July 29
9:00am to 12:45pm
It seems we are going to be one of those cases everyone in the hospital hears about. All and sundry from doctors, nurses, even the cleaning staff… (I ended up with a spit and polish room), come and stick their head in the door, amazed and disbelieving that I am 42+ weeks pregnant since the size of my belly does not correlate with the time frame.
Meanwhile I have been assigned an angel for a delivery nurse, who had gone through this process only a year early so remembered well what and how a Mom-In-Waiting’s buttons could be pushed, shooing away the spectators to the best of her ability. However, she had also been assigned the Mom (aka The Screaming Pitch the Dish) in the next room who was from a culture that if you yelled loud enough and long enough… as well as threw things during delivery, your baby would be blessed with a long and lusty life… I guess, I am not really up in my Scottish folk lore but according to my doctor (born and bred in Ireland), the Scottish are stoic and long suffering, with a worried look on their face, even when having fun. Dr. D should know… being born in Ireland, just across the North Channel where my ancestors were born and bred.
How do the staff, especially nurses, survive theses deliveries? The Mom-In-Waiting screamed bloody murder for the medical staff to come. Once they reached her door, she picked up puke trays (she must have stock piled them) and heaved them at the staff… they crashed off walls, clattering to the marble floor as she continued to wail about her pain and suffering. Once baby arrived, Mom cried copious tears and apologized but that does not in my estimation excuse the bad manners. Get a grip lady, get a grip! You’re given your fellow Moms-In-Waiting a bad name… like we can’t take pain…I know, I know, it is not your fault that I am born with a DNA that does not participate in and or tolerate such antics. No one wanted to hear your terrorizing laments, especially if they too are facing labour and please, I beg of you, think of our babies hearing your screams, although muffled, still petrifying – on top of that, it seems you have all the puke trays… so what would we throw?
Dr. D. delivers a healthy baby boy to the Screaming Pitch the Dish in the next room. He ducked in to tell me it is the first boy in his last 12 deliveries, and oh, by the way, did I know that I was having a boy? Finally a whisper, a confirmation of your sex.