It was 1986. The 4th of July and I was in labor. She had been due on the 18th of June. She had been a week, ten days, two weeks, then sixteen days late. My ankles were the size of tree trunks.
But I had refused to drink that bottle of castor oil my mother-in-law swore would bring my labor on.
Actually, it hadn't occurred to me in a million years that I would have had her anywhere near the month of July. And the 4th of July? I lay there incredulous, disbelieving that I was going to have a baby on such a date.
My water had broken at 4:30 in the morning, at home, in bed. Not in the grocery store, as I had feared.
Reed and I were instructed to get to the hospital immediately. Both sets of parents were called and the phone tree we had established weeks before was put into action.
On the way to the hospital, time seemed to alter. I felt suspended in a languid dimension in which the shapes of smeary trees in the night sky became outline on an electric field. In which watercolor street lights became crisp echoes of each other in the quiet of the sleeping city. And though the car was moving, time had stopped. The most poignant moment in my life had arrived: I was about to become a mother.
As we continued toward the hosipital, the contractions became more intense and came a little bit closer together. But I listened to his thoughtful words, felt his familiar touch on my skin, urging the awakening of my child from deep within.
Upon arriving at the hospital, I was checked in, assigned a room, and strapped to a fetal heart monitor. Labor was progressing. I was examined by my doctor, threw up three times, and didn't make it to the bathroom when the enema decided to work. Yes indeed, the experience of my lifetime was well underway.
I was about to be given a tremendous gift.
And yet, over the hours and hours of labor, and after the epidural, every time I had a contraction, the baby's heart beat took longer and longer to come back up. One contraction more, and still it took longer for the heartbeat to recover. Lower down went the line on the monitor tape like losses in the stockmarket and there was no one to be found. Reed left to find help leaving me completely alone in the room. It was just me and the labor and the machine and the baby I was about to meet.
A reluctant nurse came in with my husband, poring through the length of tape, kicking the machine and saying, "This old thing? It's on the fritz again."
Upon subsequent contractions, the recovery of the baby's heart beat became more and more delayed.
Reed left again, this time to get the doctor. When he returned, it wasn't my doctor, the doctor who had been monitoring and probing and educating and comforting me all those months. Apparently my doctor had had a Fourth of July picnic to attend that afternoon. It wasn't my doctor going through the eight-hour length of tape screaming, "Nurse! Nurse? How could this have happened? This baby's got to come out on the next push!"
Problem was, I hadn't even started pushing yet at all. Suddenly, fifteen people appeared in the room, spouting out of instruments, ceiling tiles, cracks in the floor, baseboards, faucets. Pushing Reed so far away into the corner of the room and hearing the suggestion that maybe we should do an emergency C-section?
Not enough time what are you talking about this baby's got to come out right this second yelled this doctor I hadn't even met. Forceps and escalating panic and Reed so far away and what's the matter? What's going on? Pushing too hard? All those years of expert clarinet playing too much for childbirth of all things? Take it slower, Catherine, and then to a nurse--hold her legs up so she can push!
The father of the child asking what can I do? Pleading what can I do to help someone yelling get him out of the way!
Tell me what to do I implored breath escaping through throat so gutteral. Primordial. Baby's head. Tearing, ripping, folding out. What is it? A girl or a boy? What is it? Can we see the baby?
We're trying to save this baby's life and they're worried about what sex it is, that same machine-kicking nurse had whispered to a co-worker right over my head. Did she think that I couldn't hear her? It echoed through my head...we're trying to save this baby's life, save this baby's life, save this baby's life...like some refrain in a very bad movie, getting louder and slower with each threatening repeat. But it was all happening so fast. And no one had stopped to explain a thing.
What I did know was that they had taken my blueberry purple daughter and her first Apgar score of 2 away from me immediately. There had been no moments-after-the-birth suckling, no holding of the tiny hand in my large one, no sweet Kodak moment with Roberta Flack accompanied by strings in the background. I didn't even know who she looked like.
Though frightened, I was exhausted. And I trusted that Reed and the doctor were taking care of things wherever they were. If the news had been bad, someone would let me know. There were a million things to check. They were watching her closely. The Apgar had been terribly low. They would let me know, wouldn't they?
A couple of hours later, after I had been stitched up and cleaned up, Reed brought our daughter to my room. He offered her to me, bundled up as tight as a parcel, a pink bow in her hair. I took her into my arms, held her gently, and wept.
She was born on the centennial of the dedication of the Statue of Liberty. My father-in-law had wanted us to name her Libby. I had wanted to name her Erin. But when I held her that very first time, looked into her little perfect face for the first of millions of gazes, she was undoubtedly a Nicole. From then on, the advice I always give at baby showers is never to name a baby until you've held it.
For it is in that moment that the universe is known. A veil is lifted and while many mysteries are solved, the magical ones are just beginning.
And so today, on this Independence Day, I wish my little firecracker a happy birthday. Thank you, Nicole, for continuing to be the miracle in my life that you are!
Cath, this is one of the most touching things I have ever read! I am in tears here. You are an amazing writer and an amazing mother. Thanks for sharing this lovely tribute. Happy birthday Nicole!
Melanie
Posted by: Melanie King | July 04, 2008 at 07:37 PM
Wow, Happy Birthday Nicole!
And what a beautifully told story about her arrival, so touched by how you shared that experience.
B-
Posted by: Becky Olsen | July 05, 2008 at 12:35 AM
What an amazing story! I can relate to many of the things you mentioned here. Thanks for sharing - and happy birthday Nicole!!
Posted by: Rachel Greig | July 06, 2008 at 02:34 AM
Thank you for sharing, iam crying out loud now, haha but it is such a beautiful story..pffieuw ;-)
Posted by: Elise | July 06, 2008 at 04:39 PM
Wowsers! And this is why we blog - to tell the stories that need to be told! Totally powerful!
Sorry we missed the party and happy belated birthday to the miracle child!
PS - If I ever have a little girl, I totally plan on naming her Liberty! :)
Posted by: susan opel | July 06, 2008 at 08:01 PM
What a beautiful story for a beautiful time (except for the scary part - yikes). My Mom was born on the 4th of July, also. I remember my Grandma saying how her doctor was at a picnic at the lake, too. Oh man. But, she arrived safely and we always enjoy celebrating her bday. She was 65 a couple days ago. Wow.
Posted by: Kim Kesti | July 06, 2008 at 09:23 PM
I love the descriptions here. I didn't want to glance ahead in case the news was not good, and I had tears when she was placed in your arms. Birth is such a miracle.
Posted by: Travelinoma | July 07, 2008 at 06:40 PM