CHAPTER NINETEEN — BIRTH STORY. It’s important to remember that even…
By: Juliet Anonymous
Tags: Birth, Forgiveness, Divorce, Childbirth, Family

It’s important to remember that even the people that failed showed up when it mattered the most.

“Here you are!” I said as I pulled two bottles of Jack Daniels out of a black, liquor store bag, and plunked them on the counter. “You’ve got six weeks to finish these.”

It was the spring of 2014. I was 37 weeks pregnant, and Paris and I were living in a one bedroom apartment overlooking the Harlem river in New York City’s Washington Heights. We were broke, but we were so full of hope. Paris was working his ass off waiting tables at a great restaurant on the East side, and I was hustling for writing gigs. Nothing too small. Anything I could find.

A play of mine had been selected by a local theater festival with performances both in Washington Heights and off Broadway, right on 43rd street. The only catch? I had to produce the play myself, all while having a baby. I had two great actors in mind, but when I told them the rehearsal process would be interrupted for at least two weeks for my unpredictable “maternity leave”, they both declined the opportunity.

No bother, I thought. Paris and I can do it ourselves. We’re both trained actors. And so what if I’m due to have a baby three weeks before the first performance? We can do anything. I can do anything. And so, that’s what we did.

We were working with a lovely director at the time, but even so, as producer, playwright, and lead actress, I felt it my duty to ensure we had all the costume pieces and props together before my daughter arrived. The last of the props to get were two bottles of Jack Daniels.

“Alright!” Paris said, rubbing his hands together. “I better get started then!” He made himself a Jack and coke, and we curled up on the couch to watch Breaking Bad.

The pregnancy had been fine. Zero complications and zero cause for concern. That did not, however, stop me from being completely miserable. I hated being pregnant. Not the weight gain, although that wasn’t much fun, but I already had to pee all the time before. Now I physically could not go for more than 40 minutes without feeling like I was going to explode. I was achy and tired, and moody as hell. But most of all, I missed owning my own body. I’m an only child, remember? As much as I knew I would love the holy crap out of this baby, she was a tiny, little invader, and I wanted my space back.

“Okay…” I had said to her that morning, rubbing her back through my swollen belly. “It’s 37 weeks today. You’re full term, and I’m ready for you. Let’s do this.”

Big has always been a very obedient child. I, however, hadn’t met her at this point, so I didn’t know that yet.

As Paris sipped a Jack and coke and Walter White schemed, I tried to massage Big into position. She had been breech the entire pregnancy, and was still, despite my best efforts, sitting upright inside me. I had been told some doctors and midwives could turn babies during labor, allowing for a vaginal birth. I, however, was scheduled to deliver at Harlem Hospital — a consequence of being poor and not having health insurance — and knew the chances of such a skilled midwife being present, were slim to none. If I wanted to avoid being sliced open on delivery day, I was going to have to flip this baby myself.

“Omigod, Omigod!” I shouted, startling Paris, who was already two drinks in. “I’ve got her sideways. Help me!”

She was going to turn this time, I could feel it. Her entire body was horizontal. All I needed was that final push. With Paris’s help, I got upside down, my arms on the floor and my knees up on the couch. One more shove, and… VWOOP!

She popped right back into her upright seated position, just like a good airline passenger preparing for landing.

“Damn it!” I said, struggling to right my oversized body without falling over. Big has also always been stubborn. This was just the first of many displays.

I got ready for bed around midnight. While taking my final pee of the evening, I noticed something strange in my underwear.

“Babe?” I called, and Paris sauntered in, five Jack and cokes in. “I think this is that bloody show thing.”

Paris looked at me in horror.

“Is she coming now!?”

All Paris has ever wanted is to be a great dad. As I mentioned in an earlier chapter, Paris’s father declined the opportunity to be a part of his life. Instead, he rode out his bachelor days, became a prison guard, and eventually, started another family. Paris met up with him once. His father invited him to a football game his son was playing in. The son he did deemed worthy of raising. To add insult to this injury, he then purchased Paris a hotdog that was not only spicy, (Paris hates spicy food) but give him food poisoning. Paris never forgave him for that, though I suspect the animosity went much deeper than a night of diarrhea from a shitty sausage.

Paris was determined to right the wrongs of his past by being the best, goddamn father the world had ever seen, and that started right at day one. He wanted to be present, clean shaven, and ready for anything the day his daughter arrived, not exhausted from a long week of work, and certainly not drunk.

“No.” I said, consulting good old Doctor Google on my phone. “It says here the bloody show can happen hours to weeks before labor starts.”

“Oh…” Paris said, taking in the enormity of the time frame. With a spread like that, he assumed he at least had twenty-four hours to sober up before go time.

He was wrong.

“Holy SHIT! PARIS!” I screamed, jumping out of bed. “My water just broke!”

Paris’s bloodshot eyes flew open and his breath quickened.

“You cannot be doing this to me right now.”

“I’m not doing anything! I — omigod!”

We’ve all watched that scene in a movie where woman’s water breaks. She’s always conveniently wearing a dress or skirt — I guess without underwear — as a nice little splat on the floor, and off to the hospital she goes.

Let me tell you something. Those scenes are utter bullshit.

My water broke in my ratty, oversized pajama pants, and got everywhere. Just as I pulled them off and prepared to change, however, it happened again.

“It won’t stop!” I yelled, frantically, naked from the waist down and running for the bathroom. Just when I thought it was over and went back into the bedroom to change, another gush of fluid poured down my legs. It’s hard to remember exactly, but I’m pretty sure this happened three or four times. The floor was soaked. I was soaked, and panicked that my poor baby was going to run out of fluid and get suctioned into her placenta like plastic shrink wrap.

Paris did his best to calm me in his drunken state, while simultaneously shaving. That was all he wanted. To be ready for this little girl, and if he couldn’t be sober, he could at least be ready to snuggle.

They separated us during the epidural. I was in the operating room, a single tear trickling down my cheek as they inserted the tube into my spine. I was absolutely terrified.

I laid down on what I can only describe as a slab — this was Harlem Hospital, remember? — and readied for the c-section, but still, there was no Paris in sight.

“Where’s my husband?” I asked, but no one seemed to be listening to me. Even the anesthesiologist, who had spent ten full minutes convincing me I actually was numb, looked away. The fuck was going on, here?

And then, there he was, in a blue, hospital cap, his shoes covered in elastic baggies, and his scrubs on backwards. He was still feeling the Jack Daniels, but his eyes had cleared, and he ran to my side.

“I’m so sorry!” He breathed, “They told me to wait outside, but then no one came and got me! Finally I just decided to come in.”

Fucking Harlem Hospital, man.

C-sections are awful for first-time mothers. No, it doesn’t hurt during the procedure, but you have no idea what’s happening on the other side of that curtain. Only that your body is being tugged, pushed, pulled and yanked, and that your insides are most likely on the outside. All you can do is pray your baby is safe, and that they put you back together correctly. That goes for everyone. For those of us who have gone through major surgery at Harlem Hospital, add to that a very strong sense that the odds of your survival are significantly diminished.

I didn’t check the Yelp reviews beforehand. I felt lucky they had a program that would cover the cost of my treatment and birth entirely, and so didn’t ask many questions. A year or so later, however, I did a little google search, and this was the first review I found:

Don’t ever give birth at Harlem Hospital. My friend went in to have a baby and never came out.

A few months ago, I heard another horror story from a firefighter who went to Harlem Hospital for stomach surgery. The doctors left a scalpel in him. A fucking scalpel in. his. stomach. Lesson? Don’t go to Harlem Hospital.

But even if we hadn’t read the scathing reviews, Paris and I were well aware that this team of strangers futzing with my intestines and delivering our baby, had hers and my life in their hands. While waiting for someone to retrieve him in the hall, Paris tried to ready himself for anything. For the potential death of his baby, his wife, or both. It sounds dramatic now. Even at Harlem Hospital, our chances of survival were pretty damn good. But you can’t help what you think about, and Paris wanted to be prepared.

When he did make it into the delivery room/scary, open, fluorescent-lit operating area, he pushed all those thoughts from his mind. The only thing that concerned him in that moment was me.

“I’m right here.” He said, “Look at me.”

My eyes had been roving, searching the ceiling and the face of the anesthesiologist for some sign as to how the surgery was going. But when Paris said that, I found his eyes.

I can remember him in that moment like it was yesterday. His dark brown eyes open, welcoming, and caring. His face soft, and warm, with a big, supportive smile.

“Everything’s okay. You’re okay.”

I held his gaze for dear life as my body was shoved and tugged, strange feelings of pressure on my abdomen and chest. I was still so scared, tears trickling down the side of my face, but his gaze kept me breathing. Kept me present. Kept me safe.

“Baby!” The surgeon called out.

“Baby”, “baby”, “baby”, echoed the nurses, as they handed an infant I had not yet seen from one to the next.

Paris and I locked eyes, holding one another in that fixed stare, as we waited. Waited with bated breath for some sign that our child was okay. It felt like an eternity before we heard that first cry.

“Omigod!” I laughed, tears streaming down my face.

Paris grinned with the most pure, honest excitement you’ve ever seen. But still, even though the child he had waited his whole life to parent the shit out of was here, safe, and healthy, he didn’t take his eyes off me.

They handed her to him, wrapped in a blanket, and he held her, her tiny perfect face right next to my cheek the whole time they stitched me up.

In the days that followed, I was a mess. Big was a small baby. Three weeks early and barely six pounds. She was jaundiced as well, making the task of feeding her as much as I possibly could of paramount importance. But the pain medication I was taking for the c-section was making her sleepy, and I was having trouble keeping her awake long enough for a proper feeding. The only solution I could think of was to go off them, and so I did.

From day 3 on, I didn’t take a single drop of pain medication.

Dearest Nurse, when I tell you the pain was excruciating, know that wasn’t even the half of it. I ended up having a small infection at the site of the incision that sent me wailing to the emergency room, insanely postpartum, and begging for my life. It was a bad scene.

But Paris? He was right there with me. Getting up whenever baby would wake, handing her to me, and helping to prop me up so I could feed her. Taking her from the room each night so I could sleep and heal. I was so incapacitated by pain that Paris even had to help me on and off the toilet for the first couple weeks. I had never been more humiliated, but Paris wasn’t even phased. He had been waiting for this moment to shine, and he did. He really did.

Little’s birth was far less dramatic. We were living in Los Angeles by then, and I had great health insurance. As such, we did what the Hollywood folks do, and got ourselves a scheduled induction at Cedar Sinai in Beverly Hills. In five short years, we had gone from possibly the worst baby-birthing hospital in the country to the best, and the difference was astounding.

Paris and I had a great time in our birthing suite, waiting for our second daughter to arrive. We had snuck in some weed edibles — cleared by my doctor, of course — and so while I labored with an epidural and a steady stream of pitocin, Paris and I got deliciously high. He found a couple hospital barf bags laying around, stuffed his hands into them, and stood at the base of the bed, readying himself to catch a flying baby. I laughed so hard I cried. I loved him so much in that moment.

When it was time to push, once again, Paris couldn’t stop grinning. I couldn’t feel or move my legs because of the epidural, so the nurse held one, and he held the other, bracing my knees back with each push, and cheering me on the whole time. Even after a c-section, I got Little out of me in ten minutes, all in one shot, like an automatic baseball launcher in a batting cage. Paris was so proud of me, so proud of all of us. Our little family had become whole.

I have lots of good memories of Paris, but these are my favorites. These are the times I felt, beyond a shadow of a doubt, this man was on my team. That he loved and supported me, and no matter what happened before or after, this would be our legacy. That when it came to building our family, ushering our beautiful girls into this world, we were right fucking there. No other care in the world but each other and our babies.

These are the memories I will hold on to from now on. The good ones. The ones that bring me joy and immense feelings of gratitude when I look back on them. I know there are lessons in the bad ones, but I’ve learned them, and now it’s time to let them go. Divorce in some ways is like a death. But when a person dies, it’s usually considered bad taste to go on endless diatribes, listing all the terrible shit they did. And aside from the social stigma of such an act, I can see why. Holding on to anger and frustration doesn’t help you heal, and it certainly doesn’t make things any easier. Besides, the marriage is over now. What’s left to be angry about?

“Hey!” Paris chirped this morning as I padded down the stairs to collect the girls from him. He was smiling. For the first time since I told him I was leaving him, he actually looked happy to see me.

“Good morning!” I grinned back. And I can honestly say, I was happy to see him too.

The Saturday morning child exchange was seamless, friendly, and easy. The four of us settling in to our new way of life in the bright, morning sun. The kids were happy, we were happy, and that was that. For the first time since this whole thing began, I felt hope. Real hope that Paris and I will be the parents we always knew we could be. And, perhaps even more importantly, that the partners and teammates we promised we’d be to one another the day we married.

It’s never too late to fulfill a promise.

Sincerely yours,

Juliet

*FOR MORE INFORMATION, OR TO CONTACT JULIET, VISIT JULIETANONYMOUS.COM*