the baby be nameable?
Michael stayed close to me. He charmed the nurses. He held water to my lips when I was thirsty. He stroked my shoulders and held my hand. He talked to me, and stopped talking when I wanted him to stop talking. He was fantastic. I felt entirely distant from him.
“I want to ask you a favor,” I said to the nurse. “When the baby is born, please don’t say ‘It’s a boy!’ or ‘It’s a girl.’ Dr. Christopoulos, from endocrinology, is going to look at the baby’s genitals when it’s born. I’d like her to tell me the baby’s gender.”
The nurse noted this on my chart, in case the next day’s nurse switched with her at midnight before the baby was born. I told her I hoped she didn’t have to show it to the nurse on the next shift. My contractions had started thirty-six hours ago. I was running out of steam, and I wanted to get it over with.
Things weren’t moving as quickly as my doctor wanted. She gave me a drug to induce labor. The epidural started wearing off. They dripped more into me. I hadn’t slept for two days. I hadn’t moved for three months—until today when I walked for miles. I watched my contractions on the monitor. Hours passed. The epidural wore off, and it hurt like hell. They dripped more painkiller and I had no awareness of my lower body. It wore off again, so that all I was conscious of was the pain in my lower body. Numb. Pain. Numb. Pain. Numb. Pain. . . . This cycle repeated, part of a polyrhythmic symphony of lights and beeps and contractions, my heartbeat, the baby’s heartbeat, my blood pressure tests, the crescendo and decrescendo of pain. Ten hours had passed since the epidural. At four in the morning I asked for a C-section. Tara said no.
The nurse told me to push. Michael told me to push. I couldn’t push. I was numb from the waist down. The idea of pushing had no physical meaning for me. I didn’t know how or where to push. Tara told the nurse to stop the painkillers. I felt the pain and the baby and the contractions, but I had no strength, and the pain was frightening. I didn’t know what I was pushing. My useless attempts to push bore no resemblance to the Lamaze-approved labor of the three women with different-colored hair in the movie.
“I’m going to give you an episiotomy.” I heard the snip through flesh. I was sad for my vagina. Two nurses and a doctor and Michael screamed at me to push. “I don’t know what to push, I don’t know where to push,” I cried.
“Push like you’re having an enormous bowel movement!” ordered Tara.
I could work with that. I had forty-five-years experience shit-ting, and my body remembered how to do it, even paralyzed from the waist down. “C’mon, c’mon, harder, like you’re having an enormous shit!” No painkiller. “Keep pushing! Just Push Push Push Push Push Push.”
At 5:30 a.m., on December 13, 1999, forty-seven hours after the contractions started, I gave birth.
“Umbilical cord’s around her neck. . . . She’s okay. She’s breathing.”
ACT III
An Unexpected Life
Scene 1
In Hospital
There was once a poor woodcutter and his wife who had longed for many years for a child. Finally a tiny little girl was born to them. “She’s no ordinary child,” her father declared when he saw how small she was. “She must have come from the fairy world.” His wife nodded as she stroked the tiny form beside her on the pillow. “Why, she’s no bigger than your little finger,” she said. And from that day the child was known as Little Finger.
—From Little Finger of the Watermelon Patch, a Vietnamese tale
There was no cry, no sound.
“APGAR score, four.”
“Alice, it’s a girl. Her genitals are fine,” the nurse said quietly.
That was good to hear.
Michael mopped the sweat from my forehead and hair.
The nurse called out the second APGAR score. Six.
They cleaned the baby, raised the back of my bed, and put her on my chest. Michael perched on the edge
Michael stayed close to me. He charmed the nurses. He held water to my lips when I was thirsty. He stroked my shoulders and held my hand. He talked to me, and stopped talking when I wanted him to stop talking. He was fantastic. I felt entirely distant from him.
“I want to ask you a favor,” I said to the nurse. “When the baby is born, please don’t say ‘It’s a boy!’ or ‘It’s a girl.’ Dr. Christopoulos, from endocrinology, is going to look at the baby’s genitals when it’s born. I’d like her to tell me the baby’s gender.”
The nurse noted this on my chart, in case the next day’s nurse switched with her at midnight before the baby was born. I told her I hoped she didn’t have to show it to the nurse on the next shift. My contractions had started thirty-six hours ago. I was running out of steam, and I wanted to get it over with.
Things weren’t moving as quickly as my doctor wanted. She gave me a drug to induce labor. The epidural started wearing off. They dripped more into me. I hadn’t slept for two days. I hadn’t moved for three months—until today when I walked for miles. I watched my contractions on the monitor. Hours passed. The epidural wore off, and it hurt like hell. They dripped more painkiller and I had no awareness of my lower body. It wore off again, so that all I was conscious of was the pain in my lower body. Numb. Pain. Numb. Pain. Numb. Pain. . . . This cycle repeated, part of a polyrhythmic symphony of lights and beeps and contractions, my heartbeat, the baby’s heartbeat, my blood pressure tests, the crescendo and decrescendo of pain. Ten hours had passed since the epidural. At four in the morning I asked for a C-section. Tara said no.
The nurse told me to push. Michael told me to push. I couldn’t push. I was numb from the waist down. The idea of pushing had no physical meaning for me. I didn’t know how or where to push. Tara told the nurse to stop the painkillers. I felt the pain and the baby and the contractions, but I had no strength, and the pain was frightening. I didn’t know what I was pushing. My useless attempts to push bore no resemblance to the Lamaze-approved labor of the three women with different-colored hair in the movie.
“I’m going to give you an episiotomy.” I heard the snip through flesh. I was sad for my vagina. Two nurses and a doctor and Michael screamed at me to push. “I don’t know what to push, I don’t know where to push,” I cried.
“Push like you’re having an enormous bowel movement!” ordered Tara.
I could work with that. I had forty-five-years experience shit-ting, and my body remembered how to do it, even paralyzed from the waist down. “C’mon, c’mon, harder, like you’re having an enormous shit!” No painkiller. “Keep pushing! Just Push Push Push Push Push Push.”
At 5:30 a.m., on December 13, 1999, forty-seven hours after the contractions started, I gave birth.
“Umbilical cord’s around her neck. . . . She’s okay. She’s breathing.”
ACT III
An Unexpected Life
Scene 1
In Hospital
There was once a poor woodcutter and his wife who had longed for many years for a child. Finally a tiny little girl was born to them. “She’s no ordinary child,” her father declared when he saw how small she was. “She must have come from the fairy world.” His wife nodded as she stroked the tiny form beside her on the pillow. “Why, she’s no bigger than your little finger,” she said. And from that day the child was known as Little Finger.
—From Little Finger of the Watermelon Patch, a Vietnamese tale
There was no cry, no sound.
“APGAR score, four.”
“Alice, it’s a girl. Her genitals are fine,” the nurse said quietly.
That was good to hear.
Michael mopped the sweat from my forehead and hair.
The nurse called out the second APGAR score. Six.
They cleaned the baby, raised the back of my bed, and put her on my chest. Michael perched on the edge
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