What's Happening in There?

The rest of the world falls away while gathered with loved ones in a hospital waiting room. Chairs of chrome and stiff fabric. A table strewn with magazines. A clock with hands set at an impossible crawl. Each person donning the public face crafted for such vigils, a mouth that laughs at jokes and responds to questions as the mind asks incessantly what is happening in there?

Lisa, my nephew’s wife, was in labor. Two generations ago, tradition would have had the husband pacing a bright, sterile-white corridor by himself, but Trevor was in the delivery room with Lisa, working to welcome their baby, little Ava, into this world. So it was up to Lisa’s parents and assorted Sylvestros to pace.

It began well.

When I arrived at the desk in the maternity ward, the pleasant but firm receptionist barred me from joining Trevor’s Mom, Deb, and Lisa’s parents, Paul and Diane, in the labor and delivery area. She directed me to a glassed-in area just beyond the barricade of the ward’s heavy swinging doors. I took a seat in what was apparently a maternity waiting room.

“I’m a bit out of place here,” I said, my gaze sweeping a line-up of ponderous bellies. One soon-to-be-mom said, “Careful! Could be contagious!” sparking a laugh as the group took in my gray hair and middle-aged body. Another woman beamed as she caressed her belly and spoke eagerly of birth. Several others, phones in hand, sat still but for tapping thumbs, texting. A round-faced girl, quite young, confessed her fear.

Beyond the glass enclosure, I saw Deb and Diane stride down the corridor. I grabbed my bag and trotted off to catch up with them. “Lisa’s pushing!” said Diane, her smile bright. “Her mouth is dry so we’re going to get her some ice chips.”

They fulfilled their mission and headed back to Lisa, Trevor and Ava-in-transit, leaving me on my side of those swinging doors. I had barely returned to my seat when they reappeared laden with blankets, pillows, tote bags and a computer, as well as Paul, Lisa’s father, in tow.

Why so soon?

As we walked down the hall to a waiting room unoccupied by expectant mothers, Paul and Diane said nothing. Their eyes were red-rimmed and concerned. “She needs a caesarean,” Deb said. “The baby’s heart rate was dipping with each push. The doctor said they could let it go on for another hour, but Lisa would be exhausted and might not make any headway.”

“She was sobbing with disappointment and pain,” Diane said quietly as she tucked Trevor’s computer under a chair. “It’s hard to see her like that.” Paul shook his head and remained silent, his lips tight.

Unlike many expectant mothers today, Lisa had not wanted even an epidural. She thought a natural birth was best for the baby so she and Trevor had signed up for Lamaze classes. But they were disappointed. “They didn’t teach us anything practical. It was all about history and mechanics. And the video they showed? I did not need to see that,” Trevor had said with a grimace.

When I had my kids in the early eighties, Lamaze classes to train mothers for natural childbirth were routine. My husband Dave and I practiced the strategic breathing techniques while watching TV, driving and walking in the woods. My ability to adjust the type and level of breathing became automatic. I felt fearless and prepared when my contractions began – I knew what to expect. I had tools to deal with pain.

Lisa did not have that benefit, but breathing techniques would not have changed this situation: the baby’s posterior presentation called for caesarean section.

While Trevor donned scrubs and Lisa was prepped for surgery, those of us waiting talked, our wiggling feet and chatter the outer manifestation of inner pacing. But minutes passed to a half hour, then an hour, and even I knew a caesarean should be quick. What was wrong?

Diane and Deb are knowledgeable nurse practitioners, so each at one point went to the desk to seek news. They were told, “She’s not out yet.” Well, obviously.

Trevor’s father, Steve, arrived, his white hair wild from a windy ride over in his convertible. His smile slipped at hearing of the caesarean and the length of time, but quickly he slapped on his public face and told a tale of an encounter in downtown Bridgeport on his way over. While stopped at a traffic light near the hospital on Boston Ave., he saw a group of high school boys hanging out with a cute puppy. So he smiled. Presumptuous, apparently, for one of the youths snapped, “What the F*@% you smilin’ at?!”

Tension bred hilarity and we dissolved, loopy with laughter. The punch line warranted repetition. Better that than voicing the reel playing in each head, Why so long? What is happening? What is wrong?

Weary from a traffic-heavy commute, my husband, Dave, finally pulled in. Again, the brief collapse in expression before his public face slipped back into place as he learned of the caesarean and delay. We insisted Steve tell him of the dog and the boys. “What the F*@% you smilin’ at?” And we roared with laughter.

Then, from my seat against the windowed wall, I saw Trevor in the hallway. Pale, unsmiling, eyes dull.

Oh my god.

He trudged into the room with its clock and chrome chairs and pile of public faces discarded on the floor. Questions flew: “How’s Lisa? Is the baby all right? What happened?”

Trev ran a hand through his matted hair.

“Tell us. What’s going on?” Diane begged.

“Well, they took the baby upstairs for oxygen,” said Trevor.

“Oxygen? Why? What’s wrong?”

“Didn’t anybody tell you?”

We were frantic. Paul, Lisa’s father, while usually soft-spoken, cut through the cacophony, his voice clear, insistent. If this were the movies and Paul were a different man, he might have grabbed Trevor by the shoulders and shaken him. “Trevor. Trevor. Is Lisa okay?”

Poor Trevor had not slept in two nights and Lisa’s pain had been his, as close as was possible. And he’d seen too much of his wife’s blood beyond the thin veil of the sheet. He’d no idea we knew nothing. For, now, he knew too much. He said, “Well, yeah. She’s tired and sore. They’re stitching her up and won’t let me in. My god, she was a warrior. And the baby needed oxygen. But they’re all right.”

Now, a week later, Ava is dressed in pink. She has a head of black hair and soft kissable cheeks. She is healthy and beautiful and it is a joy to watch her sleep, feet crossed at the ankles, her hands - tiny hands – curled at her chin.

And we all have something to smile at.

Spring...and a Baby

A wrought-iron mother wren with her baby at her feet perches on graceful vines encircling a fluted glass vessel. The little vase struck a chord with my Mom and she gave it to me when Tucker was born. Mom loves lilies of the valley, and it was early May, so she filled the vase with a few sprigs from her garden before coming to help out with my new baby.

It was springtime, and the earth prepared for Tucker’s arrival. In the fuzzy greening of trees, the sunshine glow of forsythia, and the pink clouds of magnolia emerging from gray wood seemingly dead only last week, God was saying - as surely as if He had hugged me - “Be happy.” And I was.

Lavender lilacs and lilies of the valley lent their fragrance to the warm, gentle breeze. Tiny sparrows that passed March in mute pecking swung proudly on twigs and composed melodies. Brown-headed cowbirds chortled bubbling liquid songs and the mourning doves cooed like a mother’s soft soothing. Warblers called from the treetops with trills, chirps and cheeps. Brother Wind, the woods’ winter alto voice, harmonized with the soprano songbird chorus. Mates were sought. Nests were readied. My baby was on the way too.

I’d been a poster child for pregnancy, and perhaps, a vexation to my fellow students in Lamaze class. Where Tucker curled tight in the womb, front and center, other mothers waddled, cumbersome, expanding on all sides. I felt great, gained little weight, and couldn’t wait for birth-day to come.

Labor, for me, was a glorious crusade – a good one, without prisoners or weapons. There was blood and pain, but the prize was a baby, and I was well trained for the fight. With the current preference for epidurals, Lamaze has lost favor, but in the early eighties, it was the way to go. It was an invaluable education, and when my contractions began, the pain held no fear. I knew the significance of the sensations at each stage and was ready with a corresponding strategy. As the contractions grew stronger, I pictured my little one, struggling along with me. Soon we would meet, face to face.

I had not been aware that I had expectations as far as the sex of the child. Yet, as a girl from a family of girls, I must have felt that this little traveler, so familiar – yet not – would be female. When Doctor Hoffman, the welcoming committee, caught the baby and announced, “It’s a boy and he’s perfect,” I was surprised. I was also surprised that this son of a WASP mother was so definitively Italian. I didn’t recognize him as my under-the-heart-in-my-heart companion right away.

He resembled my husband, Dave, so thoroughly. Thick black hair was slicked back from his face. His battle down the birth canal showed in puffy cheeks and pouches under his eyes, like Dave after a long commute. And like Dave, his aunt Cam, his father, Colombo and grandfather, Michael, the baby’s nose was pure Sylvestro, rounded and substantial.

The name “Tucker” is not as unique in this new millennium, but in 1980, it was precious and new. It was round on my tongue, soft as a baby’s kissable cheeks, and the "r” at the end was a cozy burr. There was pride and love in the very utterance of the name, bound as it was to this little boy.

But, oh the fatigue following the eighteen-hour delivery! I had eaten only tea and toast since the contractions began, and after all that hard work – triumphant work – I was beat. So after snuggles with Tucker, and stitches for me, the nurses spirited him away and I fell asleep.

At 4:00 A.M, I awoke in the dark, achingly lonely for my other part, the other heart that had beaten under mine for nine months. The yearning I felt for him was a new kind of pain, and I was keenly aware of the void in my body where once he had been.

Now, he is twenty-seven and living in Boston. For Mother’s Day, he took me out to a chocolate buffet brunch. He knows me well; it was an excellent choice.

Tucker no longer looks like Dave; he looks just like me and my father. Do I sound smug? He has Dave’s brains and sense of humor, and has started his own business. He has a wonderful girlfriend named Heather. But he is farther away than I would like him to be, and when spring comes around with its fuzzy leaves and lilac scents, it feels like I’m awaiting his birth.

When the lilies of the valley push up through the soil, I go down on my hands and knees and bury my nose in the clusters of white bells. God is proclaiming, “Be happy,” and I am….. but I wish I could hold my little bundle again.