On Maturation, Pt. 2

I told L to abandon everything and “HURRY UP!”

It was 10:30 pm.

On our way to the hospital, two miles away, at the first road light I realized my contractions were two minutes apart.

This is where my thinking about the past/future/anything else besides the exact moment I was in stopped. In mental health we call this being “mindful.” It is a good thing.

At the second road light I realized I had forgotten my ID. L offered to turn back. “NO WAY!”

Turning into the hospital campus L asked me if he should drop me off at the South Tower’s front door or park in the four-story parking structure with me. “DROP ME OFF!”

The doors were locked and I had to sit down for a minute. I rang the doorbell. The security guy asked what I wanted (wasn’t it obvious?). “I’m in labor.” He let me in. I got to the elevator just as Luke came running into the building. We traveled to the third floor—Triage.

At the intake counter I attempted to check in by sobbing out, “I forgot my ID.” “It’s alright, honey.” The stout desk worker said in s.l.o.w.m.o.t.i.o.n. They had me sign a million things, which I did. They made me wait a million minutes for a nurse to come and get me, which I did. I also commented, “You should really have chairs here.” through tears and the stout worker said, “We really don’t want people to wait here.” Too bad, I already had my body draped over the counter and was refusing to move.

The Triage nurse, Satan, asked me to sit on a hospital bed in the smallest curtained-off quarters I’ve ever seen. There, she began asking me millions of questions I had already answered by pre-registering. I didn’t say so, though, because it felt like the contractions were coming every minute. So, that’s what I said. She, in s.l.o.w.m.o.t.i.o.n , hooked me up to fetal monitors and to contraction monitors. L began insisting she call anesthesia for my epidural. She refused by saying something about needing blood work. L requested she call anesthesia no less than five times—“She’s going to go quick,” he said.

I couldn’t breath. I thought I was going to throw up. I couldn’t sit there and so I held myself up by arms. L rummaged around in a cart and gave me the sickly pink half moon barf receptacle.

A certified nurse midwife came and did an ultra sound without saying much, unless I don’t remember.

L helped me undress and re-dress in a hospital gown—the ones with snaps on the shoulders and open backs. He stuffed my stuff, including a novel (ironic), into a hospital bag.

Finally, another nurse came with a wheelchair and told me if I needed her to stop to just tell her. I needed her to stop once on the way to the delivery room. I hung onto the handrail on the wall through that contraction.

In the delivery room L began requesting anesthesia again. One of his upper classmates came in and I felt hugely relieved. Anesthesia, sweet anesthesia! He got to see all sorts of my parts throughout his short stay with me…should I be embarrassed if I see him again? He informed us that we had to wait for the Anesthesiologist. Damn him.

The nurses were putting an IV in which they did poorly much to L’s contempt. Then another nurse had to draw blood from the other arm because the IV was in poorly. She did this poorly as well seeming how it gave me a seven-inch bruise.

Suddenly a girl was bending down and talking to me. Who was this? Much later I realized she was a resident. When did the attending show up, Dr. Ziff? I’m not sure, but sure enough as I began to push he was down there too, with Dr. Iglar (the resident).

The portly Anesthesiologist finally made his presence. He began his speech, during which he sounded soooo bored that it was clear he has said these same things no less than one million times. L helped me swing my legs to the side of the bed and I bent over. The Anesthesiologist began swabbing my spine....

I bore down.