June 9, 2022
Waking to a Nightmare
Ever since a stick told us that my wife was pregnant, we had been living the days of anticipation. Every change of the baby bump, every sneak peek of our daughter’s delicate heartbeat, every unfathomable purchase, and every sacrificial change of our place set our hearts alight and our eyes peering further into the future. One day, a child would grace us with her presence. One day, we would find our features on her face and embrace her as our own. One day, this family would venture into the unknown, where three would forge a future none could yet surmise.
I know, I skipped a step. Intentionally and unintentionally, labor was sitting on the back burner of my mind. Of course, I read plenty about it and prepared for it. It just wasn’t the primary focus of this grand journey, until it eventually forced its way in and took the spotlight from everything else. Nevertheless, we braved it with prudence, optimism, and faith when it first came. That was two days and two nights ago. As the clock struck midnight again, all that was good and wonderful in our minds had been ground down to ashes. Worse yet, it still wasn’t over.
Groundhog Day Gone Wrong
June 9th came with another wave of intense contractions. Should we head to the hospital again? Should we stay and wait even longer? Was this painful enough? When would it become unsafe? Questions and doubts were not exactly the most helpful things when two people were dealing with labor, yet questions were all we had left. We called the midwife with those questions and were told we could meet up at the hospital again. We all knew what that meant.
With our will completely decimated, we sheerly operated on autopilot as we navigated this limbo of a labor, completely disoriented. The drive was the same. The parking lot was the same. The automatic doors, the bulletin window, the cardboard cutout of an accomplished physician, and the sign that reminded people to respect patient confidentiality, were all, the, same. I swallowed my disgust at these scenes and pitied them at the same time for being on the receiving end of my quiet anger.
My wife laid down on the examination bed. We knew exactly where the laughing gas was and what to do next. I held her hand and stroked her hair as she braced herself bravely to face this recurring nightmare again. We didn’t know what to expect. We dared not expect. If it was up to me, I would rather the midwife stay home, so we could at least have a chance to stay. I know, it made no sense. Just please, somebody help her.
Broken Record
“1 cm.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. What is this, a broken record?” That almost came out of my mouth, if not for my reason that smothered it because it was stupid. This whole situation was stupid. I probably was stupid because I couldn’t help my wife, who, I could be wrong but I thought was about to cry. Why shouldn’t she cry? She was taking the brunt of this agonizing misadventure, where of course nobody was at fault, but somehow she had to suffer.
“There’s got to be something else we can do,” or something of that sort I asked, grasping straws to be useful. No, just take the drug, go home, and wait, but said in a nicer way. Credit where credit was due, they were at least empathetic.
It Happens
Oh wait, there was something. They finally acknowledged the absurdity of our situation and agreed that we had passed some kind of threshold to receive additional help. They would try to schedule an induction (speed-up) for us but wouldn’t get a confirmation until the hospital staff came in at 7:30 AM. Until then, we had to wait for the phone confirmation at home.
We got ourselves ready to leave this place that was getting a bit too familiar. Excuse me for the sarcasm but do we get a stamp? The nurse waited for us to pack up before she could clean the bed, awkwardly and with sympathy written across her face. “It happens,” she assured us, along with some kind words of solace, but I couldn’t remember because as nice as she was, they just weren’t helping.
On our way out, I deliberately kept my eyes down, away from the bulletin window, the cardboard cutout of the accomplished physician, and the sign that reminded people to respect patient confidentiality, because I knew what they would say. “I’ll see you again,” or more cynically, “Better luck next time.”
Suffering for Suffering’s Sake
Home again. My mother-in-law who had been living with us couldn’t believe it. You and me both, mom. I explained the situation to her, along with the slight ray of hope that we might get an induction, fingers crossed. My wife went to bed immediately as I tried to pacify her worrying mother because God knew we had enough on our hands already.
When I joined my wife in our room, I found her already reeling in pain. Sleep eluded her again. We knew the drill all too well and repeated it with diligence, persistence, and apathy. One contraction at a time, that was all we could afford to focus on. With every passing one, she grew weaker as life seeped out of her. Ironically, the more contractions she had, the further removed they seemed from the actual birth of our daughter. Suffering for suffering’s sake, they felt like.
As I tried desperately and somewhat futilely to ease her suffering, my heart was wrung with each subsequent groan, until it finally bled when I caught her whimpering with her face buried in my chest. The woman I loved and vowed to protect was so innocently afflicted with no end in sight, tossed from place to place while her hope was repeatedly snatched away. I could only hold her, a lively, optimistic, and angelic woman now reduced to a writhing frame, and weep along silently.
Sorry, Not for You
Just one call would deliver us from this infinite grind, and we both eagerly awaited its coming at 7:30 AM. 7:30 AM came, and nothing. 8:00 AM, nothing. Despair began to sink in again. I couldn’t help but feel as if we had slipped through the crack of the system. Refusing to believe so, I called the midwife again, but I was barely coherent when the line connected. I tried to hold back my frustration and communicated the facts, about the promised induction, the silence from the hospital, and the utter confusion about what to do next.
“You can come to the hospital,” she said. “But we really don’t want to be turned back again,” I couldn’t stop myself from airing that nonsense. What could she do? She couldn’t promise anything. She couldn’t control who got admitted. It was out of her hands, out of the nurses’ hands, out of the entire country’s hand. As a result, my wife had to suffer for days on end, and clearly, “It happens.”
The Opposite of Progress
What choice did we have but to get in our car for the fourth time, do the whole nine yards for the fourth time, and only to hear the ominous result for the fourth time? What was the result, you ask?
“2 cm.”
That’s right, 2. By that time, we were too exhausted to react. We didn’t know whether to be happy about not being stuck at 1 or crushed because we still couldn’t be admitted. All we knew was that we were too sick, tired, and probably resentful to be bounced around like an abominable ping-pong game between the hospital and home for one more time. I begged the midwife for mercy, to not turn us back again. That’s when a sliver of reprieve finally came in the form of a suggestion, that we could walk around the hospital for a while and illicit gravity’s help to move things along. We just couldn’t stay in the exam room.
Beggars, Choosers, and Pilgrims
You know what they say about beggars and choosers. We took the only deal on the table and walked, walked, and walked. Every few steps, my wife had to stop as her whole body shrunk and contorted in pain. Like that, we inched about the hospital, its hallways, facilities, and cafeteria where we hoped to grab some food before the more serious stage began. Sadly, the pain was all too severe for any appetite to come up or much food to go down.
Still, we didn’t want to check back with the midwife too soon. Otherwise, we might risk repeating the dreaded ordeal. Directionless but not aimless, we kept walking. Amidst the bustling energy of the hospital, we, roaming around at tortoise speed, seemed extremely out of place, but we could hardly care how we looked as long as we didn’t get in anyone’s way.
With resolve and perseverance, my wife embraced this only activity known to give her a fighting chance, however wearisome and painful it might be. Though clueless about what would come next or when this march would end, we fixed our eyes on the next square foot in front of us and kept going as the rest of the world zoomed by. Devoid of all emotions and distractions, consumed of all will and desire, we pilgrimaged toward the flickering hope that would not die, but it wouldn’t be for another hour before we decided to face our verdict yet again.
To be continued…
~ Du