Labor Intensive

Whenever I went home to my parent's house for a visit, the first thing I did was rush to my mother's bedside table and leaf through her red leather diary to catch up on all pertinent events. During summer months, it was not unusual to find TAD - "Typical Adirondack Day" - scrawled at the top of the page, followed by tennis match scores with accompanying commentary: "If only Marjorie had come to net when I told her, we would have won that damn second set!" There were endless bridge games, luncheons, cocktail parties and dinner parties, the details of which I skimmed with disinterest. I was looking explicitly for references to ME.

As a teenager, I might find something like this: Just as we're ready to leave for dinner, Amy announced she had to take another shower! I don't think she does anything else but shower. And why does she have to leave it to the last possible second? Or, Amy looked like the wrath of God in some horrible old blue jeans that looked like they'd been dragged behind the car. Why does she insist on covering most of her face with that long hair? 

 If I had been particularly awful, the entry would mention my name only. Then there would be lines of short hand squiggles interspersed with exclamation points and angry black cartoon eyebrows. This was way before emoticons.

When I was home recently to celebrate my daughter's first baby shower, I found myself meandering through the house and ending up in my mother's room, peeking into my mother's diary from the year 1979 - the year my daughter was born.

Thursday February 1, 1979

Beautiful but cold - 20's

  At 9:50 Amy calls - in labor!! Since 5a.m. - now contractions are every 7 minutes - says not going to Albany (phew!) Debates if she should transfer to Glen Cove Hospital to a Dr. Willis that she's just heard of Tuesday night at Lamaze course from nurse giving the course who's head O.B. nurse at Glen Cove. I point out that if she was upset at the idea of having a doctor at North Shore Hospital from the group she'd only met once, she's never even seen Willis! Calls back - going to N. Shore after takes shower - Again, whew!

It's true. It had been our plan to drive to Albany, New York, from Long Island the minute I went into labor. Three hours away. In February. With the distinct possibility of snow, if not a blizzard. The reason being that the doctor in Albany was the not-quite uncle of my husband's first wife and had delivered their child, my step-daughter. 

Huh?

At some point it must have occurred to me to have back up. I found a doctor at North Shore Hospital on Long Island, an adorable Italian named Paulo Mozzarella - well, not Mozzarella, but, that is what I called him. He was funny and caring and during my first exam, he stroked my belly and gazed lovingly into my eyes.

Later on, say a week before my due date, I decided that an additional doctor at a third hospital would be best of all.

After I reminded my friend Jane about this yesterday, she said, "When you told me you had three doctors, I began to wonder if I needed more than one doctor too. I didn't know you that well yet, so I thought you knew what you were doing. I went to Allan and asked him."

"What did he say?" I giggled.

"He said, "No, Jane, one doctor is enough."

What my mother's diary entry doesn't include are the details of my birthing experience. North Shore University Hospital is a teaching hospital, and no sooner was I strapped onto the gurney and hooked up to a fetal monitor, then the door flew open and in coursed a stream of medical students who asked if I didn't mind if they "had a look." These were the days before warm baths and walking around and cups of tea and swanky leather birthing chairs. They strapped you down, hooked you up, and admitted scores of onlookers in white coats.

Nor did my mother's diary entry include the presence of a strange man in a rumpled overcoat who appeared in my labor room carrying a box of donuts. I was wrestling with a nurse who was trying, inanely, to make me breathe into a brown paper bag. 

"Marcia?" he asked. He trailed crumbs.

I reared up like a 3-headed Hydra and snarled like Regan in The Exorcist, "There's no Marcia here!"

"Down the hall on the right, sir," the nurse said hurriedly.

"That's it!" I growled. "I'm done here. I'm going home." I started to swing my legs over the side of the bed. The baby's father, Michael, grabbed my hands and bravely said, "I think it's almost over."

"Fuck you!" I told him sweetly.

But, he was right. They wheeled me into the delivery room, the adorable Dr. Mozzarella appeared, crowing, "Lovely Signorina, you going to have a bee-yoo-tiful bambino!" And there she was: my daughter. Bambina.

My mother's final diary entry for that day reads: Finally, as I pick up phone to dial N. Shore U. Hospital, it's Michael on the other end - it's a girl! Weighs 8 lbs., 6oz...born at 5:49 p.m. Rush over to see the baby after dinner - very bright & alert, alternately yelling & yawning, pursing lips - pink cheeks, darling.

Spot on, Mom.