powerful, confident and competent is a better drug than any of the controlled substances available down the hall.
Dr. Professional appears with a clipboard and a smile. "You really ought to teach pushing classes!" she says. I grin and blush. "Oh... well... y'know... those damned contractions...". Immediately after she leaves, my fantastic mother-in-law walks in the door bearing a celebratory post-labor meal of takeout barbecue. The room smells like baby powder and hickory smoke, both intoxicating.
The following weeks will be difficult... exponentially harder than delivery. There will be nursing problems, sleep deprivation, guilt, doubts and projectile defecation. However (as Dick Valentine says), the future is the future; I'll surf those choppier waves when they arrive. For the moment, I'm at peace with the world, awash in residual endorphins, enjoying a pulled-pork sandwich (and being careful not to drip sauce onto J.Q.'s spiky black 'do). Life is a struggle, parenthood particularly so. They're deep and complicated, unruly fractals. This moment, however, is a single crystal... the essence of simplicity and clarity. My belly's full of cornbread, my heart is bursting with love. I cover J.Q. in kisses. His tiny nose feels like it was custom-designed for the contour of my lips. It - and him, and me, and this, and the world - is absolutely perfect.
Add to del.icio.us
Add to Digg
AmyinMotown, at 8/27/2007 4:54 PM 
This was a great job of telling a birth story without resorting to cornball cliches or TMI. I think it's just such a BIG experience we don't know how to tell the story, but you've done a good job.