BIRTH DAY

by Rosie Hart

I can feel the squeaking wheels beneath me. I can feel them in my back as I’m rolled down the hallway. The white lights overhead fly by like the lines on the road do. I’m trying to pretend that I’m in my car right now, driving with the window rolled down and the breeze in my face. Maybe Dazed and Confused by Led Zeppelin is playing from my Spotify. But I’m not, instead I’m here.

 The lights above me are too bright, and the white walls are reflecting so much of it. Why can’t they paint more welcoming colours like pinks and blues, why does everything have to be so white.

I’ve been awake for over 24 hours now and I just want to sleep. I can’t sleep through this pain, I’ve been trying. Maybe a few minutes here and there over the last 10 hours, it hasn’t been enough. Even though I have a line in my back, I can feel everything on my left side still. I could probably deal with the agony much better if it weren’t for the wicked Charlie horse I’m getting in my lower back. A 14-hour Charlie horse, imagine that.

I can’t stop weeping and I don’t know why. This is what I initially wanted, and I let everyone around me talk me out of it. If only I had listened to my gut, then we wouldn’t be here right now in this situation. At least if this was scheduled I wouldn’t have had to find out that I am a failure of a person. It feels like I’m failing a test, a life test. I’m always failing those.

“You don’t want that. It’s major surgery. You want to go the natural way.”

My doctor’s words echo in my mind from months ago. I didn’t want to go the natural route, I wanted the surgery. Today, right now, was not by choice though, not like this. The one thing I am supposed to be good at as a woman, and I failed. I hate myself and I despise my body. Why can’t I do anything right?

I need to pull myself together. It’s already been two hours since the surgery was announced. That’s plenty of time to have myself collected by now. I can’t have my baby coming, into this world with a mother sobbing on the table. He’s going to need me. He needs me now and the only thing I can think of is my ego. Imagine being a little baby boy and needing his mother, only to have her indulging in self pity and obsessing over her broken body.

I was going to fight with the doctor and plead with him to let me go for another few hours. Women always go past the 24-hour mark so why can’t I? But what do I know, I’m just a labouring mother. I can always deal with my failures in a few days time. These feelings need to be wrapped up into a box and stuffed in the corner, for now.

Does every woman have thoughts like these when in this situation or am I the only one? I’ve never described myself as a selfish person before and I don’t need anyone telling me otherwise, because I know the right answer is that I’m not. I can’t help but feel this way.

As we roll closer to my final destination, my heart begins to beat out of my chest. My shallow, quick breathing is rolling into hyperventilation. I’m shaking, I’m so scared.

I am ready for all of this to be over, I’ve been bed ridden for the last 2 months with extreme pain in my pelvis that radiates into my knees. The right one would buckle from under me with every few steps that I took because of the nerve pain. I haven’t been sleeping during this time either because I can’t get comfortable, and I struggle to turn over due to the groin pain.  

The squeaking bed halts in front of two tall swinging doors. This is it, here we are. It’ll all be over soon.

“They are ready for her.”

A nurse dressed all in teal swings the doors open and motions for us into the OR. I can see only her eyes and I don’t like that. I need to see her face, her expressions. Are her lips pursed? Is she worried for me? Is she mad at me? Did I ruin their lunch break?

“Ok honey are you ready?” The nurse from behind me is upside down. Her eyes don’t show worry. She’s not mad at me.

I wish I had another minute, so that I can mentally prepare myself for the next phase. The doctor earlier didn’t give me a minute to process the surgery before he had me sign the consent forms. I needed one hour to get myself straight. To cry it out, grieve, to shut my mind down from making up all these lies about my failures. Before I can respond I am wheeled in through the swinging doors.

This is where I die.

More white. White walls, white floors, white ceiling. Why the fuck is everything so white? The table is all set up for me in the middle of the room. My son’s basket and heat lamp are in the corner, it’s too far away from my table. I want to hold him. Why are they trying to keep me from him already? I tend to get possessive over the one’s I love, and this baby is mine. I don’t want anyone touching him but me.

The back side of the room is wall to wall, ceiling to floor cabinets. The only label I can make out from over here is HYSTERECTOMY.

Fuck.

This is where I die.

“Hey uh, I have a mole on my belly that I’m quite fond of. Can you try not to remove it when you cut me open,” Good. Keep making light. Stay focused. You want this.

“Haha we don’t cut up that high,” the OR nurse doesn’t seem mad.

“Ok, well good luck guys. You got this,” the Dr and the nurses all ponder that statement. I don’t think anyone has told them good luck before. But really, I wish them all the luck.

Breathe. Deeply. Breathe. I need to quit hyperventilating because if I don’t, once they cut me open, the blood will be pumping so fast, it’ll shoot out of my body, and I’ll be waking up in front of Heavens doors. That makes sense right? Anatomy 101? Breathe and stop crying.

“Oh uh, I’m sorry, I can’t get up and move myself onto the operating table. My legs aren’t working. Do you guys mind helping me out?”

“Haha you’re funny. Of course we will, don’t worry about a thing and just relax.”

I’m trying.

“Hi, I’m the anesthesiologist and I’m going to be right here beside you the whole time, ok? So, you already have your epidural in. We are going to run the ice test to see if you can feel anything. Can you feel this?”

“No.”

“Good, can you feel this?”

“No.”

“Good, and how about this.”

“No.”

“Good. Just a few more drugs and then we are ready.”

“Can I watch please? I want to see it,” watching always calms my nerves, I wanted to be a doctor. At least I’d have something else to focus on rather than my own thoughts that are trying to trick me.

“No, we can’t allow that, we are going to hang a drape right here in front of your face. But some women say they can see the surgery through those lights above your head.”

“Ok,” breathe.

“I’m going to be right here with you,” says the anesthesiologist as he grips my hand. Sir, please don’t let go of me.

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Stop sobbing. There. Good. Just breathe.

“Alright so we are going to begin cutting now.”

The OB doesn’t seem worried. He sounds like he’s done this before. I hope he’s done this before. His bedside manners could use some work but that’s how you know you have a good doctor, I guess.

I can’t tell if they’ve started or not, I can only hear the clinks the instruments make against the metal table. I wish I could see what was going on because then I would know where we are at. I hate not knowing things. How many layers have they cut through already? How much time has it been? Are we there yet? I am totally and completely blind in this surgery right now.

Everything around me is becoming blurry and the tunnel vision is starting. At least if I pass out from fear I’m doing so on an operating table. The drips in my hand hurt with every tremble of my body. My stomach is so hard I think I might throw up again. This isn’t fair.   

A painless pressure the size of a small bowling ball slowly builds up inside of my belly and begins to roll around, yet contained within my very swollen abdomen. I hope the angry nurses whose lunches I ruined, aren’t washing their dishes inside of me, because that is exactly what it feels like. Maybe they are hands actually, I can’t tell because no one will let me watch. This bowling ball is alive, I know it is, it’s trying to escape out of me. It keeps pulling my belly up and I’m afraid it’s going to pull me off the table.

“Ah well would you look at that. He’s all wrapped up in his cord. See here nurse, look he’s wrapped here, around his neck and his shoulders.”

Maybe I’m not a failure after all. Maybe he didn’t have enough cord to come out. I think I can better accept that than my body not letting my baby engage. Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t fight the doctor on his medical decision. Oh my god, did I almost put my boy’s life in danger? Let’s say I did convince the doctor to let me keep labouring, and my boy didn’t make it, I would have been responsible for not being able to bring him home. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a mother anymore.

I suddenly feel so exposed on this table, why must I be naked it’s making things so much worse? I hate feeling the cold on my skin. It’s only on the surface, and it’s sinking into my bones. How much longer is this going to take? I don’t like being cold.

“How are you doing?” The anesthesiologist is still right beside me.

“I’m cold. I’m so cold.”

I am. I can’t stop shivering now. What if they can’t pull him out because I’m shaking so much? What if I’m interfering with their work? Oh my god I can not stop shaking, almost violently. The tears start trickling out of my eyes, this must be it for me.

“I’m so cold.”

I can hear footsteps behind me walking away, leaving the OR. Maybe they are leaving to grab the crash cart. I don’t know what my vitals are. I need to focus on breathing calmly. I’m ready for a nap though, I’ve been up for too long. Maybe if I close my eyes for just a second and imagine a warm blanket smothered over me, I’ll wake up when all of this is over.

And just as that thought entered my mind, a warmth did wrap itself around my body. It’s the nurses, piling hot blankets on top of my bare arms and shoulders. I can feel the warmth but it’s not working. Almost as if I’m sitting in an ice bath with a roof of hot towels overhead. The heat is there, it’s just not reaching me. I don’t know how long it’s been. I know that I’m growing colder, and there are more blankets being thrown on top of me. I’m tired and I can’t do this anymore, I can’t go any longer, help —

Whaa Whaa Whaa.

There he is. He’s here. It’s over.

BIO

Rosie Hart has been writing short stories and poetry since she was 8 years old. She studied psychology and biology in university but her love for writing has never dwindled. This is Rosie’s first publication, and she is excited to see where her writing journey takes her. Today she enjoys spending time with her spouse, son, and pug Miss Moo in the great outdoors.