Whoever dubbed New York, New York "the city that never sleeps"
should visit The Maternity Ward. My recent visit included a drop-in on
several screenings of "A Star Is Born" at the late-show theatre, right
near Mama's Breast (all night milk bar) and Papa's Gas Station ("We
burp you on your way.").
To a chorus of infant cries, I drafted this column at 1:00 a.m.
Of course, it was 3:00 p.m. in Tokyo, so I suppose it wasn't so late
after all.
The whole experience of birthing seems to be a very traumatic
way to build a family. Fortunately, it did lead to two very happy
results. It gave me a new daughter, Lauralee, the Little Sister. And it
taught me some valuable lessons, which it is my patriotic duty to share
with you.
The first lesson - all men, take note - is that my wife is my hero.
As the husband, I experienced the whole birthing outburst
second-hand. After careful observation, I conclude that this is the
best way to experience it. (Apparently I had some first-hand experience
over 40 years ago, but I can't remember too many details.)
Most husbands suffer great humiliation during childbirth. Wives
hurl razor-sharp insults like "I hate you!" and "You fink!" and "You
did this to me!" and "I HATE YOU!!!" My wife, truly original even in
pure agony, didn't use any of those words. In fact, she didn't say a
thing. Instead, she threw up on me.
Of course, I don't hold the throwing up against her. The second
lesson I wish to share with you is the importance of forgiving people
who act in haste, in anger, or in excruciating pain from pushing a
six-inch wide baby through a one-inch wide hole in their bodies.
Did I mention that this was a "natural" childbirth? Natural, as
in no painkillers. OK, so there was the epidural, which should have
relieved the pain, if even one of the four dosage increases had worked.
And I suppose you could call morphine and nubain painkillers if they
had actually killed any pain.
So my wife, with a permanent back condition amplifying the stab
of every contraction and reverberating it through the spine with no
momentary relief between contractions, felt every glorious minute - 487
in all - of the unplanned "natural" childbirth. Did I mention that she
is my hero? The third lesson is, when the best-laid plans go astray,
improvise (which might explain the throwing up - I have reason to
believe it was not planned, either).
My wife's trauma was nothing compared to what Little Sister
overcame. Her shoulders got stuck, pinching the umbilical cord and
cutting the oxygen supply from her not-quite-yet-born brain. To do the
equivalent, you would have to press your shoulder up into your nose,
while a bulldozer on steroids pushes you in a river of blood through
your mailbox. (Don't try this at home, folks.)
Thanks to Quick Thinking Doctor, the focused team of nurses,
and a well-sharpened pair of scissors, Little Sister is enjoying great
suction at the all-night milk bar with no more damage than a limp arm.
(That's "brachial plexus injury" in medicalese.) The arm will hopefully
recover. Even if it doesn't, we know what the alternative would have
been ... and we do not look good in black. Lesson number four is to
appreciate what you have rather than worry about what you don't.
The Maternity Ward offers far too many lessons to share with
you now. My fatigue is overtaking me. I feel like a wad of gum squished
on the asphalt, baked in the sun, and stuck on a motorcycle tire
burning rubber on a gravel trail. Ha! Bet you never felt like that in
New York, New York.
