Labour Day I

Have you ever wondered why the word “labour” defines both hard work and the excruciating pains that occur right before (and slightly during and after) the act of giving birth? Well, trust me, it’s because the acts are quite similar, in aspects so obvious you simply fail to acknowledge…

There they are, right in front of your (naïve, not yet fully aware of the magnitude of the situation) eyes, and you just cannot see them; women, especially tend to consciously ignore them, being socially and culturally programmed to believe that the act of creating life is the most wonderful, fulfilling, enchanting and meaningful gesture in the universe. Fulfilling is right, as it completely fills you (filling you with tears will be the least of your worries) in ways most human creatures – those who, fortunately, are blissfully oblivious to the miracle of life -- wouldn’t endure.

Men, on the other hand, don’t care so much about such details, yet still they’re bound to remember some days of their lives better than others, because of the unforgettable, monstrous and – ironically – natural event of the most beautiful day of their lives (or, at least, that’s what the birth days of our offspring are called): some say it’s a special day, a special event, a special feeling, yet I now know that this kind of special means only that people are polite enough not to say it’s mind-numbingly horrendous and not so hypocrite to say it’s beautiful.

I’ve been in labour and I’ve laboured through it. And trust me: it’s everything they say it is!

So, it’s 1 pm and I get this call:

-       Hi! My water just broke, come take me to the hospital ‘cause my husband’s at work and cannot come for some hours.

-       Good god! Stay put, I’m on my way! Don’t worry! Everything’s okay!!! …!!! Sheesh…!!! Err… I’ll get you… err… umph… whatever! Don’t panic!!! Oh, yes! Breathe!!!

-       Relax! I’m making myself a sandwich and, by the time you get here, I’ll have already ate this and you can come help me to the car and carry my bag and my blanket and…

-       Yeah, sure, I’m coming, on my way!!! Don’t panic!!!

And I’m off. Never before has downtown Cluj seen such a small car with such speed and determination (and by this I mean that I aimed to scream/honk at anyone standing/driving in my way, while being totally diligent in not hitting the brakes at any cost, all of this with great care for the safety of the passenger-mother-to-be). By the time I got to her place she calmly made me sit and wait until she eats, dresses and takes all measures to leave everything shipshape. She almost insisted on tying her shoelaces all alone (although pregnant women tend to get some kilos in front of them, which usually leads not only to instability, but also to the inability of bending over, making simple everyday procedures nearly impossible), but relented when she realized that her labour could end sooner than humanity could invent the shoelace tying robot.

My five phone calls on my way to the hospital got me nowhere nearer to any form of assurance for my wellbeing, so I had nothing more to do than just stay there, look confident and calm and wait for a while ‘till the husband showed up. Or just until she got on the other side of the fence that divides the healthy from the (self-inflicting) sick (or just the too slow-witted to know better than to have children).

But oh, the inhumanity! When we got there we got the silent (and indifferent treatment) and the nurses ignored us and treated us like any other still-pregnant-but-by-now-in-labour couple who had shamelessly wandered in the hospital, seeking care and know-how in the special art of childbirth. It shattered my world! I wasn’t going to take this! I was going to get her to the starting point and then just stay on the side, maybe go further away and get live updates with no visuals (maybe even congratulate her at the finish line)! I was going to be the do-gooder but still keep out of it. I was going to give birth to a life, yet not have to be there to do it…

My doctor-resident-friend finally arrived to tell us that it’s not over yet, that we’ll have to wait, that we had a bed and everything, and that I should resign to waiting like everybody else does. I considered disappearing, pretending to go get coffee and just run away; I couldn’t. Seeing the pain and horror deeply engraved in my friend’s features, I decided to stay; to hold her hand; to encourage her; to (unsuccessfully) try to shut out the cries of pain of the other women around us and just concentrate on our own cries and shrieks.

Panic ruled just like a communist dictator. In just two wards women ready to pop, women who already had popped minutes before, and a fortunate few with acquaintances “on the inside” crammed together, spreading terror and anxiety like the black plague. Different cries of pain, many ohhs and arrghs clashed together in so many different voices and timbres that it was hard to be sure which one came from mine own throat. Not only were the future mothers-to-be scared of the impending pains and suffering, but the ex-pregnant women who came back to the wards on stretchers, bearing IVs hinted that the experience was not the least bit similar to a walk in the park.

The traffic was something terrible. All around us everybody wanted to get somewhere, preferably somewhere else than their current spatial positioning, which led to everybody (pregnant, un-pregnant, doctors, nurses, midwives) running around in different directions, but getting in the same place over and over again. It was like looking at some racing circuit: any single person that drove away eventually came back, only to start their own race (against no one in particular) all over again. But everybody was happy to feel important by just moving around.

And on top of everything else, going to clear my thoughts (and mostly my eyes!) on the corridor in front of the wards only subjected me to the horror of the truly nightmarish experience of actually giving birth (going even further away meant just getting to the newborn section which was certainly worse): opposite the wards was the operating (pain inflicting, urgent drug administrating) room, from where the vociferations of “Push!!! Now! One more time…” and “I CAN’T DO IT ANYMORE!!!” were mercilessly piercing right through my internal ear. The luckiest moments were when I also had a little, just a little (but enough to last me for a lifetime) visual contact with the activities undergoing behind the doors that made women screech like the breaks of a train on a rusty railroad track. And trust me: nobody wants to know that in any detail whatsoever!