Labor, Cheesecake & Chaos

A birth story with no grace—but all the grit. And one sensation that still replays today.

My second son at three months.

My son James turns 27 this coming week. My one-time tow-head with curly hair is now 6’2, bearded, and rarely seen without a baseball hat. Time is moving like it’s on meth.

He was up from Florida visiting his partner’s family in Baltimore, and Tim and I grabbed the available Friday lunch slot, and drove from our New Jersey home. He bounded down the steps to greet us—and just like that, I was back in the hospital hallway, 27 years ago, being handed my baby.

It’s easy to remember the day James was born. Actually at night, during Seinfeld.

Because Alex was born about a nano second after I got to the hospital, my doctor wanted to induce me so James wasn’t born on the side of the road. I was supposed to go in after 7pm. That gave my Type-A-self plenty of time to get groceries, have mulch put down by a local guy, and get Alex to a 5:30 pediatric appointment for his terrible dermatitis. My in-laws were meeting us at the end of the visit to take him back to their home. Of course, the doctor’s appointment ran long. As we drove to the hospital and passed a delicatessen, I realized I was famished. I barked out an only-when-I-was-pregnant order – some meat sandwich with creamy coleslaw on top.

I was never a red-meat eater – except when I was pregnant with the boys. Then it was if these testosterone-fueled aliens took over: “I want a bacon cheeseburger with a side of ribs.”

By the time Tim got back with a big bag of snacks for the nurses and food for me, I was in a gown, epidural in place, and changing channels. The labor and delivery room had been designed by women OBs who were moms themselves. They wanted one place for both labor and delivery so that the woman could create the birth experience of her choice. Mahogany furniture gave a homey feel - and hid anything medical. A chaise was available for partners. Nothing too comfortable, I might add. The nurse took one look at the bag of food Tim was carrying and said, ‘nope, she can’t have any.’

“What? I’m starving!” and looked pleadingly at my OB, who waved at the nurse and said: “Let her eat. She’s going to have this baby in 20 minutes.” I happily devoured my sandwich, not minding the creamy cole-slaw making a mess down the front of me.

I barely finished before James was born. My pregnancies were never pleasant. At 5’2” and short torso-ed, I was baby from neck to waste. Straight on I looked the same. Sideways, I looked like Alfred Hitchcock. I vomited for months – never just in the morning – and was miserably uncomfortable. But when it came to birthin’ them babies, they shot out of me. They had nowhere else to go but out.

He was an awful color of blue-grey when he was born, with a low APGAR score so they whisked him away. I didn’t really understand what was going on. Tim said he was going with him and I was left alone in the room with a slice of cheesecake. It was at least an hour before they wheeled me to the nursery to see him. He was perfect. I was woozy so they wheeled me back to my room.

There was quite the baby boom in the hospital that night. Almost 50 babies – most of them boys. They needed my labor and delivery room, so I was evicted. I was in a deep sleep when they whisked me away to the pediatric ward – a floor away. I was too groggy to understand what was happening.

I became aware, when in the middle of the night all the lights came on and they wheeled another woman in who had just had her first baby. Instead of mahogany furniture, I had a sterile environment with institutional green walls. My new roommate spent the rest of the night sobbing. I tried to comfort her by telling her the babies are so sleepy from the birthing process, they aren’t hungry yet.

I was frantic at 6:30 am when, with the sun shining brightly onto those yucky green walls, we were both still on a floor away from our newborns. The nurses who entered the room were perplexed to see adults in beds instead of children. I’m certain they didn’t feel any better when I confronted them with, “We are nursing moms, and we can’t feed our babies.” I took to lobbying for both of us as my poor roommate was still sobbing.

By 9:30 am, I was furious. I called Tim, who was as confused as the nurses by what I was telling him. For both our sakes, I am sure, I blanked his responses.

I was told they could not have just any person wheel us back to maternity. There were protocols set up so that total strangers can’t just pop in and take a babe. I resisted understanding, and was fixated on outrage. My husband could go on the floor, but I couldn’t – because I wasn’t supposed to be not there!

Finally, a very pleasant social worker came into the room with a wheelchair and bouquets of apologies. She looked dismayed when she saw two Moms. “It’s okay, take her,” I said. I knew that James was safe, and I remembered the anxiety of being a first-time Mom. The social worker nodded, and assured me she would be right back for me. While I waited, I called Tim again to bring food, I was starving.

“They didn’t bring you food?”

“They don’t even know we are here!” I’m not great when I’m hangry—add postpartum hormones and newborn deprivation, and I must’ve been downright demonic. Tim was probably counting his blessings he was only dealing with me by phone.

I don’t know how long it was before the social worker came back for me. They had been waiting for women to be discharged, but there was still no room at the Inn. She decided I had waited long enough and took matters into her own hands.

“You’ll have to wait in the hall for a room,” the social worker gently told me. “But you can have your baby.”

“That’s fine!

She wheeled me down and I sat expectantly as she walked through a set of doors before returning with a squalling newborn, pink now instead of blue-grey. She handed me my baby, and I went from in charge to a puddle. All that pent up emotion and anger disappeared. I couldn’t stop sobbing—I thought my heart would burst. “Thank you,” I finally managed. She was wiping her own tears away. We both started smiling and then laughing.

Long gone are the days I could rock him in my arms, but even after 27 years, I can conjure up that moment of being handed my baby. I will never not fight to see you, my James.

What I Am Reading

I went back to Barbara Kingsolver and chose The Poisonwood Bible at the urging of a close friend. A misogynistic and racist evangelical missionary takes his family to the Belgian Congo in 1959. A first-person account - with five narrators, the wife and four daughters. I’m only about a quarter of the way through, but Kingsolver’s scenic descriptions are poetry. The ties between patriarchy, faulty religious “interpretations,” sexism, and racism are bound tightly.