The Bad Mom

Next thing I know I’m being admitted where I was induced due to my high blood pressure and risk of preclampsia. I called mom, who rushed to my side.

My pain plan was to wait and see if I really needed an epidural thinking I should be able to breathe my way through the pain. I’ve always prided myself on my high threshold for pain as you can see by my various tattoos.

Mom took me to get my first tattoo when I was sixteen years old. At first she said, “Over my dead body!” I threatened that I was going to do it anyway so she could either take me or I’d go alone. She said she wanted to get one herself and that we could do it together. I picked out a clover and mom picked out a dolphin that we were having injected into our ankles. Mom chickened out so I got hers tattooed on my other ankle where again she was by my side holding my hand.

Eight hours later I was demanding an epidural. Mom got in my face and asked, “Do you want some Chap Stick?”

“Why the Fuck would I want Chap Stick! GET OUT! GET OUT! There’s no point in you watching me roll around in pain with your silly Chap Stick. GET OUT!”

Mom left to see about that epidural. She came back with the anesthesiologist, “I can tell how much pain a woman is in by the number of pillows she’s clinging to.” He chuckled.

“Don’t try to be funny, you’re wasting time!” I snapped at him.

He asked mom not to watch as he threaded the tube down my spine. The idea of this kinda freaked me out but it was totally worth it. I was in pure ecstasy and any woman is crazy not to get it.

I closed my eyes feeling completely relaxed as the heart rate monitor had a steady beeping noise. A few hours later I heard the beep go flat line. “beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.”

Two nurses, two residents and a med student all ran into my room in a panic unplugging the monitors and yelling at one another to push the bed down the hall to emergency. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“Your baby is in danger, you need an emergency C-section,” as the nurse held a clipboard for me to sign. I was numb all over, so she placed the pen in my hand and moved the clipboard for a scribble of consent.

My body went into shock and my mouth wouldn’t stop shivering, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I could hear the anesthesiologist shout my name shaking my arm. I could hear what was going on I just couldn’t keep my eyes open. I heard the panic in their voices, “he’s not breathing,” one said as I heard them slapping him without a cry. I began preparing myself for the worst, he wasn’t going to make it, I thought. I just kept saying to myself that it’s going to be ok and this is just what was destined to happen. I was happy to have the experience that I’ve had with him growing in me for nine months and if that is all I get it was still worth it.

“Is the mother on narcotics?” the doctor resuscitating him asked.

“Prozac,” the anesthesiologist replied.

My physiatrist warned me that the risk of taking Prozac during pregnancy could result in difficulty breathing at birth as well as low birth weight. I chose to take that risk, to keep myself emotionally stable. When I found out I was pregnant the suicidal tendencies came back to haunt me. I stopped wearing my bike helmet and hoped something would kill me. Mom argued with me about taking the medication while pregnant, but I convinced her that it would be more risky taking me off rather than keeping me on.

One of the doctors handed my mom a six pound two ounce bundle and said, “He’s fine now, he’s just not crying.” Mom held him and cried, I guess somebody had to.

The look on mom’s face reminded me of the night my fourteen-year-old sister went into labor. Scarlett and I got high in the parking lot then passed out in waiting room. We were woken by a security guard nudging us with his nightstick, “This isn’t a Motel 6,” he said as he shined his flashlight in our face. “Our sister is having a baby,” I said surprised I remembered where I was. “Oh, Yeah? What’s the name?” he asked suspiciously.

“O’Brien.”

“Oh, the fourteen-year-old? That makes sense.” He says with looks of judgement in his eyes, “congratulations, it’s a girl.”

Scarlett and I looked at each other than ran down the hall to Beth’s room. There she was. The most precious baby girl surrounded by my parents and grandparents. We all cried and hugged one another. This baby would have no idea that she helped save my family. This little girl became the glue that held us together. She was the reason Scarlett didn’t kill herself that night. She reminded us that we were a family through the good times and bad we loved each other unconditionally.

The hot doctor poked her head over the paper divider, covered in my blood and freshly applied make-up to congratulate me.

Mom turned the baby so I could see his face. I wasn’t sure what to expect maybe bushy black hair and brown skin. Mom pulled down the blanket unveiling the most beautiful angel I’d ever seen. My only thought was, “Oh Shit… HE’S WHITE!”

from my book   Scars of Paris  available  at Borders or Barnes & Nobles