Labour Day II

As a privileged escort in the maternity ward, if you wanted to go outside and say, smoke a cigarette, you’d find that there’s no way to get back in because all the doors had card/badge based entry. And so, being separated from your worldly possessions, and accompanied by some tens of husbands/boyfriends and family members all awaiting the wonderful news of the new added offspring and all trying to peek inside stretching their necks like giraffes whenever the doors to the heavenly wards opened (this is because they were not part of the fortunate few and had to leave their spouses all alone during labour, thus winding up in the waiting room aka the entrance hall of the maternity hospital), and so, as I was saying, I wanted to get back inside, in my warm (although disturbingly noisy and visually harassing) little corner next to my by now yelping friend (yelping is right because after seven or eight hours of labour, you sort of lose your enthusiasm and stop acknowledging every little cry of pain).

What I failed to mention is that, on this lovely winter day, in mid January, the percentage of little creatures coming to life was overwhelmingly favoring the (more) colored population of Cluj, meaning that most of the hang-arounds in the waiting room were, more or less, of the gypsy persuasion; meaning that the amount of uncoordinated colors on the backs of these people was, just like the volume of their conversations, immensely high. Also, the quantity of facial hair was definitely imposing, so much so as not to get anyone second-guessing the bearer (moustaches are a well groomed trait of gypsies… preferably male).

Everything made my throat dry like sandpaper and had me swallowing as if my tongue were the size and shape of a tennis ball. Yet I had to look calm and peaceful for the sake of the ones truly suffering (of course, that was not the best time to point out that the sufferings were self instilled and so annulled any type of rightful complaints) and had to keep my cheerful nature (ha!) so as to always be remembered as the friend who was there in times of need (I have yet to find a better means for extortion!).

Finally, the future father arrived in the waiting room, having some friends over as well (because they figured, what the hell?! It will eventually happen and the more supporters the better. Also, parties can occur in the most unexpected places). Having no scrubs or anything the least bit resembling hospital clothes (as opposed to me, who got the hospital props from well-intended doctor friends), he had to wait outside, fussing and fidgeting, looking awfully concerned. By that time, we were all a little edgy and were waiting for the blessed moment of birth, just to be able to go home and reprogram our minds the best we can and simply shut the memory of the whole day out (at least that’s my personal take on things).

In the end it came; or the end came; or, rather, she went; inside; where, because of my special condition, they cordially invited me to assist, participate and observe the act that they call the great miracle of childbirth. To their dismay, I refused the wonderful offer and contemplated the beauty of not participating (for which the father probably despises me even as we speak): my frown disappeared, my exhaustion faded away and my whole being came back to being! Only for an hour or so, during which the husband sprinted closer to the OR and paced around nervously, just like a rally car, and I tried (unsuccessfully) to organize my after-the-birth time, as in: where to drink, what to drink and when (if ever) to stop, just to wash away the memory… I planned it all well: as soon as she got out, I’d offer my congrats and scram! I would not even take a shower; I’d just leave the car somewhere and run to the first open joint to drown my sorrows. But reality tricked me yet again…

…and the child came screeching. Everybody was exulting greatly, rejoicing and celebrating, all under the spiteful eyes of the other pregnant laboring women, awaiting their own match (I’m not saying that women are defeated, on the contrary: they win, in spite of their battle scars but Mother Nature puts up quite the obstacle course). The father was thoroughly prepared, with a camera to (literary) flash in front of the newborn’s eyes, and he gave it to the doctor, who turned out to be a pretty good photographer.

First picture of the baby: shot by his personal photographer, chief surgeon doctor dude.

But, sadly, I was not spared: the midwife proudly presented the kid to its father, right in front of the OR, before taking it to the newborn ward. No sooner than she exited the OR and showed the kid to the father, she scanned her surroundings and harshly declared that there has to be somebody else that must see the baby. And her sharp eyes stopped when they identified me and acquired my identification features. I sheepishly obeyed and glanced in the direction of her protective arms, only to be shattered to my bones. She was holding ET!!! And he was brown. With bulging closed eyes. Completely. Brown. Puffy. With a strange sheen to its wrinkled, brown skin. I grimaced uncontrollably and tried to hide behind the husband from the merciless glare of the midwife-robot, who obviously wouldn’t tolerate such behavior and in a second would use her flamethrower to eliminate me, the enemy of the newborn, who does not appreciate The Miracle. I was relieved to see them go, kid trying to scream, midwife hovering protectively, like a mummy gorilla on her way to the watering area.

I gulped back sobs of horror and imagined breathing in a bag for the next month or so, but then something distracted me from my living nightmare. Next to the not fully aware husband, enter the wife, the mother, the (forever indebted) friend, riding head-first on a stretcher, being completely soaked, scared and still hurting! A nurse told us to try to calm her down and massage her belly to stop the contractions (say what?! yes! apparently the body is not aware that it gave birth right away; it will eventually realize that but it takes at least an hour to come to that conclusion, hour in which there’s someone who tries to get some sense into the body sooner by massaging it). Around this magical time the husband went green, and, shortly after, ghostly white like a muse-less sheet of paper and had to excuse himself to go retch or smoke or something. As much as I wanted to extend my congratulations (or rather, my condolences), I realized I had to stay and rub the belly, which is a little too much for me in terms of physical contact with people of the same sex, regardless of the friendship type. So I rubbed as instructed: clockwise, applying the same pressure, not stopping. My trials were not over but my own little heavenly cloud was definitely assured! And then, between fading sobs of pain and drug-induced states of peacefulness and calm, she said something truly breathtaking: “Remind me never to want to give birth again!”

Epilogue

Celebrating this day all my life, never to be able to get it out of my memory, this is to mark the second year post-the-most-traumatizing-day-of-my-life. Happy birthday, Aron!