yellow oilcloth patterned with little red houses with smoke coming out of their chimneys, and a little green tree next to each.
One night she could not sit. She paced the kitchen for an hour, thoughtless, listening to her body. The pains began and she woke Norm. He examined her and timed her, joked about the good luck that his course in gynecology had occurred the previous semester. He said it was early, but that he would take her to the hospital.
The nurses were cold and brusque. They sat her down and asked for information: father’s name, mother’s name, address, religion, Blue Cross number. Then they gave her a hospital gown and told her to get undressed in a cold damp room that looked and smelled like the locker room of a gym. She was in some pain now and the very air of the place irritated her as it brushed against her skin. They ordered her to get up on a table, and they shaved her pubic hair. The water was warm but it got cold as soon as they put it on her body, which was already shivering. Then they gave her an enema: it drove her insane, she couldn’t believe they were doing this to her. Her belly and abdomen were aching worse and worse, as if part of her insides were pulling away from the rest and wrenching the organs with it and pounding down on her pelvic bones like a steady hammer. There was no let-up, no rest, it just kept happening. At the same time, they were pumping warm water into her backside. It pulsed upward in a different rhythm, then bent her double with a different cramp. When it was over, they told her to get up on the table again, and they wheeled her into a different room. It was bare and functional: white walls and four beds, two against each wall, footto head. They put her feet up into stirrups and laid a cloth over her knees. Every so often a nurse or an orderly would come into the room, lift the cloth and peer in. Out in the hall, beds on wheels were lined up waiting to enter the delivery room. The women on them were moaning, some crying, some silent. One screamed, ‘God damn you, Morris, you bastard!’ and another kept weeping, ‘Oh, God, dear God, Mary, Jesus, Joseph, help me, help me.’ The nurses threaded through the corridors unheeding. One woman shrieked, and a nurse turned and snapped at her, ‘Stop being such a baby! You’d think you were dying!’
The bed behind Mira was closed off by a pink curtain hanging on iron rings from a bar set in the walls. The woman in the bed kept expelling air in great gusts: ‘Unnh! Unhh!’ She called for the nurse, but no one came. She called several times, and finally gave a piercing shriek. A nurse ran in.
‘What is it now, Mrs Martinelli?’ There was irritation and contempt in her voice. Mira could not see the nurse, but she imagined her standing there with hands on her hips and a sneer on her face.
‘It’s time for the spinal,’ the woman wailed in the irritating whine of the child, the helpless, the victim known and accepted. ‘Tell the doctor to come, it’s time.’
The nurse was silent; there was a ruffling of a sheet. ‘It’s not time yet.’
The woman’s voice rose hysterically. ‘It is, it is! I ought to know, I’ve had five kids. I know when it’s coming. It’ll be too late, it happened before, it was too late and they couldn’t give it to me at all. Tell him, tell the doctor!’
The nurse left, and after a while a gray-faced man in a rumpled suit entered. He went to Mrs Martinelli’s bed. ‘Well, what’s this I hear about you stirring up a rumpus, Mrs Martinelli? I thought you were a brave girl.’
The woman’s voice cringed and whimpered. ‘Oh, Doctor, please give me the spinal. It’s time, I know it’s time, I’ve had five kids … you know I told you when I came to you what happened to me the last time. Please.’
‘It’s not time yet, Mrs Martinelli. Quiet down now and don’t bother the nurses. Don’t worry. Trust me. Everything will be fine.’
She was silent, and he trudged out, his mouth
One night she could not sit. She paced the kitchen for an hour, thoughtless, listening to her body. The pains began and she woke Norm. He examined her and timed her, joked about the good luck that his course in gynecology had occurred the previous semester. He said it was early, but that he would take her to the hospital.
The nurses were cold and brusque. They sat her down and asked for information: father’s name, mother’s name, address, religion, Blue Cross number. Then they gave her a hospital gown and told her to get undressed in a cold damp room that looked and smelled like the locker room of a gym. She was in some pain now and the very air of the place irritated her as it brushed against her skin. They ordered her to get up on a table, and they shaved her pubic hair. The water was warm but it got cold as soon as they put it on her body, which was already shivering. Then they gave her an enema: it drove her insane, she couldn’t believe they were doing this to her. Her belly and abdomen were aching worse and worse, as if part of her insides were pulling away from the rest and wrenching the organs with it and pounding down on her pelvic bones like a steady hammer. There was no let-up, no rest, it just kept happening. At the same time, they were pumping warm water into her backside. It pulsed upward in a different rhythm, then bent her double with a different cramp. When it was over, they told her to get up on the table again, and they wheeled her into a different room. It was bare and functional: white walls and four beds, two against each wall, footto head. They put her feet up into stirrups and laid a cloth over her knees. Every so often a nurse or an orderly would come into the room, lift the cloth and peer in. Out in the hall, beds on wheels were lined up waiting to enter the delivery room. The women on them were moaning, some crying, some silent. One screamed, ‘God damn you, Morris, you bastard!’ and another kept weeping, ‘Oh, God, dear God, Mary, Jesus, Joseph, help me, help me.’ The nurses threaded through the corridors unheeding. One woman shrieked, and a nurse turned and snapped at her, ‘Stop being such a baby! You’d think you were dying!’
The bed behind Mira was closed off by a pink curtain hanging on iron rings from a bar set in the walls. The woman in the bed kept expelling air in great gusts: ‘Unnh! Unhh!’ She called for the nurse, but no one came. She called several times, and finally gave a piercing shriek. A nurse ran in.
‘What is it now, Mrs Martinelli?’ There was irritation and contempt in her voice. Mira could not see the nurse, but she imagined her standing there with hands on her hips and a sneer on her face.
‘It’s time for the spinal,’ the woman wailed in the irritating whine of the child, the helpless, the victim known and accepted. ‘Tell the doctor to come, it’s time.’
The nurse was silent; there was a ruffling of a sheet. ‘It’s not time yet.’
The woman’s voice rose hysterically. ‘It is, it is! I ought to know, I’ve had five kids. I know when it’s coming. It’ll be too late, it happened before, it was too late and they couldn’t give it to me at all. Tell him, tell the doctor!’
The nurse left, and after a while a gray-faced man in a rumpled suit entered. He went to Mrs Martinelli’s bed. ‘Well, what’s this I hear about you stirring up a rumpus, Mrs Martinelli? I thought you were a brave girl.’
The woman’s voice cringed and whimpered. ‘Oh, Doctor, please give me the spinal. It’s time, I know it’s time, I’ve had five kids … you know I told you when I came to you what happened to me the last time. Please.’
‘It’s not time yet, Mrs Martinelli. Quiet down now and don’t bother the nurses. Don’t worry. Trust me. Everything will be fine.’
She was silent, and he trudged out, his mouth
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