Tales From the Crib (8 page)

“Do you know my history?” I asked our nurse. As she tilted her head down to read my chart, a mass of wavy brown hair fell over her un-made-up face. She shook her head no. I wasn’t a patient at this hospital. My doctor was back in New Jersey, undoubtedly enjoying cocktails.

“I’ve had four miscarriages, one was quite late in the pregnancy,” I told her.

She scrunched her face with discomfort and held my hand. “This baby is healthy as they come,” nurse Betsy said.

Anjoli deposited another ice chip in my mouth as she passed by my bed. “When is Jack going to get here?” She looked at her watch.

“Your party!” I remembered. “Mother, go home and take care of what you need to. I’ll be fine here. What could happen in a hospital full of doctors and nurses?”

Anjoli’s head whipped around and her eyes narrowed with fierceness. “Plenty. I’ll stay. Besides, my guests won’t arrive till ten. We have plenty of time. Alfie, be a love and start the aperitifs, darling?” She tossed her key ring to him.

An hour later, nurse Betsy returned. “How are you doing in here?”

“Exhausted,” Anjoli replied.

“I’m fine between contractions,” I smiled as I answered the nurse. Betsy gave me a knowing look as though she might have the same type of mother at home. She glanced at the strip that monitored my labor and assured me the baby was doing well. The phone rang. Finally, Jack was calling to say he would arrive shortly. Or at least, that’s what I’d hoped. It was Alfie who had some questions about menu preparation for Anjoli. I handed the phone to my mother, who sat straight in her chair and listened carefully.

“No, no, no, darling! The caterer knows I won’t serve foie gras. Do you have any idea how cruel they are to those poor little geese? I’ll have nothing to do with it. Philipe knows I need
faux
gras.” She paused. “It’s soy-based, Alfie. You’ll never know the difference.”

Anjoli continued chattering a bunch of French names I assumed were her champagne selections when Betsy whispered, “Would you like to take a shower?” I knit my brows. “It’s very relaxing. It takes the edge off the contractions.”

“Okay,” I nodded. “If you really think it will help.”

“Has he lost his mind?!” Anjoli shrieked. “Did you tell him this was for
me?”

“Mom, we’re going to go-”

“Hold on a second, darling,” Anjoli said to Alfie. “Where are you going, Lucy? To get more ice?”

“Yeah, I need more ice,” I said, clutching Betsy’s arm.

“Let the girl get it,” she shooed with her hand. “Never mind, it’s probably good for your circulation for you to take a little walk. Anyway, Alfie, tell Philipe I need the soybased foie gras or Kiki will have my head. She was the one who told me about those wretched feeding tubes they use on those sweet little geese.”

When we arrived at the shower, I stepped into a small room with yellow bathroom tiles and a small bench where the father was supposed to sit. “Can I take my cane in with me?” I asked the nurse.

“It’s handicap accessible,” Betsy replied. “Grab the rail and you’ll be much safer than trying to balance on a cane. How long have you had the Bell’s palsy?”

I told her it was about a month and was pleased when she said I was having a remarkably fast recovery. “It’s hardly noticeable,” she said. “You’re lucky.”

“Luck, nothing,” I snapped in a friendly defense. “I’ve been doing forty minutes of face exercises every day for the last month.”

“Wow, impressive. Okay, press this button when you need me to come around and help you back to your room.”

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been in the shower, but I believe I came dangerously close to using the entire hospital hot water supply. When Betsy came to help me back to my room, I looked at the clock and saw it had been forty minutes. Something about the hot water was a sedative and muscle relaxer. And feeling clean is always so rejuvenating. When I arrived back at the room, Jack was there and Anjoli had returned to her apartment. He explained that she had an entertainment emergency and had to get back to the apartment to assist Alfie. Apparently, the party supply store delivered horns that guests would have to squeeze, like the ones clowns use for their unicycles, instead of the traditional foil-fringed blower. Quel horror!

“Hey, kiddo,” Jack said warmly. “How’re you doing?”

“It’s like the worst period cramp I’ve ever had, over and over, every five minutes,” I said, realizing that gave him absolutely no way to relate. “Very bad, but not as bad as I expected.”

“The nurse said the baby’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to be doing in there,” he said.

“He’s well behaved already.”

“Your face is almost back to normal,” Jack said.

And yours is beautiful,
I didn’t say. I’d forgotten how handsome Jack is, with his chiseled features and dark brown hair. He has a baseball player’s body—tall and muscular with wide shoulders and a thin waist. He has an olive complexion that highlights his green eyes exquisitely. But his best feature is his lips. The bottom lip is thin and uneven, the right side a bit fuller than the left. Unlike my Bell’s palsified face, Jack’s asymmetry worked to create a sexy, inviting look.

“The face workout worked,” I said awkwardly, hoping he wouldn’t notice I was a bit nervous to see him. “Did I interrupt your night?” I said, referring to the fact that he was dressed in a tuxedo.

“Yeah,” he laughed. “You can guess how well this went over. My date’s sitting there, like your
what
has gone into
what?”

I burst with laughter at the thought of Jack having to explain to his girlfriend that he had a pregnant wife. What a piece of shit, she must have thought him. God knows, I did several nights as I lay awake in my old bedroom, wondering what my sort-of-single husband was up to. “You’ll explain it to her in the morning,” I reassured Jack.

“I doubt it. Sheila made it pretty clear that she didn’t want to hear from me again.”

Sheila?! Sheila?! What kind of name is Sheila? Probably some type of, of, of ahhhhhhh!!!! The pain is back. It’s Sheila. She’s made a voodoo doll of me and is sticking pins in the belly.

“Jack, get the nurse!” I shouted.

He rushed out of the room and returned with Betsy, who lifted my gown and announced that it was time to push. But before any pushing began, she rolled my bed into a different room, one with forest wallpaper, bright lights, and surgical tools. “Focus on the trees, Lucy,” Betsy urged when she saw my look of horror. There had to be some sort of joke about not being able to see the forest for the trees, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it was. “Breathe in deep through the nose, out with the mouth,” she said. Jack started repeating everything Betsy said as he held my hand at the side of the bed. “Let me get the doctor,” Betsy rushed out.

“This is it, Lucy,” Jack said, wrapping both hands around my one. “This is what we’ve been waiting for. It’s all come down to this moment. You got what it takes to deliver this kid into the world and be the best mom ever.”

I know he meant well, but I started to feel like an athlete going into the big game. My heart pounded, but not with fear, exactly. With performance anxiety. “You can do this, kiddo. A couple pushes and we’re in there.”

A couple pushes turned into a couple hours and pretty soon I heard Dick Clark’s voice on the television, announcing that the ball would drop in Times Square in less than a minute. I pushed one more time before nurse Betsy leaned in close and whispered the greatest piece of maternal wisdom I’d ever heard. “Push like it’s a bowel movement, honey,’’ she said. Now, no new mother likes to think of her child as a vaginally delivered piece of shit, but I had to admit there was something to this.

The doctors and nurses all started chanting for me. “Ten, nine, eight, seven…” Okay, maybe they were watching the ball drop, but I found it very inspiring. “Three, two, one!” And as they blew horns and shouted “Happy New Year,” the small voice of my son let out a tiny wail.

Chapter 10

I lifted my head to see a light coat of white fur covering the back of a grayish-blue baby curled in a small ball. He was slick with blood and goop and a ropy cord hung from his belly, disproportionately larger than any of his other features. He had a full head of brown hair like Jack’s that made him look as though he was in one of those boy bands where the kids over-gel their hair so it stands in every direction. “Is he healthy? “ I asked.

“Ten fingers, ten toes,” Betsy said.

“What about his face?” I asked.

“He’s a looker,” Jack answered.

“On both sides?” I asked.

Betsy leaned in and placed her hand on my shoulder. “Both sides of his face are crying.”

Thank you, God. I will never, ever ask for another thing as long as I live.

“Care to cut the cord, Dad?” asked the doctor. I did not know it at the time, but this was the official start of our son’s doctors referring to Jack and me as “Dad” and “Mom.” Jack stepped forward without hesitation, as though our son’s umbilical cord was all in a day’s work. If it were me, I’d be so nervous, I wouldn’t be able to follow through. Jack seemed entirely at ease as he snipped my son loose from my body. I knew then that, whatever hesitation I had about this whole co-parenting deal, it would be the best arrangement for the baby. He needed a levelheaded parent around the house. The inevitable slips and falls that drew blood from kids would be ably dealt with by Jack. Jack and I would provide a good balance for the baby. Of course, I would have preferred a husband who was madly in love with me, but this arrangement beat going it alone.

“What about the cord blood?” Jack inquired. At first, I thought this was some sort of weird Angelina Jolie kind of thing where Jack wanted to wear a vial of his son’s cord blood around his neck. Rather, he’d heard about preserving the cord blood, which contained the baby’s cells, so they could be reproduced down the line if the baby should encounter a genetic disease or serious injury.

“We can do that,” the doctor said. “It’s pretty pricey and the chances you’ll ever need to use it are exceptionally rare.”

“We’ll do it,” Jack and I said in unison. When I say we didn’t have extra cash to burn, I mean, we really truly did not have a dime to spare. We hadn’t been on more than a weekend vacation in ten years, our home was only half furnished, and we both drove early model jalopies. It’s not that we were poor; it’s just that quite a bit of our money was tied up in Jack’s business and, though we bought our home at a steal, we still carried a $250,000 mortgage on it. The house was actually one of our better investments, but it was also one of the economic realities that kept us bound. We could sell the house for a hefty profit, but not enough of one to manage two households. When the doctor uttered those two horrible words, “exceptionally rare,” we both knew we’d find a way to pay for the umbilical cord preservation.

Nurse Betsy immediately placed my detached baby on my stomach and wrapped us in a warm cotton blanket fresh from the drier. His arms splayed across my body and melted into me like a pat of butter sinks into a warm muffin. His ten little toes pressed against my thigh as though they were taking root. I looked at his little face with its spider of purple veins on his right eyelid and giggled.

“What’s so funny?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know.” My eyes welled with tears. “He’s just so cute. And he’s here. God, Jack, he’s
here,”
I sighed. No one but Jack knew what the hell I was talking about, but nurse Betsy was sobbing too. I wondered if she cried at every delivery, or if my son was just especially, touchingly beautiful.

“This is the sweetest baby I’ve ever seen,” she continued sobbing.

“Bets, you say that every time,” the doctor laughed.

“It’s true every time, you cynical old fart.” She swatted him with a cloth.

My baby’s face reminded me of Mr. Magoo at his angriest. All facial skin seemed to gather at his nose.

Nurse Betsy said her shift was ending, but she wanted to get me started breastfeeding. “He should nurse within the first hour of life, so let’s get him washed up and I’ll get you started.”

“I’m so glad you were our nurse, Betsy,” I smiled. “Thank you for thinking my son is beautiful.” She hugged me with one arm as she held my son in the other.

“I don’t think it; I know it.” She gave a giggle of a hiccup as she began washing her hands at the basin.

Jack and the doctor stood facing each other awkwardly. They shook hands and bristled something at each other that sounded like a thank you, and an acknowledgment of thanks. The doctor stood motionless in front of Jack for a few more seconds, seemingly waiting for something.
Are we supposed to tip him?
I wondered. “Alrighty then, if that’s all. It’s been a pleasure,” the doctor said, dismissing himself.

When Betsy returned, Jack excused himself to make telephonic birth announcements. “Wanna see something neat?” Betsy asked.

“Well, I don’t know, Betsy,” I said lightly. “I just squeezed a baby from my body. I don’t know what could possibly top that.”

“This’ll come pretty close,” she returned. She placed the freshly scrubbed baby on my stomach and instructed me to resist the urge to lead him to my breast. “Open your gown all the way so he knows they’re there. Watch how he instinctively crawls to your breasts to nurse.” And sure enough, like a little inchworm he wiggled right up to my right nipple and clamped onto it. Motherhood was so easy, I thought, relaxing into my pillow. It’s so beautiful and natural. My miracle-of-birth, natural-wonders-ofthe-universe dream state was interrupted by the last thing in the world I expected to see—a television camera and a reporter wearing more base makeup than the drag queens at Lips.

My left breast was completely exposed while my son’s head covered my right nipple. His head was little bigger than Janet Jackson’s Super Bowl pastie, so I hardly took comfort in this shield. Before I could say, “What the hell is a TV camera doing in the maternity ward?” the reporter was in my room. They were there to see me, or more specifically, my son, the first baby born in the New Year.

“This looks like my exit cue,” Betsy whispered. “My husband has a bottle of bubbly chilled at home, so time for me to fly.” She kissed my forehead and told me it was an honor to be part of my “birth experience.” And with that, she flew out of my room, like an angel.