Knocked Up

by Rebecca Eckler

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. It’s not a problem. We’ll schedule one the next time you come in for an appointment. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure why more women don’t request them. The whole operation should take about twenty minutes. I still have to give you an epidural, though. You won’t feel anything from just below your breasts to your thighs.”

  Twenty minutes? I could fit that into my schedule. It sounded fantastic and too good to be true.

  “Can I just be asleep for the whole thing?”

  “Ah, no. I won’t do that.” Well, I had to ask.

  “Well, will there be a curtain up so I don’t have to see what you’re doing to me?”

  “Of course. We’re not going to make you watch,” he laughed.

  And that’s when I fell in love with Dr. Bono and decided that I will have my baby in the fiancé’s city with Dr. Bono, who will give me a C-section.

  JULY 8

  Excited that I found a doctor who would do a planned C-section for me, I couldn’t wait to share the good news with all my friends. Not even the fact that Dr. Bono told me I’m now twenty-five pounds heavier than my pre-pregnancy weight could dampen my spirit. I called Ronnie first.

  “Guess what?” I told her. “I found a doctor who will do a planned C-section. Isn’t that great?”

  “What? Are you crazy? You can’t do it. The recovery time is so much longer. It’s major surgery. You should never do a C-section unless you have to. It can be dangerous.”

  “But a lot of women do it,” I told her. “What about all those women who go through twenty hours of labor only to get a C-section at the end? What about all the celebrities who get C-sections?”

  “They cut through all your stomach muscles. You won’t be able to hold your baby after because you’ll be in too much pain. You will barely be able to breathe. And you won’t be able to work out for weeks after because it will hurt even to walk. And forget about breastfeeding. It will be too painful.”

  I could see it was definitely not the right time to tell Ronnie that I wasn’t positive I was going to breastfeed either. I feared she would go into convulsions. But Ronnie did give me something to think about. I do want to start working out immediately after giving birth. I’m going to have to give this C-section more thought.

  JULY 9

  2:00 p.m.

  I can see how Ronnie might not agree with planned C-sections, Ronnie being one of those mothers who believes she is a hero for giving birth vaginally. I do not need to give birth vaginally as a badge of honor. But I was shocked at my friend Shannon’s reaction. Shannon is a modern woman whose career comes before all else. She reads all the latest magazines and keeps up with current events. She wears only black.

  “Well, that’s not very feministic of you,” she said when I told her I could have a planned C-section if I wanted.

  “Feministic of me? What do you mean? I have to go through vagina pain to be a feminist now? Is that in some Gloria Steinem book I missed?”

  “Yes. Women have been having babies for centuries and centuries. Why are you being so spoiled about it? Giving birth is a beautiful experience and you’re turning it into a chore you can get out of. This is the one thing that men can’t do. Giving birth is what makes us stronger than men. It’s the ultimate self-sacrifice.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought about it that way,” I told her. Her vehemence was scaring me. “Well, I haven’t made a decision about it yet. I just like having the option.”

  Am I a bad feminist? And do I really care? I mean, isn’t feminism all about having choices, the freedom to make your own decisions?

  4:00 p.m.

  I can’t get the whole C-section-versus-vaginal-birth thing off my mind. I think I might actually have to find out exactly what happens during labor before I make my decision. I need to know exactly what it feels like and what the aftermath of birth is really like. I need to know the truth. I call Ronnie back.

  “You have to wear diapers after,” she says.

  “What?”

  “You have to wear huge maxi pads for a couple of weeks after because gunk keeps pouring out of you.”

  Score 1 for a C-section.

  “No no no no no. That can’t be possible. I’m not a maxi-pad kind of girl. I’m a tampon kind of girl. Are there special diapers or something for post-birth?”

  “No. You don’t literally have to wear diapers. But you can’t wear tampons for a couple months after.”

  Score 2 for a C-section.

  “What else?”

  “Hemorrhoids. They’re like little balloons coming out of your bum.”

  “No no no no no. That can’t be possible.”

  “Oh, it’s true. And they are very painful. I didn’t even know what they were until I was in the shower and felt these awful things coming out of me. I thought they had screwed something up during labor. It was so embarrassing.”

  Definitely leaning toward a C-section. Definitely.

  “Okay, but tell me what labor is like. What’s it like when the baby is coming out? Is it super painful? Tell me the truth. I need to know.”

  “No, really, it’s not that bad. I was basically laughing the first time I was in labor. Just make sure you get the epidural and it will be fine.”

  How could she have been laughing through labor? Every time I’ve seen a woman give birth in a movie or on TV she’s moaning and crying and screaming and swearing. Ronnie must have repressed the whole experience.

  “The worst is getting the epidural. That’s the most painful part. They sometimes have a hard time finding the right place on your spine to put the needle in.”

  “Do not say the word ‘spine’ to me. I hate that word. Ewww. It makes me tense just hearing it.”

  “You have to lie totally still on your side when they do it, so every time you have a contraction, they have to stop and wait until you’re still again to try and get the needle in your . . . you know what. But the worst is that you can kind of hear this weird crunching sound as the needle goes in.”

  “Okay. Stop! STOP! You have to stop. I can’t take this anymore.”

  “It’s really not that bad,” Ronnie continues. “That’s the worst part. The labor is nothing. Really.”

  Hmmm. Maybe I could do it vaginally if the worst part is getting the epidural.

  “You could also get a doula. I had one for child number three and it was an amazing experience.”

  “What exactly does a doula do?”

  “Well, she becomes your best friend before and during birth and will answer all your questions. She will massage your vagina to loosen it up so the muscles will be relaxed before you pop.”

  “What? Did you just say she’ll massage my vagina?”

  “Yep. It really helps.”

  “No no no no no. I can’t have anyone massaging my vagina. That’s nasty. And I probably won’t have any questions.”

  “Trust me. By the time you are in labor, so many people have seen your vagina that it’s not even yours anymore. You won’t care.”

  Oh yes I will. No one is massaging my vagina.

  5:00 p.m.

  “I forgot to mention one more thing about the birthing process,” Ronnie says, calling me back.

  “It better not be bad. I don’t want to hear it if it’s bad.”

  “Okay, I’m not going to tell you then. Forget I called.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “Well, some women, um, poo during labor.”

  “No no no no no. That can’t be true.”

  “Yes, it is. You can’t control the muscles Down There.”

  “I don’t even know how to respond to that. So I’m going to go now and pretend this little conversation never happened.”

  “Well, you’re the one who wanted to know everything. I’m just trying to help.”

  Can giving birth be any more disgusting?

  JULY 11

  We’ve made it to Maui for Our Last Vacation Ever. So far, Our Last Vacation Ever is heavenly.

&n
bsp; JULY 12

  I’m even walking around in my bikini. No one but the fiancé knows me here, so I don’t care. But I am still making sure I walk a little behind him so he can’t see my butt.

  JULY 13

  Heaven . . . The fiancé is letting me eat whatever I want. It is, after all, Our Last Vacation Ever. I’ve booked myself a pregnancy massage at the hotel spa. I told the fiancé my back was starting to hurt— and it is. Maybe the massage will help.

  JULY 14

  4:00 a.m.

  “Baby?” I say to the fiancé. “I can’t sleep.”

  Hmmm. He’s not hearing me.

  “Hey! Why did you just poke me? That hurt.” Now he’s awake.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “My stomach hurts. I think I can feel it stretching.”

  “Should we go to the hospital?”

  “No,” I say, starting to laugh. “I think my stomach is just growing. I can feel it growing. Hey . . . are you awake?”

  “Sorry. I fell back to sleep. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No. Just go back to sleep. Don’t worry about little old me.” I’m thirty years old and I’m having growing pains.

  6:00 a.m.

  Haven’t fallen back to sleep. My stomach hurts. Poor me. I really can feel my sides stretching out. The body is not meant to have something growing in it. It’s just not. And how exactly did the fiancé fall back to sleep so quickly? This is the most time we’ve spent together since finding out I was pregnant.

  He did seem to get a kick out of feeling the baby move the first time. But the novelty of that seemed to wear off quickly. He’s not as patient as I am. Whenever I tell him the baby is moving and he goes to put his hand on my stomach, the baby stops moving.

  “Did you feel that? Did you feel it?” I ask him as I race to grab his hand and place it on my stomach.

  “I think so.”

  “Keep your hand there. Come on, baby. Move for your papa,” I’ll say to my stomach.

  “Whoa! I felt that. Was that the baby?”

  “Yeah, isn’t it cool?”

  “Yeah. That’s cool,” he’ll say, kind of dreamily. Or maybe he says it in awe, as if he still can’t believe that I’m really pregnant and that there’s a little human growing in me. And then he’ll go back to watching television.

  At least we are enjoying the relaxing aspect of this vacation. All we do is watch television, lie by the pool or on the beach, and read magazines. And the fiancé doesn’t ever seem to get sick and tired of going through the C-section-versus-vaginal-delivery debate with me. We even had sex yesterday afternoon. I made him turn all the lights off and shut the blinds so it was pitch black. But still. I’ve missed being intimate. And—phew—he obviously still finds me somewhat attractive. And although I can’t move around as easily as I used to be able to, the sex was a success.

  9:00 p.m.

  The fiancé and I just got back to the hotel room after a relaxing dinner when I felt something I have never experienced before.

  “I have this weird burning in my throat. And my heart feels like it’s burning. But it’s mostly burning in my throat,” I told the fiancé. “It hurts to swallow. It’s like someone lit a match against my throat.”

  “Heartburn,” said the fiancé.

  “Heartburn? Is that what heartburn feels like?”

  “Yep. Let me get you a tablet. Welcome to my world.”

  I always thought heartburn was a middle-age thing. Nothing sexy about heartburn.

  JULY 15

  A trip to the ice cream store turned into a huge disaster. How is something as easy as a trip to the ice cream store a possible disaster? When you’re pregnant, anything is possible.

  The fiancé and I had a lovely, romantic dinner in a restaurant in a mall in Maui. “You know, I kind of feel like an ice cream cone. I saw an ice cream shop downstairs,” I told him. He was in a good mood too. Even though I had already had an ice cream cone at lunch, he agreed to buy me another. As we walked into the shop, the woman behind the counter pointed to my belly and said, “Hey, I see we have two girls coming in.”

  “Wow. How did you know I am having a girl?” I asked, amazed.

  “Women who are going to have girls carry all the weight in their behinds,” she answered.

  Oh. My. God. Bitch.

  “So what can I get for you?”

  “Um, well, now that I know for a fact my ass is big, nothing, thank you,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure your man loves a gal with a big behind.”

  Gaaa! This woman should be fired.

  “So what will it be?”

  “Um, really, nothing. Goodbye.”

  The fiancé can now tell when I’m about to cry, and I was about to cry.

  “Beck, don’t listen to her. She’s just a silly woman who works in an ice cream shop in a mall. You can’t take what she says seriously.”

  I couldn’t help it. I started to sob.

  I told the fiancé I’m never eating ice cream again.

  THINGS PEOPLE SHOULD NEVER SAY

  TO PREGNANT WOMEN—EVER

  “You look healthier,” which is just another way of saying they can tell you’ve gained weight.

  “Are you carrying twins?” which is just another way of saying, “You look like you’re carrying twins.”

  “No, your ass is not bigger,” which is just another way of saying, “I’m lying to you.”

  “It’s nice to see your plate full,” which is just another way of saying, “Wow. You’re eating a lot.”

  “Your face looks different,” which is just another way of saying, “Hey, didn’t you used to have bone structure?”

  JULY 16

  Eating Oreo cookie ice cream and loving it. My ass is already fat, so who cares? Plus, the sun is shining and I’m lying on a beach. I’m happy. Why shouldn’t I live it up? We’re on vacation. No one can see my ass when I’m lying down anyway.

  JULY 17

  Rough, rough night last night. At two o’clock, I woke up with the worst stomach cramp I have ever experienced in my life. It was so bad, I felt like I was about to throw up. I grabbed the fiancé’s hand hard, waking him up. “OW. Cramp. OW OW OW OW! Something’s happening.” I could barely breathe.

  “What’s wrong? Should we go to the hospital?”

  “Wait . . . wait . . . Oh my God.” And then it passed. The whole thing lasted thirty seconds.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think it might have been one of those false contractions. I think they’re called Braxton Hicks. I saw that happen to Rachel on Friends.”

  “Are you okay now?”

  “Yes. But if that’s what real contractions feel like, there’s no way I can go through labor. No way. I’m getting a C-section for sure.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.”

  I stayed up for hours after, fearful that it would happen again. It didn’t. Thank God. I mean, I didn’t want to ruin Our Last Vacation Ever by going into early labor.

  JULY 18

  The fiancé and I made another awful mistake. It rained today and we had to kill time, so we went to the hotel’s business center to play around on their computers. Damn modern technology is all I have to say. We typed “C-section” into a search engine and checked out pictures of the operation. There should be warnings attached to sites that graphically show photos with step-by-step descriptions of how an operation is performed. There’s a reason I’m a writer and not a doctor.

  Ronnie is right. Basically they do remove your stomach and plop it on the table beside you before they take the baby out. And then they put your stomach muscles back in and stitch you up. It really did look painful. But we couldn’t turn away. It was like watching a train wreck.

  “Did you see all that blood?” I moaned to the fiancé, who finally shut down the computer. “I can’t do that. There’s no way I can go through that. I didn’t know it was possible for there to be so much blood from one ope
ration.”

  “Well, have you ever seen pictures of vaginal birth?” the fiancé asked.

  “No. And I don’t plan to after seeing that.”

  “Unfortunately, I think it will be just as painful but in a different way.”

  He has a point. I can’t do it. I can’t have this baby come out of me either by C-section or out from Down There. That’s it. This baby isn’t coming out of me ever. Period.

  JULY 24

  A tank top that I wore I’m sure only yesterday no longer fits over my belly. How long exactly have I been asleep?

  BAD THINGS ABOUT BEING PREGNANT

  Uncontrollable gas. I have to live with the embarrassment of farting in front of the fiancé. He thought it was funny. I did not.

  Uncontrollable eating binges.

  Uncontrollable emotions.

  Uncontrollable weight gain.

  Varicose veins.

  Wrinkly ass which you have to hide from your fiancé.

  Back fat.

  No drinking/smoking/sashimi.

  Itchy stomach skin.

  Hyperactive bladder.

  Leg cramps.

  Not fitting into any old clothes.

  NICE THINGS ABOUT BEING PREGNANT

  Floating in the swimming pool more easily.

  People hold doors open for you. Sometimes.

  JULY 25

  Our Last Vacation Ever is now o-v-e-r. The fiancé is back at his home, and I’m back at mine. I miss him horribly. By the end of our vacation, I even let him walk behind me. I’m planning to marry the guy one day, and we’re going to have to abide by the “for better or worse” part. My ass is the “worse” part now. Plus, I think he enjoyed being around me while I was eating like a pig. It allowed him, too, to eat like a pig, without the guilt.

  I had another doctor’s appointment with Dr. G. today.

  “Wow, look at how big you’ve gotten,” he said when I walked into the examining room.

  Um, was an obstetrician supposed to say that to one of his pregnant patients? I was pretty certain it wasn’t a good thing that an obstetrician—a man who sees only pregnant women day in and day out—seemed shocked at how large I was. Was it possible I looked abnormally large compared to other pregnant women?

  “What? Is it bad? Am I gaining too much weight?”