by Ann Leary
Then he said, ever so mildly, “Right. Well, before we can do anything, you need to calm down. Carrying on like this is probably the worst thing you can do for your baby, so it’s absolutely essential that you stop crying.”
Dr. Andrews … Scott spoke in such a kind yet authoritative tone that I miraculously stopped crying and waited for my next instructions. Scott said that he needed to examine me and asked me to lie back on the table. I had never had an internal examination with my husband in the room, and for that matter had never been examined by a doctor as young and handsome and casual as Scott, but I assumed the position and was distracted from the discomfort of the exam by the iron grip Denis had on my upper arm.
“Ouch. Quit it!” I hissed.
“Sorry, just another moment,” said Scott.
“No, not you.” I looked up at Denis and realized that the man was in a state of shock so severe that his eyes were unable to blink and his mouth was frozen in a maniacal smile.
“Three centimeters,” said Scott, removing his glove. This meant nothing to Denis, who had never opened What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
“Am I having the baby now?” I asked, sucking in a sob.
“It would be so much better if you wouldn’t,” Scott said. “Although your cervix is dilated, you’re not having contractions, and there appears to be plenty of amniotic fluid still surrounding the baby. You stand a very good chance of not delivering this baby for days or weeks. However, you must remain in bed.”
I can’t describe the relief I felt. Moments before, I’d believed I was having a miscarriage, and now I was a pregnant woman being told she needed bed rest.
“I will,” I promised. “I’ll lie down on the flight home, and then I’ll stay in bed until the baby comes.”
“Sorry, I don’t think I was very clear,” said Scott. “You can’t leave this hospital until the baby is born. You must be monitored daily, to make sure that you haven’t started contracting. Also, you are very susceptible to infection now that your membranes have ruptured, so …”
“We live in the United States. What if I don’t have the baby for months?” I asked.
“Then you’ll be very lucky indeed. But you’re going to be here for months anyway, because even if the baby is born tomorrow, it’ll be very ill and will be in hospital for quite some time.”
Denis and I just looked at the doctor then. We were completely baffled. I had to go to work on Monday. Denis had a big college gig coming up. Our dog was staying with friends.
“So let me get this straight…” Denis said slowly, but then he seemed at a loss as to what to say next.
“These … membranes,” I stammered. “Is there any chance they’ll … heal? And then we can go home?”
“No. Well, there have been reported cases, but it’s extremely rare,” Scott said, and then he embarked on a rather lengthy rumination on the mysteries of the uterus and the unpredictability of its membranes. I was unable to really absorb much of what he said. Words like “amniotic” and “chorionic” were lobbed about, as well as more colorful terms like “bag of waters” and, of course, “vagina.” That very morning I had awoken blissfully unaware that my womb even contained membranes, chorionic or otherwise, but now I sat staring slack-jawed at a young doctor who would not be content until I fully understood how defective mine were.
Denis spent the rest of the afternoon wheeling me from floor to floor, awaiting sonograms and the dreaded amniocentesis, a procedure I had not yet had to endure, as I was still in my twenties. I don’t know if husbands are usually present during this procedure, but, based on my experience, I suggest leaving them at home. Most men I know are quite squeamish about needles, and the last thing you need at a time like this is to have to comfort somebody else. Finally, after all tests indicated that the baby was alive and healthy, I was wheeled into a private labor room, where I would be monitored for the night. A nurse offered to bring us a phone, and Denis called his family and then mine.
WHEN I MET Denis, seven years earlier, I was immediately attracted to him. There was something about his face—the generous nose, the space between the front teeth, it all worked for me—but I wasn’t sure why until we started going out in public together and everybody thought we were brother and sister. We couldn’t possibly have looked more alike then—I’ve since had my teeth fixed—and when we met… well, we instantly liked what we saw. During the inevitable getting-to-know-all-about-you stage of our early courtship, we learned that not only are we both Leos but we both love dogs, hate dark chocolate, are both afraid of boats, and, alarmingly, we both have mothers whose maiden name is Sullivan.
It’s remarkable that we have so much in common, as our families and upbringing were nothing alike. Denis’s parents were childhood sweethearts who grew up on neighboring farms in Ireland. They emigrated to America with their brothers and sisters, and they all married soon after they arrived here and settled down in the same neighborhood in Worcester, Massachusetts. Denis’s brother, John, was born first, then Denis, then his sister Ann-Marie, then Betty-Ann. Denis’s mother, Nora, is a teetotaler, as are most of his female relatives from that generation. Nobody in Denis’s extended family had ever been divorced when Denis and I first met, but whenever anyone referred to a bad character in their area (there were plenty), Nora would say, “Well, the parents are divorced, so it’s no wonder the kids are no good!”
I come from a different type of family. The divorced type. My mother met my father in college. He was two years ahead of her, so when he graduated, she dropped out to marry him. They had my brother, Paul, then me, then my sister, Meg. Because of my father’s job, we moved every couple of years and I changed schools frequently. My parents were always at odds with each other. When we lived in Midland, Michigan, for example, my dad worked at Dow Chemical Company, which made Agent Orange, and my mom actively protested against the war in which it was used. When I was fourteen and we moved to Marblehead, Massachusetts, my parents divorced.
My mother was very young when she had me, and ever since I turned six, people have mistaken us for sisters, which is flattering, because she’s beautiful, but now somewhat painful, because she’s in her sixties. Today all my friends think she’s had “work,” because she looks so young, but she hasn’t, and I’m following her regimen of going to bed each night with my makeup on, which she swears by.
My mother taught me to drive when I was fourteen and how to make a Bloody Mary when I was fifteen. When I was sixteen, we were at a restaurant one wintry night, and when the waitress asked what I’d like to drink, I brazenly ordered a gin and tonic. My mother was aghast, and after the waitress walked away, she admonished, “Gin is a summer drink. Next time order a nice scotch.” That’s the thing about my mother: She believes in good form above all else. Well, good form and the ability to make a perfect hollandaise sauce.
Denis’s mother never learned to drive. She walks four miles a day, helps raise her grandchildren, and when she sees you, if she likes you, she hugs you really hard and, just when you think she’s about to let you go, she gives you another little hug. The women in my family can only summon the courage for that kind of physical contact after about three cocktails. The women in Denis’s family tell you what they really think—about everything. Politics, religion, your child-raising skills, your hair. The women in my family can only summon the courage for that kind of honesty after about three cocktails. Otherwise we try to say things that will make people feel good about themselves—and about us.
When Denis was in high school, his father finished their cellar with wood paneling and a bathroom, and they used to have all large family gatherings down there. I asked Denis once why they never used the upstairs rooms, and he said they’re considered too nice for family and are saved for company, and I had to trust him when he said that occasionally people came to his house who were not blood relatives. The finished basement seemed a popular system in that part of Worcester, creating a sort of Irish underground railroad among Denis’s relatives.
Entering one of these homes on Easter Sunday, for example, you would find the living room spotless and the kitchen immaculate. Following the faint aroma of cigarettes, ham, and beer, you’d open the cellar door and find forty Irish people laughing, drinking, and eating beneath exposed water pipes and heating vents.
When Denis first brought me home to meet his family, we’d been together only a few months, and as we arrived, I was alarmed at the number of cars parked out front.
“I thought you said it was just going to be family.”
“I dunno,” said Denis. “Looks like my Uncle Jerry’s here, and some others.”
There were twenty-five others, as it was his sister’s birthday, a fact that had escaped Denis when his dad invited us. We walked around the back of the house and entered through the cellar door, and there I was literally pulled into the heart of this great family. Denis’s father, John, gave Denis a big hug, then grabbed me by the arm and introduced me to everyone as “Ann, whose mother’s name is Sullivan.”* We all sat around the longest series of card tables I have ever seen, and since I was the newcomer to the tribe, all attention was naturally focused on me. I couldn’t believe how friendly everyone was, but the smiling and answering questions was exhausting, and finally I excused myself to go to the bathroom, which was conveniently located right behind my chair.
Seated on the toilet, I was enjoying a nice solitary pee when Denis’s father flung open the door. Fortunately, he didn’t see me, but unfortunately, he forgot something—reading material, perhaps—and walked away, leaving the door wide open.
“Occupied,” I called.
I was now facing the entire extended Leary family, who were so busy eating and chatting that they didn’t notice me. The bathroom door was way too far forward for me to reach, and I had about made up my mind to stand and try to pull up my pants when I heard Denis’s mother scream, “For the love of God, John, ye’ve left the bathroom door open again!”
Then everybody stopped talking and stared at me sitting facing them—really, only a couple of feet away from them—on the toilet. I smiled nervously, and some of them smiled back, while others seemed shocked and confused. Somebody, mercifully, slammed the door shut, and so I sat there awhile. A very long while. At some point, I thought, they’ll have to stop discussing the fact that I’m not a natural blonde and leave the table. Then, and only then, will I leave this room.
Between the time we met and this day in London in March, Denis’s father had died, my mother and father had started second marriages, and Denis’s brother and sister had begun having children of their own. I had never been the least bit sentimental about either of our families, but now, thinking about my mother’s hollandaise sauce and Denis’s father’s paneling, I began to experience empty, hollow pangs of homesickness. Denis called his mother first, who cried and prayed, and my mother, who, with carefully controlled words in a voice she reserves for times when she is very angry or very sad, declared that she would come over as soon as we wanted her. I talked briefly with my mother and Denis’s, and while we spoke, nurses came in and out of the room hooking up a fetal heart monitor, taking blood-pressure readings, and giving me a suppository. I was talking overseas, collect, so I was unable to question or protest the suppository, and to this day I have no idea what it was for. Finally it was quiet in my room, and I lay back on the bed, Denis slumped over in his chair, and we were lulled to sleep by the monitor-amplified swish, swish, swish of our baby’s little heart.
We slept for only half an hour, and then Denis got up and raced out of the room to see what time it was. He was still scheduled to perform on the show that had brought us to London, and he was due in the studio for a sound check. Alone in the room, I was again visited by the panic that the afternoon’s events had wrought. Before long I heard voices in the hallway—Denis’s voice and that of a female with an Irish accent. There was talking and laughter. Then more laughter, and the two came bustling into the room grinning and chatting like lifelong friends.
“Honey, have you met Pauline?” Denis asked.
“Yes, I think it was Pauline who … put the suppository …,” I stammered.
“Up yer bum, ’twas me! And now yer lad tells me he’s off to do a television show, of all things. How come I’ve never heard of you if yer such a big comedy star, then?”
Denis laughed and shrugged, and I was taken aback by his affability and friendliness toward this heavyset Irish woman. Normally, civil discourse with strangers is next to impossible for Denis, but since we had arrived in England, a new personality had emerged, one that was friendly and … well, charming.
“We’ll make sure nothing happens here while you’re gone,” Pauline assured him, and she fluffed up my pillow and tucked my sheet around my legs.
“Just keep your hands away from my wife’s ass, would you?” Denis cracked, and the two howled with laughter.
Denis left to do the show, and Pauline sat with me for a few minutes. She was in charge of me, she explained, and one other woman who was in the next room in the late stages of labor.
“This is her third baby, and she and her husband want to do most of the laboring themselves. I’ll wait till they call me.”
“Wait? To do what? Call the doctor?” I asked.
“No, no. She’s a normal delivery. A full-term pregnancy. I shouldn’t think she’ll need a doctor.”
“Who’ll deliver her baby?”
“Well, what do you think I’m doin’ here? Just runnin’ around banging suppositories in women’s bottoms?” Pauline laughed. “I’m a midwife. I’ll deliver her baby.”
“A midwife,” I said, and I looked at Pauline with a newfound respect. I had never met a midwife, but I had read about them in my birthing magazines. The American midwives I’d read about were wholesome, organic types who taught women to visualize the opening of their wombs and climbed into the birthing tub with the mother when it was time to push. They were shunned by the medical community, and I took it for granted that they were mostly lesbians. Pauline explained that in the UK, and in most of Europe, midwives are trained to deliver babies and are employed by hospitals to do so. Most European women view doctors as forceps-wielding meddlers and would prefer that all their babies be delivered by midwives, and most of them are.
Pauline was soon called into the next room, and I listened to the sounds of childbirth for the first time. I had always accepted the Hollywood depiction of a woman’s labor and delivery as being an accurate portrayal, and I was surprised by the lack of screaming and hysterics. There was some moaning, some long-drawn-out “Ooooooooh’s,” and then there was a baby crying in the next room, which caused me to cry in my room. Before long, Pauline wandered in, and I saw that she, too, had been crying.
“I never cry when the baby appears, I’m fine when the mum starts bawling, but when the dad commences with the tears, it gets me every time,” she said. “Now, let me have a peek in yer knickers.”
I was too astonished to protest and allowed her to pull down my underwear to examine the sanitary pad that was absorbing leaking amniotic fluid. “Good,” she said. “We just need to check that there’s no blood. Everything looks fine. Nurse should be bringing tea around soon. What would you like?”
“No, no tea, thanks,” I said. I had been advised by What to Expect When You’re Expecting to avoid caffeine at all costs.
“No tea?” Pauline cried, alarmed. “How are you planning to keep up yer strength if you won’t have tea?”
I told her that I wasn’t aware that tea provided strength.
“Aren’t you hungry?” asked Pauline.
“I’m starving,” I replied, gratefully.
Pauline gave me an odd look, then wandered out of the room muttering something about finding me some tea.
I’m slow so it took me a while to learn that tea is a meal in Britain. Pauline brought me an egg-salad sandwich, a cup of broth, and a cup of tea, and to this day, though I have since dined in some of the finest restaurants in Europe and the United States, I don�
�t think I’ve ever tasted anything better than that tea. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, and I was thrilled when Pauline brought me a second cup of broth.
“I’m going to see if we can find you a television to watch yer comedian,” Pauline said. Then she left, and I didn’t see her for over an hour. When she returned, red-faced and tired looking, she had another peek at my underwear. Then she disappeared without a mention of the television. Another hour later she reappeared, wheeling an IV stand.
“I spoke to yer consultant, and he wants us to start you on medication which should help prevent you from going into labor, but it might make you a little shaky. Also, we’re going to give you a shot of steroids. This is very important, because it will help the baby’s lungs develop surfactant. Surfactant is the substance in a newborn’s lungs which helps him breathe. A preemie’s lungs usually don’t have surfactant yet, so they’re brittle and can collapse and cause all sorts of problems. So, God willing, the steroid will do its work and help yer little one breathe when he or she is born.”
I had just started to relax, and now the talk of labor and brittle lungs had me back in a full-fledged panic. I was convinced that Tylenol and secondhand smoke posed deadly risks to my baby, and, having avoided those for almost six months, I was now being offered steroids. I cringed as Pauline inserted the IV needle, and not long after she left the room, my heart was pounding and my skin was crawling. I was wired, both physically—to the fetal heart monitor—and mentally—from the medication—and while I lay there and shook, the minutes passed, as they say, like hours and my eyes were riveted to the door in the hopes that Denis or Pauline—or anyone, for that matter—might come through to distract my fear-addled brain from morbid thoughts of steroid-damaged babies. I heard the sounds of another birth in the room next to me, and from down the hall came occasional Hollywood-style, bloodcurdling screams. I contemplated the possibility that those screams might be coming from me hours later, as I tried to push out a baby with a steroid-enlarged head.