THE WEARY, WOOZY, WONDERFUL WORLD OF CHILDBIRTH

I paced in the waiting room, skimming an article about the rising
prices of crude oil and wondering what the heck they made these booties
out of. My mind was racing, but as has often been the case in my short
but action-packed lifetime, no checkered flag was waving in the
distance. I could not think straight with my wife thirty yards away in
another room where they were paralyzing her lower half so she could
smile, knit a sweater and sing "The Star Spangled Banner" while they
sawed her down the middle. I was theoretically ten minutes away from
meeting the parasite that had redesigned and decorated a room,
redesigned and decorated my wife's internal organs and dominated every
thought and action of the previous nine months of our lives. I was a
little nervous.
I reminisced about the oddness of the previous sixteen hours. Since my
son had apparently decided to find his own way out of the embryonic
prison he was quickly outgrowing, and had acted forcefully on that
decision, he was now in a position the medical profession is content to
describe as "breach". To the uneducated eye, it looked more like a
Chuck Norris roundhouse gone bad: his right leg was straight up and to
the side of his head, while the rest of his body was preparing to
plunge feet-first down the birth canal. This interesting turn of events
had allowed us the luxury of scheduling his release.
My wife was scheduled for surgery. Suddenly, the beeper I had purchased
(for the express purpose of being available 24 hours a day for the
frantic call I was sure was coming) seemed silly and unnecessary. We
knew exactly when our son would arrive, and we had merely to pack an
overnight bag with all the necessities, set the alarm, and take a
leisurely drive to the hospital. The most exciting experience of our
lives suddenly felt like a trip to Wal-Mart, only this time, our
purchase was non-refundable.
The nurse interrupted my meandering thoughts just before I tried
tasting the booty.
"We're ready. This way."
Speak for yourself, lady. I followed her through the large swinging
doors and found myself in a sparkling delivery room full of polished
chrome and the smell of antiseptic. There were at least six other
people in the room, all looking as silly as me with aquamarine hairnets
and masks. Someone said hello, but it could have been any of them. I
only recognized my wife because I expected her to be lying on the bed,
which she was. The nurse I had followed had already disguised her
identity, and was offering me a seat next to my wife for what I could
only assume was the best show going at 6:30 that morning. The seat was
actually a wheelchair.
A moment later, the festivities began. The scalpel glinted in the
overhead lamp as the doctor held it up in a Frankensteinian dramatic
pause. Then he brought it down and made a quick, clean incision across
my wife's belly.
Now, I would like to pause just a quick moment to notify all who would
care to know: I don't like blood. As far as I'm concerned, blood
belongs inside the body. I'm okay with it in there. When my doctor
feels for my pulse, and it's still there, I consider that a good thing.
But as soon as I see blood outside the body, something in my brain
starts sounding the alarm bells and screams "Whoa! Something's wrong
here. Blood. No good!" We may now resume the account with a slightly
more educated guess at the succeeding events.
The nurses had assured my wife and I that there would be a sheet in
place to ensure neither of us were forced to witness anything that
could be potentially disturbing. I would like to go on record in
stating those nurses are flat liars. The sheet was there, and my wife
couldn't see a thing. I, however, was given the sneak preview of my
wife's autopsy with no warning, and it caught me a touch off guard.
Being human, as I claim to be, my immediate reaction was to stare.
Stupid. I was witness to the most spectacular tug-of-war match between
the doctor and his assistant as they battled over my wife's abdomen and
managed to pry it a full six feet apart. I then witnessed a spout of
blood that could have rivaled any of the great fountains of Paris in
sheer volume and arch. I finally pried my eyes away to stare at my wife
and mumble "You okay?" I'm sure I was very reassuring at that
point.
The room began to spin, and I got the distinct impression that the
laws of gravity had ceased to exist for at least thirty seconds. It was
about this time that my wife returned the favor.
"Are you okay? You don't look good."
I was truly offended for a moment. Was I okay, indeed! She was the one
being sawn asunder. I was just sitting there. Or, floating there,
actually. Of course I was okay! I was so offended, in fact, I decided
to look up at the doctor again. Feeling safe in staring at his face for
a moment, I realized my mistake too late.
Our doctor wore glasses.
I had a fleeting image of a tiny, pink, slimy growth being removed
from my wife's belly, and then making a lot of noise as the
silly-looking anonymous nurses tried to clean it up. I also vaguely
recall hearing the grinning Dr. Frankenstein say something about a boy.
But the picture that remained burned in to my psyche as I faded from
consciousness was the full-color, larger-than-life image of my wife's
gaping abdomen reflected in the grinning doctor's glasses.
I woke up in the recovery room to the pungent odor of ammonia. A nurse
(who may or may not have been in "The Room", I couldn't tell,) was
handing me a small glass of orange juice while another was asking how I
felt. I could barely move my legs or talk. But I swallowed the orange
juice, and slowly my motor function returned to me. A few minutes
later, a knock came on the door and it opened in. A nurse entered,
carrying the tiniest bundle of blankets and flesh I had ever seen, and
asked if I cared to be the first to hold my new son. I did.
When they wheeled my wife in a few minutes later, the full effects of
the anesthesia had kicked in. Groggily, with one eye open, and unable
to move more than her neck and head, she mumbled, "How are you feeling?
You didn't look so good in there."
I looked down at the cause of all our problems.
"I'm fine, and you?"