Tercero Eye Eye (I I)

Here I was, back again, in the hospital about to give birth. Obviously I had completely forgotten about the messy and painful aspects of this procedure, otherwise why would I even be here? I am mystified by those adventurous folks who opt for home births--who will clean up the mess, I ask myself? (This, alas, only shows up my own prejudices and shortcomings in this area).

Those of you who have given birth have undoubtedly noticed how quickly the memories of pain and discomfort vanish--poof, gone, only to instantly rush back the minute you are in a bed (hospital or home), on a stool or in a wading pool, ready to grab your surfboard and hit the waves once again.

Of course, we know that this handy amnesia is nature's way of perpetuating the human race. Without amnesia, children would be onlies with no siblings. And while this might make it easier for parents to wrangle one kid instead of herds large and small, it likely wouldn't have led to homo sapiens surviving as a species.

So, here I was again, about to lose my amnesia. Here I was, talking to an unborn who was already showing signs of not doing was was expected. Here I was, bargaining with an abdominal lump. But you see, I'd been through this twice before, and this time it was going to be different. I'd heard the siren call of modern medical science and had responded--I wanted the EPIDURAL--nothing could be allowed to interfere with that. Especially since this would be the last time I'd go through such a thing--three kids would be enough for us, by God. And so this labour, my last labour, would proceed in a civilized and scientific (read "pain-free") way. I'd gone natural twice--now I was embracing technology.

Something urgent in my voice must have crossed the placental barrier, because just before midnight, I felt a twinge. I'd been reading in bed--such a luxury not to worry about kids waking up for water or a diaper change or a cuddle. Lovely to have the light on without listening to grumbling about how some people have to go to work the next day and need their sleep and when was I going to turn off that light anyway? So peaceful knowing that there was no breakfast to cook the next day, no housework or duties of any kind, other than popping out a kid, but hey, that was going to be a piece of cake, thanks to the EPIDURAL.

I put the book down and concentrated. The reading lamp cast a small golden pool. Beyond this the room was in darkness, except for the faint line of light from the hall seeping past the door. I could hear the muted workings of the night-time ward. Putting my hands on either side of the bump, I listened and felt for signs.

There it was--another twinge. I felt my abdominal muscles clench briefly, and then relax. A signal from the deep. I waited for a third sign, and then rang the nurse. So, there would be no inducing of labour. Thank heavens the little beggar had listened and decided to come out on his own terms, late as they were.

The usual bustle of people ensued--nurses doing their brisk business, doctors checking this, that and the other thing, Jack arriving from his parents' house three blocks away. I was whisked to one of the hospital's new (at that time) labour-and-delivery rooms, all decked out to look like a hotel room. Except for the bed, of course, which had more controls than a jet fighter.

Doctor Heather's order for the EPIDURAL (I use all caps here to indicate my regard for this word--I am not shouting, unless perhaps out of gratitude) were duly noted, and a tired-looking but friendly anesthesiologist (had to look THAT one up!) explained the procedure to me while Jack was checking out the bed's controls. I took in very little of what he was saying--the anesthesiologist, that is, not Jack, who by now had moved on to pushing the various buttons on the bed's controls. I wanted the anesthesiologist to hurry up and get on with it--Doctor Heather had explained that timing was crucial--too early and the EPIDURAL could stop the contractions; too late and the EPIDURAL would have no effect. "Come on! Come on!" I hollered in my head, dodging the parts of the bed that rose and fell as Jack pressed control buttons. "Quit gabbing and just DO IT!"

The anesthesiologist (I figure that if I type it out enough times, I'll remember how to spell it!) must have heard my internal panic, because he announced that now was the time. Mentally wanting to confer sainthood on the guy (by then the contractions were gaining serious attitude), I blissfully followed his directions. So thrilled was I to be getting the EPIDURAL that I remember very little about the procedure itself. I do remember it involved some bending then something cold shooting into my back--but it wasn't painful. A good sign, I thought to myself.

"You'll still feel the contractions" said the anesthesiologist. "But they won't hurt so much and you'll be able to get some rest." Nodding crazily like one of those dashboard toy dogs, I waited for it to take effect. All I'd really heard the guy say was "Blah blah blah...blah blah..won't hurt...blah blah..."

The nurses and the anesthesiologist (last time, I promise!) left Jack and me in the mellow glow of the room's decorator lamps. Jack took up his usual post by the fetal monitor's display, which was merrily chugging out its paper read-out ribbon. The smooth lines indicated a hiatus between contractions. Suddenly, the lines started moving back and forth. "Hey," said Jack. "Looks like a contraction. Do you feel anything?"

Frowning in concentration, I went deep into the waves, ready to hop onto my surfboard. I felt pressure, then more pressure, then a lot of pressure, then less pressure, then hardly any pressure. What I didn't feel was pain. I looked at Jack, who was still checking the read-out. "Jack," I whispered, "It doesn't hurt!" Now I know there are those who feel that perhaps medical science has overstepped its bounds here and there and gone down some questionable roads, but I am here to say that all things are completely compensated for by the invention of the EPIDURAL, the greatest thing (in my mind) since the eradication of smallpox, the discovery of insulin, and sliced bread.

For the next several hours, we amused ourselves by watching the monitor's read-out ribbon as I wrested the bed's controls away from Jack and played with them, raising and lowering sections of the bed. "That was a big one," Jack would say as I peered in mild curiosity at the wildly fluctuating lines. "A whopper," I would agree as the foot of the bed chugged upwards and downwards.

I didn't have to ride the big waves anymore. Now I could paddle around in the shallows on my skim board and, while "enjoying myself" might have been a bit strong, at least I wasn't stuck out where the big ones were rolling, waiting to get to shore but knowing it would be hours yet.

Five hours of manipulating the bed and watching the contractions quickly passed. We started noticing that the contractions were getting stronger and closer together. From the Olympian heights of my EPIDURALISED (Is that a word? Never mind--it should be) state, I inspected the read-out and agreed.

"I think we need to get the doctor in here" said Jack. I was feeling pretty good--I knew the contractions were getting stronger because the pressure on my abdomen was increasing, but they still didn't hurt enough to cause too much discomfort (there, how I've used the word myself!). Whatever sensation the contractions were provoking beyond mere pressure was simply that--discomfort--and THAT I could live with.

"Okay Jack," I said. "Let me push the call button." I'd fallen in love with all the buttons, knobs and controls while flying the bed--I wanted one at home--in case I got bored in the middle of the night I could amuse myself by playing with the controls.

The head-nurse came in. A large Jamaican lady, she had a lovely island lilt in her voice. She checked the monitor, checked me, nodded and went off to summon the resident on call and to phone Doctor Heather. A couple of minutes later, a disheveled resident trotted into the room, looking all of twelve years old.

"This is my first delivery," he announced. He sounded nervous.

"That's okay," I said, lulled into complacency by the EPIDURAL. "We've done this before. It's a piece of cake." Jack, startled, looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. But you know how it is--you worry and worry about some really hard thing you have to do. It turns out to be not so bad, and so you overcompensate, blowing it off completely. I imagine marathoners do this--"Shoot!" they say after the race. "I was worried about hitting the wall but I didn't even notice that sucker when it popped up--piece of cake!"

Perhaps the twelve-year-old resident knew something like that was going on, because my words didn't appear to reassure him much. In fact, he looked even more worried. He checked the monitor, he checked me, I think he mentally checked himself, and then he checked me some more. In between the checking, he would scoot his wheeled chair over to the sink on the room's far side and wash his hands. Then he'd scoot back, check things out, watch a contraction/push or two, and zip back over to the sink.

In the meantime, I'd moved well into Stage Three--you will recall that my previous Stage Three's had been nightmares of pushing, gasping, heaving, exhaustion, pushing some more, etc. etc. While there was still pushing, I didn't need to gasp and heave and puff nearly as much. Refreshed from all the rest I'd gotten during the EPIDURALISED labour, I had lots of energy to push with.

By now, amniotic fluid was spewing out with each push. "Hey, I think I can see the head!" said Jack. "Uh, doctor, I can see the head...I think you need to get over here." The resident, at this point back at the sink, turned his head and glanced at us, looking like a deer caught in headlights. I think he was buying time with all his chair scooting, hoping like hell that Doctor Heather would arrive in time and save him.

"Uh, doctor," said Jack again, moving down to the foot of the bed, reading to get into position in case the resident didn't get scooted back in time. "I think this kid is coming NOW!" The urgency in Jack's voice must have convinced him that he'd better return to his station, or perhaps he figured his hands were clean enough. In either case, he scooted his chair back in time to catch the baby who, carried on a final gush of fluid, spurted out like a watermelon seed. The twelve-year-old resident managed to make the catch. He held up another whopper of a baby.

"It's a boy!" he announced, smiling in triumph and, no doubt, enormous relief. He placed the baby on my breast as he cut the umbilical cord and saw to all the afterbirth stuff.

And so arrived Tercero, the small, determined surfer. He'd dictated the terms of his arrival and would continue to march to his own drummer. He was a peaceful and sleepy newborn--remarkably relaxed. After getting APGAR'd and weighed, "Nine pounds, fifteen and one-half ounce" crowed the nurse as she handed him back, all bundled up in a warm blanket. "He's a big one."

"We grow 'em that way" I said. At that moment, the Jamaican head-nurse and Doctor Heather came into the room. The nurse stopped just inside the doorway, hands on ample hips, as she stared at me, the floor, and back at me again.

"What de hell happen here?" she demanded. "Where all de fluid come from? Looks like a flood in here!" Now that I had time to look around, I noticed that I was lying in pools of liquid, and the floor under the bed was awash in puddles of it.

"There's enough amnio fluid here to float a battleship!" said Doctor Heather, as she checked me out and then the baby.

As people bustled about, cleaning things up and drying them off, Jack and I and Tercero engaged in the sweetest part of labour--getting acquainted with the new arrival. We did our usual inspection--the touching that ties child to parents in the most tactile of ways--handling the tiny fingers and toes, touching cheeks to the downy head, breathing in the fragrance of fresh life, wondering what kind of person lay within the slumbering scrap of humanity.

For Primero and Segundo had already taught us that humans are infinitely different, even those who come from the same stock and are raised in the same household. So what did little Tercero have in store for us? How would he be different from his brothers? What would he teach us?

Secure in the knowledge that we would learn much, we were happy to simply be with him at that time in that place--so newly arrived, so peaceful, so tranquil. Because we knew that going home with three boys would be anything but.