Part V: An Anarchist is Born

Before the Dictator was born, I had religiously watched A Baby Story, knowing that this would adequately prepare me for the reality of childbirth.  All those calm, unruffled women, relaxing in kiddie pools in their living rooms until--with a gentle sigh--they release their infants into the world, really showed me what to expect from the birth experience.  So, of course, I was thoroughly prepared when I had to be induced two weeks after the Dictator's due date, labor (hard) for hours on end, ask for an epidural, and be informed that I wasn't even dialated yet.  "How about some morphine?"  I'm ashamed to say that I took it, and spent a great deal of time drooling, rocking while thinking I was having clear, profound conversation with the Bureaucrat and the Labor and Delivery Nurse.


So when the time came to deliver the Anarchist, I had a healthy and realistic understanding of the pain and suffering involved in bringing a small person into the world.  The truth was, I actually welcomed the idea of suffering during childbirth.  I was still mostly certain my baby would not make it, and I had a feeling that the pain might provide needed catharsis and expiation of some vague, unwarranted guilt that I had been carrying around inside me since I was admitted to the hospital those three months ago.  Or maybe I just welcomed another opportunity for morphine.  It does have addictive properties, right?

This helpless looking preemie unleashed a scream to
rival all screams, earning herself the NICU nickname of
Mad Baby Morton. 

Of course, I wasn't going to have the opportunity for morphine or a natural childbirth this time.  I was a little concerned about a c-section, but the nice ladies on TV made it seem so painless and simple, and my few friends that had c-sections said that they thought they were a breeze.  Somewhat reassured, I entered the OR with only slight trepidation.  I had never had major surgery before, but surely it couldn't be all that  bad, right?  And I didn't have to watch.  And I'd get an epidural.  I had just managed to calm myself with these reassuring thoughts when I was promptly strapped to the table by restraints.  I had not counted on this.  Images of X-Files alien abductions filled my head.  The Calm Doctor's calmness was suddenly insulting.

A nice anesthesiologist hovered over me, promising me that it shouldn't hurt, but that it might feel just a bit funny.  Then, I imagine, because of course I couldn't see, the alien--I mean, doctor--got to work on the drawing and quartering.  I swear I could feel him tugging on my intestines.  This was not the feeling of a "bit funny."  This was torture.

I knew, almost immediately, what I had to do.  I would kick the doctor as hard as I could, break free from the restraints, flee the hospital and have the baby naturally in a back alley.  Perfectly reasonable.  Immediately, I set about implementing my plan.  I pulled back my leg with all the strength I could muster, unleashed a kick of epic proportions...and realized that I could no longer feel my legs.  Oh yeah--the epidural.

The Bureaucrat, sensing my insanity, promised me that everything was just fine.  My internal organs weren't all splayed out on the operating table.  No one had actually sought to weave an elaborate tapestry out of my intestines. Very reassuring.  I continued to struggle.  I grew delirious.  I plotted revenge on anyone who had ever told me that c-sections were easy.  And then I heard a brief, but stunningly beautiful sound: the enraged, bloodcurdling scream of an infant.  The infant was saying, "MY LUNGS WORK!!!"  This was clearly not my infant.

These are the feet of a beautiful baby girl.  These are not the
feet of a beautiful baby alien or a beautiful baby boy.

"Congratulations," said Calm Doctor, calmly.  "It's a beautiful baby girl."  The screaming infant who was not mine was spirited away by a group of mysterious people in scrubs (the NICU staff).  "I have a what?" I asked, deliriously.  No one answered.  "He's beautiful," said the anesthesiologist.  "Wait...it's a boy?"  I asked, confused and drooling.  Finally, someone confirmed that I had given birth to a girl.  "Is it alive?" I wanted to know.  "Didn't you hear her screaming?" asked the Bureaucrat.  No.  No I didn't.  Our baby can't scream.  Our baby's lungs don't work.  Our baby will be dead within the week, if it lasts that long.  That was not our baby screaming.  Our baby can't do that.

I must have been quite a mess at this point, because someone suggested putting me "under a little deeper." Now, not only was I rendered immobile, but I was also unable to speak, reckon time, or think like a human being who is not doing heavy drugs.  The room was spinning.  At least, the sounds in the room were spinning.  They were the sounds of the nurse, the Calm Doctor the anesthesiologist, and the resident all speaking in turn, all saying the same thing over, and over, and over again.  It was nightmarish.  I panicked.  I tried to scream, but nothing came out.  Cue more panic.  I tried to thrash around, but I couldn't move.  Increased panic.  Finally, in a flash of brilliance, I moved my fingers enough to flick off the heart monitors that were clamped on my thumbs.  I heard alarms, and the nurse say, "Do you think something's wrong?" to which the Calm Doctor responded, "I think it's just panic."  Just panic?!!  Just panic?!!  I'll show you!  I never  panic!  At which point I "showed" them by whimpering pitifully for my "mommy" and vomiting spaghetti all over the poor resident.

For at least two years after this day, I actively sought to reconcile the gaping chasm that I felt between the frail, helpless, and ultimately hopeless being I had carried for seven months and the screaming, feisty little Anarchist whose id bracelets all bore my last name.  It wasn't easy.  It took everything in me not to, upon spotting Calm Doctor in the park one summer, grab him by shirt and demand to know if my lungless fetus had somehow been switched at birth for this hardy little thing.

After a long while, I came to accept that this preschooler was, in fact, that fetus.  I had just misunderstood who she was all along.  The Anarchist is a survivor, and she's been screaming at me ever since, just to remind me. 

That helpless fetus(-sized baby)

This feisty preschooler

Happy Birthday, dear Anarchist.  Happy Birthday to You.