Birth-Day

The day Eli was born, January 7, 2007 was relatively warm. David and I walked the 15 blocks to Beth Israel after I decided that pain was coming often enough for me to legitimately seek medical attention. I knew that I really shouldn't be giving birth yet. We were supposed to visit the hospital that day to familiarize ourselves with the location and prepare for the big event. My due date was about ten days later. My obstetrician was away on his yearly vacation to Israel and his replacement didn't sound so enthusiastic when I called her at midnight. On the way over, I had to stop every three blocks or so and squat for a moment to let the pain wash over me, but it wasn't hurting that much. I was sure they would send us home. But when we got there, a nurse checked me and cheerfully said: "We are having a baby today! You are 4 centimeters dilated!" She also told me I must have a really high tolerance for pain because most women were screaming by this point. That's when I asked for an epidural.

Nine years on, my memories of the day are pleasant, if a little hazy. I eventually got my epidural, my doula (a crazy cat lady we hired to make us - mostly David - feel at ease) gave me a $1,000-dollar, 4-hour foot massage while I was watching my contractions on the monitor: up the hill, down the hill, up the hill, down the hill, without feeling much at all. It was mesmerizing. The doctor covering for mine, an attractive woman in her thirties was professionally kind and seemed pleased with me because I was an easy patient. She only came in once to check on me and the second time she told me I was ready to push my baby out. I really wanted to impress her and just do well, not be a nuisance, so I tried my best to "push into the pain,"as I was instructed to. (They turn the epidural off for that part, which makes sense.) Mostly,  I focused with all my strength and energy on my sister's wise words: inhale like you are trying to get really really stoned, hold it in, and then push like you are about to take the biggest shit of your life. This worked well. Eli was out in 15 minutes, after three pushes. I highly recommend the strategy.

Tonight at yoga, during the meditation portion, I visualized all of Eli's phases from the moment he was born. It's hard to really remember and feel what your kid was like over the years because they are so fully present in your life every minute. But to my lovely, male yoga teacher's amazing singing voice, I retrieved some pictures and memories including the moment I first saw his little face after pushing him out. They put him on my arm and I stared at him and his surprisingly smooth face and lively blue eyes. I must have been in sort of a trans because all I could see was my dead mother's face in his face. She was there, staring at me through his eyes, her presence felt very real. I could barely breathe; it was almost eerie. I am sure it had to do with the intense emotions, the pain, this new life, the drugs, the hospital lights. It didn't make me believe in the after-world, but it made me ache for it.