The Arrival of the Morgan, Part I

He's here! He's really here!

There are so many moments, but here are a few...

This time, when we got to the hospital, my husband did not try to park the car and have me walk across the parking lot whilst in labor. A good, self-preserving plan, that. But we did get inside, and end up having to wait at the ER because it was about five in the morning. Two people were ahead of us, getting registered. Only one woman was at the desk. My husband was rather too patiently waiting for someone to help him register us, so the minute someone came through the waiting room with a name tag, I said, "Can someone help me? I'm in LABOR!" It was really patient of me, I thought. Here I was, having active contractions in the waiting room chair, trying to hold my beautiful two-year-old and keep my nightgown on. I recall breathing hard and staring at my swollen feet in the glare of the flourescent lights and the reflective chair, wishing I were in a more enclosed space. I was grounded in an alien, I-need-something-else-to-think-about kind of way. The woman had the grace to say, "Omigoodness. We'll get you taken care of right away!" I sighed, and threw a rather unfortunate glace at my husband. I suppose I wanted him to make a scene and demand that someone help his wife, She's in labor! But really, it's much more effective when a half-mad pregnant woman with a toddler dangling from her arm uses a contractions to propel her voice into a war cry.

All I could think about was that my son needed a change -- I could smell it -- and that the TV was on a program much too violent for him. How could I - ow! - get the channel changed? And had I -- OW! -- brought the diaper bag to change Julian? And if so, did it have some -- YEEEEEEOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW! -- clean pajamas, in case his diaper had been defeated? Eventually, grandma did come, but she took a very long time, and in the meantime all I could think was that MY TWO YEAR OLD NEEDED TO BE CHANGED, BADLY! I was a terrible mother, I was certain: my child was out in the world at five-thirty (then six, then six-thirty, then seven) in a dirty diaper and pajamas with urine on them. I would never be allowed in the Mothers' Club. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if most department stores started locking their doors when they saw me coming. I was clearly bad news, and Child Protection Services should be pounding on my door any minute. At no time did it register that I was in labor, that most people are forgiving in such circumstances, and that even if they had pounded on my door at seven am (not normal working hours), I was not at home. I was in the hospital.

I was in labor for only five hours. I got pain relief after almost three hours. So in the middle of hour three, I was in full labor, with loooong contractions, and no pain relief. (Yes, I know, our foremothers would shake their heads and wonder at our sissyfied need for pain control, but damnit it HURTS.) I would have throttled the nurse who said, "She's having long contractions, but is handling it well." I couldn't do anything with my hands but grip the bed. What, I wondered, would she consider NOT handling it well? Sobbing uncontrollably? Well, then, I guess I was handling it well. But if I could have wrapped my hands around her neck, I would have handled it very, very well.

I asked about pain relief for the contractions about every sixth nanosecond. Apparently my doctor had another patient in who was also in labor at the exact same time. I cursed whatever Indian food she'd eaten that had brought on her contractions at this *exact* moment. Blast it, I wanted pain relief!! In retrospect, it's probably best that I didn't get it immediately, because I had one of the most depthful experiences of my life. One of those experiences where you look at the task in front of you and think, "Dear God, I don't know if I am up to this." And then, all of a sudden, you have no doubt that you are completely up to it. You might even take in a round of golf once you're finished, in fact. That's how totally Up To It you are.

It's like having a big shovel come along and dig a hole in your You. It hurts like hell, but when it's done you have no choice but to admit that you're a lot deeper than you thought you were. In fact, that shovel didn't quite hit bottom, so you must admit that you still don't know much you can do, because you have yet to come to the end of yourself. It's possible that you really are powerful beyond measure, but what's really scary is wondering what else there is in you that you haven't even met yet. Maybe you'll be lucky enough to meet it in this lifetime. But hopefully you'll be able to do so because it will willingly come out and meet you, rather than be dug out with a big damn shovel.

I remember breathing through the contractions, and I remember for a fleeting second thinking that they would last longer than I would; I would be beaten by the pain. Then, somehow, I mentally sat up and got my head in the game. "Come get me!" I thought. "I can outlast you." And somehow, my vision expanded in front of me, and I could see that the end of myself was much farther away than I had thought. I had so much of me to go. Another contraction came; I breathed as hard as I could, still waiting to bear down. But this time I knew, my line is longer than yours, Contraction. I can master you.

My doctor told me to groan, that it would help. And it did. And to slow my breathing down. I did. I could do this, I knew. I was working too hard, so the doctor told me to sink into the bed and relax in between contractions. I did this as best I could. I think it went well, because the doc said nothing about it again.

Then it was time to push.

I don't know if this is genetic or what, but I know I pushed, and I know it hurt like nothing I've ever felt, but even two days later, I couldn't really remember the pain. I don't mean I don't remember the birth, I mean I can't recall what the pain felt like. When you burn your finger on a hot stove, or when I broke mine a year ago, those things we can recall perfectly. How it felt, the shock to the system, what we did afterwards, etc. Even the sound my finger made as the bone cracked, I can remember clearly. But to recall how much pain I was in is impossible. Intellectually I know it hurt, but I can't recall it or relive it in any clear way. I suspect this is survival of the species. Why else would women have twelve or thirteen children, with no pain control at all? (I bow down, by the way, to those women. I just bow down.)

In any case, I pushed for maybe twenty minutes, something like that. I remember the buzz of activity, that something amazing was happening. I remember being viscerally and violently present and at the same time about a foot behind myself, experiencing the Event. In the middle of pushing, I had to take a break, it hurt so much. The doctor had me reach down and feel his head, which was halfway out into the world. I remember the feel of it, warm and slick with blood and fluid, and so trusting. I remember feeling simultaneously omnipotent, as I was the only one bringing this child into the world, and completely helpless, my husband holding my hand, the doctor catching the baby, and me just trying to survive the moment. At that moment I knew what it meant to be a family: I was necessary, but not sufficient. I felt transparent, sticky, and tensile, held up only by their support -- I could not have begun to do it alone -- and singly and wholly bringing forth another soul. I felt lovingly scorched.

Never had I so wished that anyone wishing the use phrase "give birth" would be required to experience this moment. Anytime the phrase passed someone's lips, I imagined, the Truth police would march in and trot you off to a Virtual Reality chamber, where you would live through an experience like that. Then you could be popped back to your coffee house or restaurant or book group, new depth lovingly scorched into you.

Much, much more later....