A Birth Story - Pt. IV

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.

A Birth Story - Pt. III

Pt. I Pt. II Pt. III

1:30 PM : Really, really awful pain is a lot like really, really fantastic sex. You'll have to bear with me on this one.

When ratcheted up to a certain level, both agony and ecstasy become more than physical sensations, or even smorgasboards of sensation. Sometimes it's with a wail, sometimes it's with a whisper... but eventually, it all goes supernova. Walls are vaporized, lines of demarcation char and flake away. What you're feeling is everything, everywhere. A whole world in a cramped single bed. Indianapolis to Indochina in the creases of the sheets.

It is a plane of existence with overeager hands and sharp fingernails. All your running, writhing and caterwauling only tighten its grip.

In the case of pleasure, of course you want to press against it. Tension begets tension, and tension is delicious. Friction begets friction, the kind that urges you a little deeper down the rabbit-hole, that twists your hair a bit tighter around its fist.

This is not a sex story, however. That was nine months ago. It is now a labor story, and to say that the context has changed would earn you the Understatement of the Year Award, as well as a soul-cauterizing stare of incredulity from our protagonist.

Three and a half hours have passed. "... in the blink of an eye" wouldn't be exactly right… nor would "... the longest fucking three and a half hours not directed by James 'Mammoth, Barnacle-Encrusted Ego' Cameron".

The fourth dimension has lost all importance (as have the other three, the bastards). People, places, things... irrelevant. World events? Of no consequence. There is only pain – pain which cannot be described as "sharp", "dull", "achy", "crampy"... really, by any term other than "omnipresent". Movie villains are perpetually threatening to administer "a world of pain". It would appear that I've relocated to said locale.

Mere minutes after the first squirt of Pitocin trickled down my IV, I thought, "Oh... fuck. Not in Kansas anymore!" A few seconds after that? "Okay, champ... so how do we hold it together until we get back to the farm?" Yes, my conscious mind talks like a high school football coach. It gives my superego the occasional hearty ass-slap, too.

You don't fight against the pain. That would exacerbate it a hundredfold. You don't tense - feel those fingers against your trachea? Do you really want them to dig any deeper? You don't cry, scream, rend your hospital gown or fling your whale song CD across the room like a rainbow-festooned throwing star.

You make like Modest Mouse - you float on. You make like Jeff Spicoli - you surf. You make like Ron Jeremy and you ride that bitch... as long. And as hard. As it fucking takes.

How I discovered this, I haven't the slightest idea. Luck and desperation, most likely. But for the past few hours, I've relaxed my body, focused my mind and managed to perch atop the wave of contractions. I'm still in the ocean. But thankfully, amazingly, I'm not going under.

Balance? Not me. Born a klutz. Perpetually speckled with bruises. Fear of drowning and Dodge Caravan-sized squid kind of precluded surfing. Never really cool enough to mount a skateboard. Failure to master the art of skipping earned me amazed scorn and a "NEEDS IMPROVEMENT" from my preschool gym teacher.

And yet here I am. I've found the balance. Didn't even bash my forehead against the doorjamb while looking for it.

Breathe, relax, be still. Be quiet. Go inward. Totally in. Ouroburos ain't got nothing on you. Breathe.

Breathe.

Medical personnel wander in and out. They adjust the electronic fetal monitor, ask questions I refuse to answer and increase my Pitocin levels. Baby-Daddy hovers, anxious, sympathetic and (thankfully) silent. I surf the pain, primarily from the confines of my bed. Visits to the bathroom, while soothing (lots of cool tile and industrial disinfectant), are curtailed by the nurses ("Let's try to keep these trips closer to five minutes than fifteen", chastizes one).

Amazingly, even from deep within the maelstrom of pain, my elementary school Voice of Shame is still quite audible.

"YOU HAVE TO MAKE SURE NOT TO POOP WHILE PUSHING!" it instructs at one point, "THAT WOULD BE EVEN WORSE THAN THE TIME YOU DRANK TOO MUCH CHOCOLATE MILK BEFORE LIBRARY HOUR AND WOUND UP PEEING YOURSELF AGAINST THE CARD CATALOGUE!"

"IS YOUR BUTT HANGING OUT?" it inquires at another point. I'm on the floor, on my hands and knees, rocking back and forth and counting backwards by fives.

I was walking back to bed following an illicit bathroom break; the pain spiked before I got there. Voice of Shame is highly amused. "I THINK YOUR BUTT'S HANGING OUT! WATCH OUT, FOLKS, THERE'S A FULL MOON OVER THE LABOR PAVILION!", it crows. "Seventy-FIVE, seventy, sixty-FIVE, SHUT UP!", I say.

After a few minutes, I pull myself back upright. I clumsily remount the bed. I prop myself up on my hands. I relax, and I breathe.

1:50 PM : Garbo ain't got nothin' on me. After hours of nothing but hissed breaths and tiny sighs, I finally speak.

"This... can't... continue," I tell Baby-Daddy. My face is chalk-white, my eyes wide. I've been surfing, surfing hard... and suddenly, without warning, I feel like I'm about to be pulled under. A few minutes ago, I inadvertently tensed up; the pain became indescribably worse. I'm worried that I won't be able to stop myself from doing it again. It's going to happen. And it's going to swallow me.

"You want me to tell the doctor?" he asks, taking my hand. I nod mutely.

1:55 PM : "Let's see if you're dilated enough for an epidural!", chirps Dr. Professional, "Hopefully you'll be up to four or five, so we can get the anaesthesiologist in here". Dr. Professional is an older woman, tidy gray crewcut, all business. She lays me flat, splays my legs... and emits a very uncharacteristic cluck.

"What do you know?", she says, "You're at nine centimeters!"

Huh, I think, that would certainly explain a lot.

Extricating her rubber-gloved hand from my Love Canal, Dr. Professional pauses for a moment. "Whenever you feel like pushing, you just let us know," she says.

Pushing? Pushing, meaning I push out a baby? And this horrific process will be over? My body doesn't feel like pushing... my body feels nothing but wretchedness. My mind, however, ever the sensible party, is settled.

"Now," I say, "I want to push NOW."

TO BE CONTINUED...

Four Weeks

[We interrupt your regularly scheduled birth story for a high-test shot o' romance. More intoxicating, less cirrhosis-promoting. About as likely to result in public indecency charges.]

1. There is candy bar love, which is for the young. It is sweet and easy and everywhere. It is bought sans thought, eaten sans appreciation. It is never further away than a few quarters and a crinkle of plastic. It is a delicacy for those who have never been hungry.

And then there is chicken dinner love.

You've come back from the wars. You've got stories the kids can't hear, furrows stitched across your forehead.

You are older. You are weary. Sugary simplicity does not cut it. Makes the teeth ache.

You sink down in the green chair, same wobbly leg as before (it will never be fixed, you've come to accept this, the flaw has become somewhat endearing).

She brings you a plate of roast chicken, potatoes, green beans from the little patch behind the shed.

She rests her head on your shoulder, rubs your back, quietly shoos away wild children, hopeful dogs and stealthy cats.

There is a deeper understanding of hunger now.

There is a tacit agreement to be gentle to one another, an understanding that life is too often anything but.

There is quiet wonder at how extraordinarily lucky you are.

Sometimes, there is cake.

2. Broken is a word loaded with ugliness, like hate or gallbladder or fundamentalist, and you've got to wonder "were we ever broken?", and there's two schools of thought on that, really, or possibly a million, like in the case of pasta sauce and oral sex and selecting winning lottery numbers, but in the simple model of things, there are two, and they are thus, option ONE, no, we were never broken, we might've chipped a tooth or two [insert oral sex joke here], but we squeezed our eyes shut and squeezed our fists closed and took the pummeling with fucking Gandhi-like aplomb, and now it's over, blessedly over, the sun has set on the empire of miserable unfulfillment and colonialist assholes in Old Navy Performance Oppressor! Khaki ensembles and goddamn it, we can finally untense, and then of course there's option TWO (and I sort of like option two, personally, but I also like Timbaland and Powerbars, so go figure), which lays it out like such, which is, yeah, oh yeah, were we ever, broken, battered, crushed, pulverized, stomped into fragments, flattened via steamroller, liquefied chemically, powdered anhydrously, broken broken BROKEN, but we each maintained a tiny little grain of Self throughout the entire process, and we always will, no Bunsen burner or cold-hearted bitch will filter that out, and although we've reassembled ourselves into new and interesting configurations, we're still very... miscible, mixable, deeper parts closer to the surface, more surface area to mingle, more flavor, tactile interest, sensation, hell, more of so many things, more than you'd ever have dreamed or expected while enduring the actual-factual breaking.

3. Around you and I, there is a cozy little sphere of warmth and safety and breathable oxygen. Out on the periphery, higher even than the silo, the refinery lights, the billboards and spray-painted devotions, there is outer space, and it is a place of aliens, uncertainty and stark black fear. Periodically, thoughts come hurtling from the sky, amazing and unexpected. Along the way, they accumulate fear, which is clingy like static electricity, only it is scratchy against the skin and cannot be banished by poking something metallic. A big, big thought gathers a large, large quantity of fear, and by the time it's a few miles above our heads, it's superheated with the stuff, and it glows and pulses and hums until finally the stress becomes too much. One thought can only absorb so much energy, even if the thing was the size of a Winnebago to begin with. So it fissures, cracks and disintegrates into elemental dust, and after the destruction there's an eerily pretty little orange smudge against the sky.

Although they say every so often one actually survives the trip. The Kaminski kids have one in their backyard... word has it the thing crashed through the roof of their barn one night while Bud was fixing up his tractor. Damn near needed a new set of overalls, I'll bet.

Anyway... they keep it out back by the tire-swing, neighborhood kids ooh and ahh and pay a nickel to chip off pieces with a ball-peen hammer. Supposedly the prettiest thing you'd ever hope to see.

4. This must be what the Grand Canyon would be like, if I weren’t terrified of falling, easily sunburnt and liable to wander off, get hopelessly lost in the desert and be forced to kill and eat my own burro.

I haven’t stood this close to this much potential in years. It is a space bigger than my brain can comprehend, in which things I can’t even fathom can be conjured into existence. It is huge and fantastic and overwhelming.

It’s bigger than awesome.

I am torn in several kajillion different directions; unlike a literal dismemberment, this one is downright wonderful. Requires less Neosporin, too.

I want to make you spicy Szechuan noodles. I want to see how we fight. I want to see how we make up. I want to make up stories for the kids. I want to be surprised and delighted and, weirdly enough, I have total faith that I will be. I want to take care of you when you’re sick. I want to do nothing arbitrarily. I want to be guided by rough experiences, good intentions and honest words rather than rote promises and accumulated trips to Target. I want to build something eclectic and odd and cozy and just right. I want to take nothing for granted. I want to take everything for a spin to see how fast it can go. I want to raise the kids, send them off to liberal arts colleges, invest in some sunblock and utility knives and head into what’s left of the jungle. I want to utterly forget the future, the very concept of a future, be it five minutes or five decades from now, and just lie here, silent and content and probably dead-tired, foreheads pressed together, still.

A Birth Story - Pt. II

Pt. I Pt. II Pt. III

8:00 AM: State of the Ute Address

Sack o' amniotic goodness: officially breached!
Private room: officially obtained!
General mood: wheeeeeeeee!
Was that a contraction?: fuck, yeah!

The sun is up, the birds are delivering spirited avian renditions of Broadway classics and we are kickin' back in the Labor Suite. The Labor Suite is part of the hospital's brand-new Julius and Ethel Rosenberg Memorial Baby-Poppin' Pavilion. It is nicer than some hotel rooms I've visited. Hell, it may be nicer than my house (my delicate condition having led to a rather indelicate degree of filthiness as of late). My contractions are coming on slowly and leisurely; I'm finding them to be quite manageable. "This is IT?" I think, twining my fingers in the bedsheets and slowly exhaling, "I can deal with THIS!" I'm clutching the sheets – rather than, say, a birthing ball or a soothing CD (Now That's What I Call Atonal Whale Songs! Vol. XI) – due to my ol' bacterial nemesis, Group B Strep. Wondering how that works? Permit me to explain.

GBS leads to IV antibiotics. IV antibiotics lead to – duh – an IV. An IV leads to a restricted range of motion. A restricted range of motion leads to a the medical equivalent of a hazing ritual, wherein a hospital worker says, "Okay, folks, so whadda we got here? A globe? Chained to a pole? What do you say we strap a big, uncomfortable elastic band around that bitch?" A big, uncomfortable elastic band (otherwise known as an electronic fetal monitor) leads to a snarl of wires, which leads to a plug, which leads to a discarded prop from "2001: A Space Odyssey", which is beeping softly next to your bed… which, incidentally, you are not permitted to leave for more than a minute at a time. Eat it, globe. (But don't eat anything else. That's not permitted.)

Am I bitter about the massive, iodine-scented volume of medical intervention to which I've been subject? Slightly – but only slightly. I'm giving birth in a spacious, sanitary private room. The majority of the world's women deliver their babies in conditions which are uncomfortable at best, dangerous at worst. I may be temporarily tethered by latex and discomfort; this doesn't change the fact that I'm a middle-class American, privileged through and through. My annoyance is tempered by gratitude. My excitement is interrupted by the occasional round of fully-bearable abdominal cramping. I breathe deeply, I chat with Baby-Daddy and Mother-In-Law (who has stopped by to lend a little moral support), I sip apple juice from a tiny plastic cup. Everything is going swimmingly... that is, until the arrival of...

9:00 AM: The Pitocin Patrol!

[Disclaimer: exaggerated for comedic effect... but only barely]

Dr. Speculina: "I recommend that we augment your labor with Pitocin. Your water's broken, but you're only a few centimeters dilated. We need to speed things up to make sure we're not putting the baby at risk." [Ed. Note: the longer the labor, the greater the chance of Little Lord Fetus' holding tank being contaminated by GBS germs]

Jul: "Well... um... I've heard some pretty bad stories about Pitocin, so I was kind of hoping to... not..."

Dr. Speculina: "Well, if you WANT to put your baby at enormous risk..."

Jul: "No, no, of course not! I was just wondering if there were any other options, maybe wait a little while and see how things go..."

Dr. Speculina: "I mean, technically, we could jam a manure-crusted garden trowel up there, too, just to 'see how things went'."

Jul: "You're pretty dead-set on the Pitocin, aren't you?"

Dr. Speculina: [glare comparable in frostiness to the one Gloria Steinem would deliver if slapped on the ass and instructed to rustle up a pot roast]

Jul: "Okay! Okay! I give!"

Dr. Speculina: "Eeeeeeexcellent." [whips open white coat, eagerly yanks out baggie of high-grade Columbian "P-Toc".]

[fade to black]

9:30 AM:

Baby-Daddy: "Can I get you some juice?"
Jul: [turns head away, does not respond]
Baby-Daddy: "Do you need some more Chapstick?"
Jul: [turns head away, does not respond]
Baby-Daddy: "Want to sit on your birthing ball for a minute?"
Jul: [silent glare, the intensity of which makes Dr. Speculina's best effort look like that of a puppy begging for a tummy rub]
Baby-Daddy: "Um... whoa... well... do you want us to go to the cafeteria for a little while?"
Jul: [nods vigorously, turns head away]

Poor Baby-Daddy. He'll never really get over the snubbing he's currently enduring. He hates to see me in pain... but he really, really hates not being permitted to help. His forced exodus from the Labor Suite will be the subject of black humor for years to come.

Typical Account of Labor, Jul: "Well, I felt very strongly compelled to focus... without any distractions."

Typical Account of Labor, Baby-Daddy: "So I was like, 'What can I do for you, honey?' And you were like, 'GET OUUUUUUUT!' And I was like, 'Well, can I rub your back?' And you were like, 'GET OUUUUUUUT!' So I was like, 'Is there ANYTHING I can do?' And you were like, 'YES, YOU CAN DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE!'"

This account - while amusing - is not entirely accurate. I don't yell, I don't scream. Nor do I speak, or interact in any fashion beyond the occasional blistering glare. My demeanor can best be described as a charming amalgam of autistic and homicidal. Baby-Daddy and Mother-In-Law slowly creep out the door, praying that the squeak of their shoes on linoleum doesn’t cause my spooky, silent wrath to flare.

10:00 AM: Pit of Despair

Ah, Pitocin. Ol’ buddy, ol’ pal. How I wish to draw you near, to hold you in my arms… to squeeze you… harder… and harder… and HARDER…

Pitocin is a synthetic form of oxytocin, a hormone released naturally during childbirth (as well as many other non-agonizing moments, such as breastfeeding and orgasm). Per the manufacturer (Merck), faux-tocin is intended to “[produce] the rhythmic uterine contractions characteristic to delivery”. Like Baby-Daddy’s characterization of my behavior during labor (“Do you want some whale songs?” “THE WHALES SHOULD ALSO DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE!”), this is both hilarious and a teeny, tiny, eensy-weensy bit inaccurate.

Well, let me rephrase. It’s a fucking lie.

The contractions characteristic to a natural, non-augmented delivery wax and wane. They begin slowly, then build in frequency and intensity. They feature a well-defined beginning, middle and end; it is this nifty “end” feature which allows the laboring woman to relax, breathe deeply, listen to Shamu belting out “Inagaddadavida” and prepare for the next onslaught.

Synthetic oxytocin is not released in dribs and drabs. It is delivered at a steady clip via infusion pump, the dosage increased every half-hour or so until a “desired labor pattern is achieved”. In many cases – and certainly in mine – “desired labor pattern” is a euphemism for “slavering hellhound of a contraction which gnaws at your uterus like it’s a goddamned Booda Bone. For hours. Houuuuuuuuuuuuurs.”

It’s brutal, exhausting and unrelenting. It’s also, as I discovered quite by accident, entirely endurable.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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...