Any day now

Back in Virginia I had an eighty five year old client with whom I were told to mind my ps and qs because he was from another, more conservative generation. True, I had to call him by his title name and try (very hard) not to cuss, but he was also one of the most open minded and smartest people I have ever met.

He would tell me about world war II and how he was riding his bike in his hometown London on D day, or how his girlfriend's house (and family) had been obliterated by a nazi bomb when they walked back from a date, or how 9/11 didn't impact him as much as it did me.

We talked about literature classics and art. He introduced me to Georgia O'keefee.

But we also talked about children because he had nine, and I didn't know if I wanted any.

His oldest child was 62 years old and his youngest was 26 at the time, when I asked him at which age his children had to reach before he stopped worrying about them. He sighed, "any day now."

The movie "Terms of Endearment" starts with Shirley MacLaine obsessively checking her daughter's crib to see if she is breathing. She ends up waking up the baby and making her cry.

This scene was funny to me because I imagined that only crazy, neurotic people would do that.

That is, until tonight, when I am hovering over his crib at three am, under his snoopy night light and trying to see from every angle whether his chest is rising and falling or not, and at what speed.

My mom whispers from behind me that I should get to bed, that baby will not die, that his breathing is fine, but I keep jumping off my too high of a bed, stitches shooting sharp pains and all to check on baby, until I can't resist it and poke him, waking him up, and everybody else in the house.

Watching from the video monitor in our room I can hear my husband sigh.

My sleepy mom returns and says I should save all my worrying for when he is actually sick, but it's too late in this mommy hood path to think of worrying in terms of an on and off switch. I tell mom she herself is up because she is worried about me. I tell her that any day now, one of us will be able to get a full night of sleep.

Summary

It's induction day. I do my nails, iron straighten my hair, do a facial. It's like I am going on a date. I am meeting my son for the first time. We arrive to a nightmarish looking room where lights, beds and cables all reminds me of sickness and surgery. The nurse is angry that we are there. She is not ready for us. She is rough with me while checking my cervix (aka prodding my vagina). Baby squirms. Angry nurse says, "I'm sorry, buddy." At least she is nice to baby. She says, "I touched his hair," and that's how I find out he has hair. Angry nurse leaves for a second to retrieve evil pitocin. I think to myself, "What is wrong with this bitch?" My mother says, in Portuguese, "What is wrong with this bitch?" Husband says in english, "What is wrong with this bitch?" So we all agree that there's something wrong with this bitch. Bitch, angry nurse brings with her a version of Dr.Klopek from "The Burbs." He is the anesthesiologist who will give me an epidural. Contractions have began and they hurt like a mother f**** by the time this creepy doctor comes back with creepy needle. Angry nurse asks mom and husband to leave, which leaves me with angry nurse for support. While creepy anesthesiologist does his thing, I ask angry nurse if I can hold her hand. She lets me and I squeeze it when the needle goes in. She rubs my hand with her other, lovingly. I think angry nurse is just having a bad day. I love epidural. I watch Seinfeld while husband and mom snore propped on chairs. I want a burger. I want to talk with someone. I gave up sleeping tonight. I watch the mountain that my contractions make on the computer beeping next to me, while baby's heart rate drops. I buzz for angry nurse. Sweet nurse comes in. She is not worried. A burger would be a really nice thing. They had told me I wouldn't be able to move, but my legs flail around. I feel nothing. Actually, I feel pretty good. I think they put more than epidural stuff in epidural needle. Nurses come and go. They watch me vomit. I tell them about the monitor. They are not concerned. Where is the doctor? He should be here by now. I vomit. Baby's heart rate drops. A nurse finally shuts the pitocin down. "Your cervix is not dilating," she says, fingers in my vagina, "It would be a miracle if he ever came out this way." Where is the doctor? I am told doc is doing another delivery or jogging or something. Doc likes to be active and take pictures of his travels. Doc is one of my peeps. Where is he? Husband is getting anxious. I think he is just hungry. He asks for doc and lo and behold, like a movie star he comes in, burst my water and finds I have Meconium in it. Baby has pooped in his own house, which means he needs to come out like, NOW. Doc says he will have breakfast before cutting me open. You are going what? I think. While doc is having breakfast, a young man is asking whether he can come in. He will be the anesthesiologist for the surgery. I tell him anesthesiologists and people giving away narcotics are always welcomed in. He laughs and we become best friends. I am finally whisked away to surgery room. I am high out of my mind. I am cracking jokes with anesthesiologist when doc's head pops up from behind the blue curtain keeping me from watching all the gore. "Did you feel any of that, Mariana?" "That what?" "Well, I just cut you open." You ask me that NOW? Husband takes a peek and goes pale. He will talk about how my guts look like for many many days after this. Doc tells husband that I am beautiful inside and out because he found very few fat tissue on his way to baby. I guess that's supposed to be funny. I am just glad that fat tissue is not thick. Suddenly my lungs few heavy, my heart gets squooshed and I am afraid I will die, then I hear a little cry. Everyone seems to say at once, "Oh my God! He is huge! What a big baby!" Husband is going back and forth from my head to screaming baby, meanwhile watching my insides being put back together. He will talk about my insides being put back together for many many days after this. I hear people asking baby to open his eyes. Baby won't open his eyes. Husband brings bundled up baby to my head. Baby squints. Immediately I think this can't be my baby. He is white and doesn't look like anyone I know. I say hello to baby. He opens his eyes. Baby, husband and crew leave the room while someone finishes cleaning me up. I ask doc to see the placenta because I am weird like that. He retrieves a brown bag, like a bread paper bag, takes out a zip lock with a liver looking thing. It's bloody, yucky and impressively big. I think it's awesome. I am taken to a recuperation room and call my father in law to tell him the news. Have I said I am high out of my mind? I have no idea what I have said to father in law and if I make any sense. Note to self: don't birth and dial. Husband comes back and says baby's blood sugar is low. I think I tell him to give baby some Gatorade. The rest of today is a blur. I believe I had a burger at some point and it was awesome. Nurses, hundreds of nurses, come in my room, touch my vagina, probe me, take my blood pressure, watch me vomit, and tell me to walk. Walk? Lactation consultants shove my baby's face to my boobs. He latches but drinks nothing. He screams bloody murder. A million hands seem to hold my boobs. It's night now and baby has latched, but then his breathing gets funny... Fast. Husband is asleep. I buzz for a nurse. Baby gets taken away to nursery. Nursery calls and says he is at NICU. I call mom crying. Mom starts praying. I visit baby in a wheel chair because I think walking is bullshit. He is so small and so cute. He stops crying when he hears my voice. He opens his eyes and stares at me. When I touch him, he squeezes my finger. The sight of my nipple brings terror to his face, though, so I settle with formula for now. Back in my room I am pumping my boobs, when baby's pediatrician finds it to be the best time to come visit and tell me that baby will be ok. I take a look in the mirror. I look awful. I look eleven months pregnant. My feet are elephant feet. I have made the trip to NICU too many times to count. My mom can't drive a wheel chair and hits my feet on walls, especially when it is two in the morning. Baby comes back to elephant mom and we are so happy to see each other that we cry. We are now home. Elephant legs are still there. Baby is now one week old. Stitches from csection feel like I am constantly being stabbed. Baby has his dad's eyes and appetite, but stretches his body when fed (just like I did as a little one). He likes my milk, thank you very much, but dislikes my boobs just as much (hey, it rimes). I love him to death either way.

Tired

Friend: "When are you starting a blog on life as a new mom?"

Me: "When I have some time and don't feel so tired."

Friend: "Then you're never gonna start."