Birth of Charlie, final chapter.

At their worst, on my yoga mat next to the hospital bed, and with Tim and Jackie encouraging me, the contractions brought out an occasional,

“FFFFFFFFFUCK!”  

To which they always replied with a very British, “Oh, dear.”

Despite the pain, I had so much adrenaline rushing through me, and was so giddy and excited, and they were so short and surprisingly DO-able, that they almost seemed…fun.

I have no doubt, however, that if labor had progressed and gotten to the pushing and birthing stage, I would not likely be calling it “fun” now.

A very uncomfortable gloved-fingered cervix check revealed that I was dilated to about 5 centimeters. Things got a little more rushed after that. I was not to eat or drink anything till the surgery, starting many hours beforehand, so I kept getting thirstier and rinsing my mouth out with water. This annoying, intense thirst is actually one of the things I remember most vividly from the whole experience. It was so severe by the time they started the c-section that I remember (in my very drugged, dopey state) only a few seconds passing between hearing Charlie’s first cry, and saying, “Right. Good. He’s okay. Can I have my ice chips now??”

Jackie looks so different and almost regal with her hair up and off her face, like an African queen.  The surgical cap she had to wear in the operating room hid all her hair (which is in 4 or 5 inch dreads, at the moment) beneath it, and I remember looking at her face and how beautiful and excited she looked.  She held my hand in hers, and the sheet was raised in front of my face (even though I requested that it not be), and I felt the pulling and tugging they had said I would feel, and heard Jackie saying, “Ohhhh, Carrie!  There he is!!”  I’m so glad I can at least remember what her voice sounded like at that moment.

They were playing some music, slightly cheesy 80s music, as I recall.  I remember thinking the song that was playing at the moment Charlie came out was funny and somehow appropriate.  Then I tried very hard to secure the name of that song in my memory so I could write about it later.  But…I can’t remember it.  This is one of those examples of how my friends had a point when they said a c-cestion, with all the drugs involved, was a bad idea.  But I won’t dwell on that anymore.

Then I heard the nurse at my head, who was filming the birth, say, “What does this flashing picture of a battery with a line through it mean?” We ended up catching less than 2 seconds of the actual birth before the camera died. Two seconds of Charlie’s goo-covered head being pulled up and out, and then…blackness.  Damn technology. Oh well.

I didn’t cry. I was too out-of-it.  I looked over to my right and saw them wiping him off and wrapping him up, handing him to Jackie as planned, and didn’t even see if she cried, but she must have.  What an unbelievable moment it must have been for her, finally seeing her baby, and she was entirely clear-headed to remember it, unlike me.  But this was kind of why I insisted on a C-section; this was HER moment, probably one of the most important in her life.  It meant something totally different to me, and don’t really mind that I was a bit whacked-out.  But damn, I wish I could remember what that song was.

She brought him over to me, but after being reassured that everything about him was okay, I shooed her out of the room to bring him to Tim.  I didn’t even really feel the need to touch him.

I wound up chatting groggily with one of the male nurses about Plymouth and the housing market, asking – no, begging - repeatedly for ice, and for permission to take a nap. I was finally rewarded for my whining with a cup full of heart-shaped ice cubes, and I could not recall ever feeling so physically relieved and orally satisfied. EVER. In the recovery room, Jax and Tim sat right there by my bed-on-wheels holding Charlie – who was already eating, I think – and beaming. They showed him to me, and I looked closer this time.  He looked like a typical newborn a few minutes out of the womb: red, scrunched, and pretty annoyed.  I loved seeing him and hearing him squawk.  A voice, finally, to go with the bodily presence!  But I would not hold him… my arms were trembling too much, an after-effect of the anesthesia, and I thought I might drop him. I didn’t feel very emotional, except feeling incredible gratitude that he was healthy and that I had my heart-shaped ice cubes.

The next day Simone from Aberdeen listened to me gripe about how non-nutritious the food served for breakfast was. She gave me a sandwich for lunch, placing it on the bed table with a flourish, adding proudly in her thick Scottish brogue, “And I even had them make it with br-r-r-r-own br-r-r-r-ead!”

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