Part IV: A Calm Labor

On May 7th, 2007, my simple little hospital life was disrupted for good.  I woke up that morning still tenuously pregnant with a small person I had--for about the past three months--refused to fall any further in love with.  I was dedicated to this small person, willing to die for this small person, but I was not attached to it, could not really bond with it.  This person had no in utero nicknames, like those I had given the Dictator; I had yet to joke about this person, dream about its future, choose a name for it.  I couldn't.  It would have killed me, and by proxy, the baby.  My strategy was to remain calm.

The day progressed in the same exact monotonous fashion as every day before: sleep in until breakfast tray is cold, nibble cold breakfast, scan baby for heart tones (by myself, I was a pro at that point), stay in bed to be sure to catch cafeteria folk and place order for the day (it was Monday, spaghetti night), wait until cleaning lady had come and gone so as not to throw her off her rhythm by being in the shower (that really seemed to throw them for a loop), watch a bit of inane television, jump in shower, go back to bed and read or sleep.

I did get a visitor later that afternoon.  My brother-in-law, whom we will call the Librarian, came to visit and we had a pleasant chat about books.  I felt some cramping, but that wasn't unusual and I rode out the pain like the trooper I had become.  Occasionally, I would be forced to stop mid-sentence to white knuckle grip the bed rails, grit my teeth, bite my lip and attempt to breathe through the pain, but I took it in stride.  Eventually, I asked for a heating pad.  It helped.  I continued with my visit.

The Librarian with a bitty Anarchist. 
Spoiler Alert: the Anarchist made it and is very much alive
and creating untold anarchy today.

The nurse that came in to check on me was only mildly concerned.  "It's just cramps," I reassured her.  She checked with a resident who suggested that maybe I not eat my dinner, just in case.  I dutifully, but begrudgingly, set my spaghetti aside and continued to chat with the Librarian.  The nurse returned shortly, to let me know that the residents thought it would be okay if I ate after all.  I wolfed down the plate of spaghetti, a bread stick, broccoli, and dessert (probably cake).  Shortly thereafter, the nurse came back in looking a touch more concerned than last time (uh oh!).  "I was on the phone with your doctor because the lady down the hall is about to deliver twins.  I mentioned that you were having cramps and he asked if they were bad.  I said you were gripping the railing and biting your lip and he said, 'That's never good.  I'll come and check on her when I come in to deliver the twins.'"

True, the phrase "that's never good" entered the conversation, but it was all rather nonchalant.  False alarms had happened before.  Doctors popped in to check now and then, some more nervously than others, but nothing ever came of it.  This baby I was so detached from was not forcing its presence on anyone.

Anyway, Calm Doctor arrived, calmly, a while later and did all the doctory things in an exceedingly calm way.  I, also, was exceedingly calm.  Allowing your emotions to die will do that for you.  "We might transfer you to the perinatal unit, just to be on the safe side," he said calmly.  "You might want to call your husband to let him know where you're heading."  No problem.  I calmly said goodbye to the Librarian (who had unwittingly witnessed his sister-in-law in labor), calmly packed my things, calmly allowed myself to be hooked up to IV fluids, not-so-calmly got tangled in my IV tube/stand/hospital gown in the bathroom, fake-calmly returned to my room, and climbed back in bed to await the calm, and not-at-all alarming transfer to perinatal.  Calm.  So calm.

When Calm Doctor returned, there was something less calm in his demeanor.  Call it worry.  I know, I know, do calm people even get that?  He said, still calmly, "Is there any way you can get a hold of your husband right now?"  "He's in a school board meeting, " I calmly (naively) replied.  "You might want to call him right now.  See how fast he can get here."  WHAT?!  (That was a calm "WHAT?!" by the way). 


So I called the Bureaucrat, he came, they shoved him into scrubs and a funny hat, I apologized profusely for interrupting Calm Doctor's calm evening of calmly delivering twins and then going to bed, a bunch of medical things happened that I no longer remember the names for, and then it was time...time to deliver the baby that I had never allowed myself to believe was real.  I took a deep breath, whispered a prayer for our safety, put on a brave, smiling face, cracked an inappropriate joke and said the only thing one can say at times like these:  "Do I have time to run to the bathroom?"

This request caused much deliberation.  It was finally decided to give the poor pregnant lady her last request.  Wise move.  I took a minute in the bathroom to stare at myself in the mirror and convince myself that I was real, and also to readjust my surgical cap thing, which was entirely unflattering.  Then, acting as calm as possible (i.e., not calm), I let myself be wheeled down the hall to the OR.  My second to last thought as I left was, "Boy, am I ever going to miss my little room and all my nurses!"  My last thought was, "I wish we got cable at home. If I live, how am I going to watch What Not to Wear without it?"