by Dana Canedy
“Stop that!” I said, “I tried it and it doesn’t work. I want my money back from those birth class people.”
The cab to the hospital was the only one in New York City with a driver who could not find Broadway, Manhattan’s most prominent thoroughfare. “Are you kidding me?” I yelled as he made a wrong turn while I was in the middle of a contraction. When my mother noticed his accent and asked about his home country, I interjected, “Who cares? He needs to concentrate on where he’s going, not where he came from.”
Miriam gently tried to urge more “hee hee” breathing exercises to calm me down.
“I said I’m not doing that,” I snapped.
Maybe Charles was lucky not to have been there. My mean Gemini twin had taken over.
When the cab finally pulled into Columbia Presbyterian, the nice Dana returned and apologized to the driver—but probably only because I was between contractions.
The good vibe did not last when the gum-chewing receptionist with psychedelic nails chose not to break off her personal phone call, and when the resident cheerfully suggested I walk to the delivery area to speed up my labor. I have always had a low tolerance for pain and choose dentists primarily by how liberally they use nitrous oxide. I had never intended to be one of those people who embrace natural childbirth as some essential rite of womanhood. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing natural about feeling as if someone was playing tug-o-war with my insides. So I began pleading for an epidural almost as soon as we arrived.
Once I was settled into the birthing room, Miriam briefly let go of my hand to grab my “focal point,” a calming object from birth class that was supposed to help us center ourselves during contractions. Mine was an adorable school photograph of my nephew Cameron who was beaming at me as I focused on the ball tightening up in my belly.
Maybe those childbirth people were not all phonies, I thought, as I smiled at Cameron. The feeling did not last, and I began once again to beg for an epidural.
As my mother stroked me, I could have read her mind. She wanted to bolt for a cigarette. I have to give her credit; she held off.
Miriam had returned from trying to find my nurse when the angel of epidurals walked into the room pushing a cart of needles and tubes. He started going over a consent form but I wanted my drugs. I grabbed it from him and said, “Fine, if you paralyze me I’ll forgive you. Just show me where to sign.” I scribbled a name that looked vaguely like mine and promptly threw up.
Then, finally, the epidural: a pinch, a bit of pressure, and then sheer pleasure. Not even Charles had ever made me feel that good. I heard myself laughing when the doctor said I had a skinny spine. At that moment, it was the most hilarious thing I had ever heard. Miriam and my mom returned just as my good twin reemerged. Hugs all around, and then we slept.
Soon, though, I was woken by an insistent beeping. My upbeat nurse had turned solemn and was staring at a screen. She pulled a phone out of her pocket and punched a button. Almost immediately, the epidural angel emerged and stuck a needle into my IV.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“The baby’s heartbeat dropped,” the nurse said. “But we have it under control.”
At 5 a.m. there was a tap on my arm and my doctor was there, explaining that your heartbeat was irregular and that they had given me a drug called Pitocin to try to speed my labor. However, the contractions had stopped, she said. My water had broken but I was still only four centimeters dilated.
“We need to do a C-section,” the doctor said.
My mother’s cell phone rang and she left the room.
“It was Charles calling from Iraq,” she said when she returned. “One of the wives got ahold of her husband and he told him you were in the hospital.”
“Mom, why didn’t you give me the phone?” I practically yelled.
“You were talking to the doctor. He’s going to call back.”
A team of doctors and nurses came in to prepare me for surgery and my mom popped out of the room again. They were about to wheel me away when she returned, smelling of cigarette smoke. The thought of my newborn inhaling the scent of cigarettes made me rethink the choice I had made when the doctor said only one person could accompany me into the operating room. I suddenly longed for Charles. I wanted so badly for him to have been the one rushing down the hallway beside my gurney and into an operating room with canary yellow walls and classical musical softly playing. I wanted him to be the one sitting beside me while the doctors were cutting and tugging behind a blue screen that blocked my view from the chest down.
I tried to relax, taking deep breaths of oxygen through the tube in my nostrils, and wondered whether Charles was thinking about us at that very moment. I imagined him pacing in the desert.
The doctor’s voice and some vigorous tugging on my midsection got my attention just in time to keep me from feeling sorry for myself.
“Are you ready to meet your baby?” the doctor asked. “Does he have a name?”
“Jordan,” I said.
“Hello there, Jordan,” she said. “Happy Birthday!”
You had just made our family complete.
I heard a soft cry that reminded me of a chirping baby bird. It was the loveliest sound I have ever heard. Then, over the blue screen, your tiny red face emerged, with squinting eyes and a head full of sandy brown and blond hair. Your long legs were wiggling, tiny fingers moving.
I gasped and began to cry. I heard my mother gasp, too. You were so very beautiful.
I was still strapped to the table but I managed to lift my head just enough to kiss your soft face and lips. I breathed you in, the sweet smell of a miracle.
Miriam and Katti were waiting when a nurse wheeled me into the recovery room. While you were suckling I boasted to them that you got a 9.9 on your Apgar test “And did you see how fast he just latched on? This kid is obviously very advanced.”
We finally settled into a private room about an hour later and I took you out of your blanket and marveled at your long arms and spindly legs and, to my utter shock, the most striking blue eyes I had ever seen.
“Blue eyes,” I said, “where did you get those, little guy?”
You were the most glorious sight, but you looked nothing like I had thought you would. For months I had pictured you as an apple-butter-brown baby with dark eyes and curly black hair. In reality, your skin was entirely pink, and flecks of blond hair framed your face. I assumed you took your color from Charles’s mother and your blue eyes from his uncle, although recessive genes being what they are, my relatives obviously had something to do with your unique, angelic look.
I had asked the doctor who delivered you as well as two nurses and a pediatrician whether you had Down syndrome. Each one assured me that you did not.
“You want to know something, Jordan? Mommy is just forty years old, but as of this moment, I have already had the best day of my life. I sure wish your daddy was here to see you, but I want you to know that he already loves you, too.”
I wrapped you back in your blanket and put the little cap back on your head. I worried about germs, but I just could not stop kissing you. Your grandmother came back into the room and handed me her cell phone.
“Hello, Ma,” Charles said. “Congratulations.” He sounded so far away.
“Oh, Charles, we have the most precious son. Heisjustperfect.”
Your dad wanted to know what you looked like. I said you were long and skinny and pale with blue eyes.
“Blue eyes, really?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t believe it myself if I wasn’t sitting here staring at him,” I said.
“Wow,” Charles said. “You know my uncle has blue eyes. Jordan’s may change though, and the little biscuit might brown up.”
While he was talking, I never stopped looking at you. Our little biscuit.
“I’m proud of you, Ma,” he said. “You did good. How are you feeling?”
“I’m exhausted but I’m too excited to sleep. They’re giving me good dru
gs, so I don’t really feel anything.”
I did not tell him that the doctor had discovered your umbilical cord wrapped around your arm when she reached inside of me to pluck you out. Your dad would have surely blamed me for having reached over my head for that teacup all those months before.
I told your father that I loved him. It was the first time I had said it and meant it since our fight about him missing your birth. That was behind us now. All I had eyes for was the softness of your little toes, your tiny mouth with its giant yawns. Watching you sleep in a small metal and glass hospital cart, surrounded by flowers and cards, I was more at peace than I had ever been.
Then I got a visit from a hospital administrator.
“Ms. Canedy, we have a paternity problem,” the woman announced in a disapproving tone of voice as she walked through the doorway. “The father signed and dated this acknowledgment form before the baby was born, which makes it invalid.”
“That’s a bureaucracy problem,” I said, “not a paternity problem. And please don’t talk to me in that tone.”
The month before, I had gone on a hospital tour and learned that I needed Charles to sign the paternity form in order for his name to appear on your birth certificate, since he would not be attending the birth. I sent it to him in Iraq and he signed and returned it to me in two weeks.
“The dates of the signatures of the two parents must match,” the administrator said, implacable.
“Ma’am, he’s in the military, serving in Iraq,” I explained.
Regardless, she said, because of the error, the father’s name would be blank on the birth certificate.
“You have to be joking,” I said.
“If you were married, we wouldn’t have this problem,” she responded. “All I would need is your marriage license.”
“Ma’am, my marital status is none of your business,” I said. “This is insensitive and offensive. Get me your boss.”
I was furious. No one but God had the right to judge us for the decision we had made.
Soon, a supervisor stopped by my room. She did not apologize for the woman’s behavior, but she did promise to help. “In the worst case scenario you can add the father’s name after he returns,” she said.
I wanted to shout that he was not at Disney World; he was at war and might never return.
“I don’t want a corrected birth certificate,” I said instead. “He should be able to have his name on our son’s original birth certificate. And I certainly don’t want to have to tell him about this while he is in Iraq.”
The supervisor took my home phone number and promised to get back to me. She never did.
At least the next crisis made me want to laugh rather than cry.
I was sitting in a chair nursing you—it was my third day in the hospital—when I heard an alarm go off outside our door and people scurrying about at the nurses’ station. Then the sound of rushing footsteps got closer, and a nurse and two security guards burst into my room.
“Ma’am, is that your baby?” the nurse demanded to know.
“Yes, why?” I said, startled. Instinctively, I held you tightly tome.
“His alarm is going off. Hand me the baby please.”
“What?”
As the nurse grabbed you from my breast, I looked down at the electronic security device attached to your ankle. The security guards were by turns glancing at me and at the floor. They seemed uncomfortable.
“What is going on?” I said as the nurse checked your identification bracelet to be sure it matched mine.
Then I felt something wet trickling down my belly and realized what the problem was. I had not thought to cover my other breast when I was feeding you, and several ounces of milk had leaked onto your leg and short-circuited the alarm. I dabbed at my chest while the nurse wiped off your leg. The security guards had the tact to look away.
As the nurse and I headed to the nursery to replace the alarm, she pushing you in a cart and me walking slowly because of my incision, I heard guffawing. The security guards, no doubt on their way to fill out an incident report, were cracking up.
“You mean you set off the alarm with your milk?” Charles said, incredulous, when he called later that day. I had never heard him laugh so hard.
As I prepared to take you home, dressed in the blue sweat suit your father had chosen for your homecoming, I could still hear his laughter. I savored the sound, knowing that where he was, there was probably not much to laugh at.
Ten
Dear Jordan,
A friend once said that to have a baby is to discover a whole new level of what it means to be human. She was right, as I discovered when you were born and suddenly there was a life that meant more to me than my own.
Katti drove my mother and me home with you the day I left the hospital, and it was like being in traffic for the first time. All the cars seemed too close to ours as I hovered over the car seat where you slept. When we finally made it, I fretted over whether I had dressed you too warm or too cold. Then, after I had fed, burped, and bathed you, I panicked when you cried, thinking I must have done something wrong.
Your grandmother did all she could to help me in those first, sleep-deprived weeks, and friends rescued me from my solitude. Still, there was no way to replace what I needed most—your dad. He and I were supposed to feel our way through those joyful yet exhausting days together—he assuring me that, no, you had not died of SIDS just because you were not snoring in your sleep; he running to buy the breast pump I thought I would not need; he getting up for the 4 a.m. feeding because my incision hurt. Although it was not just the caregiving that I craved. I longed for Charles to see what I saw: how you smiled in your sleep (I refused to believe it was gas); how you smelled right after your bath; how your head felt nestled in my neck. Those should have been his moments, too— and yours.
Your father called weekly to check on us that first month, and he always wanted to hear every new detail about his “Biscuit”
There was a new lightness in Charles’s voice, a new harmony in his laughter.
“How’s he doing, Ma? Bet you don’t even have time to miss me.”
“Of course I miss you,” I said. “I see you every time I look at Jordan. He’s doing great—it’s m£ you need to worry about.”
He asked what was wrong.
“Someone mistook me for Jordan’s nanny at the park again,” I said. “He’s so fair that people think he’s white. I was so fed up that I pulled out my breast and fed him right in front ofthat couple.”
“Just put the little biscuit in the sun. He’ll brown up.”
As the weeks passed, we settled into a routine, which is to say that I knew what you needed by the sound of your cry and could count on you to wake up every two hours. (I timed my showers, naps, and phone calls accordingly.) But I was still not the picture of togetherness. I called your pediatrician so often with my new-mother questions that he must have thought I was insane. I brought page-long lists of questions to your check-ups: “Does his head seem big? Are you sure he’s not color-blind? What about that red spot?”
Dr. Edelstein was incredibly patient, and it was a big day when the number of questions was in the single digits. I half expected him to reward me with a smiley face sticker.
When you were three months old, I took you to Los Angeles to see my sisters, Kim and Lynnette, and to have you baptized. Kim attended a small, multicultural Presbyterian church led by a young white pastor, the Reverend Howard Dodson, whom I admired. It would be his first christening.
Your aunts and I were having dinner at an Italian restaurant one evening when they commented on the unusual grunting sound you were making.
“He sounds like he’s having trouble breathing,” Lynnette said.
You seemed fine to me, and I worried that if I phoned your doctor one more time, he would stop returning my calls, so Lynnette suggested the “dial-a-nurse” service that my health insurer provided. We were in your aunt’s car on our way to her house when I reache
d a nurse on my cell phone and explained your symptoms.
“That doesn’t sound good at all,” the woman said. “What you’re describing might be respiratory distress.”
Distress was the only word I needed to hear. In no time, Lynnette and I were speeding down the freeway toward the nearest emergency room. Perhaps sensing our agitation, you began crying.
“Maybe we should call the highway patrol for an escort,” I wailed. “We’re only two miles away!” Lynnette said, turning on her flashers instead to move traffic along.
We burst through the emergency room doors crying that we had an infant in distress, whereupon a triage nurse assessed your vital signs: normal. A doctor examined you and ran tests. I rocked you anxiously until he returned with the results.
“Ma’am, there is nothing wrong with this baby. He has gas.”
He gave me a brochure about colic and sent me to the billing office, where I paid what your aunt and I still refer to as “the gas bill.”
“You did what?” Charles said, when he called my cell phone a few days later and I told him about our frantic emergency room expedition. “My poor son—I need to come home and rescue him.”
“The nurse said ‘distress.’ Wouldn’t you rather I be safe than sorry;
“Yes, Ma, but you don’t need to take him to the emergency room every time he burps.”
“Fine, next time I’ll let him suffer,” I teased.
“No, you won’t,” Charles said, laughing.
I promised to send him pictures of you in your baptism outfit, an adorable white satin shorts suit with a bow tie and doves embroidered on the lapel.
Your father never questioned the decision to have you baptized without him, but I suspect he knew that I feared, down deep, that he could be killed, and I wanted him at least to have known that we had dedicated his son’s life to God. Then he would know that even if he did not meet you on earth, he would see you someday in heaven.