Oh, what an adventure!
Naturally, it happened in the middle of the night. I got out of bed to go pee, something you do often when you’re nine months pregnant. Halfway down the hall to the bathroom, my water broke. I was told to expect this, but maybe because I was half asleep, I was still shocked. And a tad scared, to be honest.
I called out to her father, Jimmy, who had been asleep. He jumped out of bed, dressed, cleaned up my mess, and helped me change into dry clothes. He steadied me as I hesitantly waddled down the stairs before he zipped out to retrieve the car.
Our car was a cute little Porsche Speedster that Jimmy, an ace auto mechanic, had restored. I nicknamed her Alice (after Alice Paul) because she was feisty. I loved driving Alice. She was fast and low to the ground, enabling her to sail effortlessly with confidence down the curvy countryside roads.
Yes, Alice was a fun car, but a challenge for a woman nine months pregnant. As a tiny human before pregnancy, I weighed ninety-eight pounds soaking wet. At nine months pregnant, this tiny human morphed into a one-hundred-fifty-seven-pound soon-to-be mondo mama!
Everything grows rounder and wider and weirder, and I sit here in the middle of it all and wonder who in the world you will turn out to be.
~Carrie Fisher
As my sweet baby-daughter grew inside, getting in and out of the Porsche became increasingly difficult. I was obliged to think ahead about where to park; it had to be where I could easily roll out of the car without splaying out all over the pavement.
Here’s how it went: I’d pull up to the curb, open the door, place my hands, first the left, then the right, onto the pavement, and push myself up and out of the car.
No easy feat for a big-bellied pregnant woman, I assure you. It took extra finesse to do this gracefully without falling on my face.
My parents met this situation with typical parental fury and, most likely, a bit of fear. My stepdad, a staunch conservative man of many opinions, was not pleased that I married a long-haired hippie. He was sure that Jimmy was putting me, his daughter, and his granddaughter’s life in danger driving that spicy little speedster car.
To keep the peace we reached a kind of compromise. We appeased my opinionated stepdad by agreeing to borrow their Buick Electra Deuce and a Quarter, a big boat of an automobile with plenty of room for me and my ever-growing pregnant belly. It was easy-peasy to drive. With no clutch, no gear shift, power steering, and power brakes, this behemoth almost drove herself. Jimmy and I called her Big Bertha.
So, in the wee hours of that night, when my water broke, Jimmy raced out of the house to bring Big Bertha to the front door. That’s when he noticed she was out of gas!
Oops! I’d forgotten that tiny detail when I ran errands earlier that day. But hey, self-serve gas stations were not my friend, with my big belly getting in the way of pumping gas.
At 2:27 a.m., with no time to gas up and no other option, Jimmy raced back inside and ushered me to the curb, where my backup chariot awaited. Off we drove in my Alice, that sweet, fast, low-riding beauty. Getting into the Porsche was easy; I just let nature take its course.
Jimmy was not one to lose his cool, but this night was an exception. Not knowing how much time til our precious baby-daughter would arrive, and me in the passenger seat, moaning and crying, demanding that he hurry, he lost his cool. How could he not?
He rushed down the mostly empty streets, going the wrong way on the one-ways, rarely slowing for stop signs. Baby-daughter was on her way! I will always be grateful for all the angels that surrounded and guided us that night.
Getting out of Alice, well, that was a real physics problem. I needed a catapult or a forklift. Happily, more angels appeared as we arrived at the emergency room. Sweet attendants gently lifted me out of the low-riding car and whisked me away to a tiny exam room while Daddy was directed elsewhere to sign a pile of official papers.
Doctors and nurses examined me and muttered between themselves, finally declaring, “No, not time. More time is needed for dilation.”
“Please!” I begged. “She’s eager to make her first appearance. Can’t we do this now?”
Nurses and doctors shrugged their shoulders and nodded as if they heard me. In the middle of a contraction, they asked me if I’d like some pain relief. Of course!
Then they injected me—I’m a very anxious mamma by this time—with a powerful sedative. “This will help relax you,” they said with calming, assuring voices.
When the sedative kicked in, I fell into a deep, deep, nightmarish sleep. Then, out of the blue, a fiery, painful contraction jolted me into a wildly screaming reaction.
Awakening to the pain and utterly confused delirium, I sobbed, “Where am I? What’s happening?” Before I could hear anyone reply, I’d drift back into the dark, dreamless unconsciousness.
At some point, I became aware that Jimmy was sitting in the room near me, looking miserable, befuddled, and exhausted, completely unable to ease my discomfort. I glared, I cussed, I begged for this to be over.
And before I knew it, my sweet baby girl made her grand entrance into my world. The weeks, months, and hours of waiting came to a vibrantly ecstatic, divine moment of closure.
I will never forget first touching her. She smelled new and precious, her tiny fingers touching mine as I inhaled her sweet baby breath. I gasped with joy and awe, tears of elation when finally our eyes met—like meeting an old, dear friend once again after centuries.
Suddenly and without words, I knew she, my beautiful baby-daughter, was my everything.
Welcome to the world, baby girl.
You are my Sun, my Moon, and all of my Stars.
E. E. Cummings