My story begins early on the morning of St. Patrick’s Day. There would be no screaming or gnashing of teeth, however there was a considerable puddle of water collecting on the floor. My water had broken which should by itself not been a surprise however it is vital to know that I was two and a half weeks late; he was to be a February baby. I had almost given up on ever giving birth because every day seemed unending, during the night, I would dream of throwing myself under a moving truck so that I could “get… this… baby… out of me”- I was out of my mind with the length of this gestation.
My husband and I were in a pub several weeks before and a waitress remarked, “wouldn’t it be funny if your baby was born on St. Patrick’s Day.” I replied with a glaring look and a very curt “bite your tongue.”
Despite the delay, today my baby would finally be joining the humble masses of humanity. We had gathered everything we needed and headed to the hospital. Our house was only a quick seven-minute drive into town. I was able to use this time to relax and take in the quiet rural scenes, before entering the cold sterile environment of the delivery room.
Upon arrival, we were greeted at the front door with a wheelchair to take me to the delivery floor, a nurse asked, and “how are your contractions”? I began to panic because my contractions hadn’t started yet. Thoughts were racing through my mind; I knew mentally that under no circumstances could I be sent home without delivering my baby today. That was not an option I could live with, I know I sound dramatic but I was tired of having shooting pains down my legs, sleeping in the recliner because I couldn’t breathe lying flat and having my toes so swollen that they resembled little cocktail hot dogs- this baby was coming out TODAY!
I must mention here that it was a time before sonograms, so I didn’t know the sex of my baby or have cute little pictures of the baby and I was very worried about the health of my baby.
Luckily, by the time I made it to my room the contraction had started. That was around 8:30am, the rest of the morning was quiet. I was nauseated and had mild contractions. Gary never left my bedside. There was a TV but the sound was broken and I was in no mood for conversation, he sat at my side quietly waiting hour after hour. Occasionally I would get up and try to walk around in the hall to get the baby in the mood to be delivered.
Then Dr. Georgie came in around noon for a check-up. He said that I had several more hours of waiting, I could also hear a woman down the hall screaming- I never felt that I could let myself go, I worked with these people, and if I screamed, I was afraid that the tales of my misbehaving would be fodder for gossip.
Shortly after the doctor left, I had an enormous urge to push so I slowly waddled over to the bathroom but quickly realized that I was experiencing a completely different kind of pain. This pain was “pushing the baby out” pain, I had moved into what they call the “transition phase”- this phase only last fifteen minutes and can be very very intense!
Luckily, the nurse contacted the main floor desk, this was before cell phones, and was able to get my doctor before he left. I had been helped back into bed. After just a few seconds I turned to Gary my beloved husband, I leaned over the side rail - grabbing the scrubs top with both my fist. Pulling him back and forth pushing my head into his chest. Chanting over and over, “I can’t take this anymore please do something”- “I can’t take this anymore please do something”- the pain was the worst I have ever felt, my whole body going back and forth as the pain mounted.
Just as I was at my wits end my nurse came in, she was a “single” nurse, the nurse who had never given birth. She felt it was her place that during the worse moment of my labor to explain that I had hours to wait and I had better settles down- droning on and on and on. I wanted to bean her over the head but I didn’t have the strength. She decided it would be a good idea to do a cervical check and what do you know the head was crowning…the nurse yelled, “I need some help in here NOW this woman is giving birth. This is when I asked for pain medication, I was given a shot of Demerol and moved into the Delivery Room. As I was wheeled in, my doctor showed up and began scrubbing up for the delivery.
On the way to the delivery room, I looked down the hall and saw my Mom and a distant cousin of mine. The Nurse anesthetist asked me, “what are you going to call this baby.” I was very groggy; I was in no frame of mind to start thinking about baby names- he mentioned Patrick for St. Patrick’s Day and that was the first time I realized the significance of this day. After a very brief time we had a baby boy, a very healthy baby with all the right parts in all the right places! A nine pound one ounce boy with strawberry blonde hair and a beautiful smile with a very healthy appetite. This baby was the first child born on my side of the family, and the apple of his Grammy’s eyes. We also found out about the family lore of my Grandma Martin’s, who was born in Ireland, being born on St. Patrick’s Day. My Mom had always thought that my Gram Martin was kidding because someone being born on St. Patrick’s Day who is Irish was just silly but she was proven wrong. A friend from work Sister Emmanuel dreamt that my baby would be born with red hair and freckles as did my Mother but she added the baby being born then doing cart-wheels down the halls of the hospital. Brian was a greatly anticipated child and with the exception of not doing cartwheels, he fulfilled all our dreams!
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