The Robbie Diaries

         We always knew  we would have an only child.  When I was in high school I envisioned twelve little reproductions following me around.  Fortunately that goal barely outlasted my predilection for bright purple lipstick.

         We enjoyed backpacking and bike riding, and we were not about to let children interfere more than humanly possible.  I went off the Pill and got pregnant right away.  My old church, the Self Realization Fellowship, would have said that my son’s soul was waiting for his vessel to become available.  If that is so, I must have one heck of a Karmic debt.

         We took off that summer for a two week backpack around Mount Holy Cross in Colorado, and I came back to see an ObGyn.  The test came back positive.  No rabbit died, I don't think.  In old movies, the rabbit always dies.

         So anyhow, the doctor told me I was indeed pregnant.  Or more specifically, “The test indicates that you are pregnant, and certain changes in your body suggest strongly that this is so.”  I guess not only do doctors not say, “the rabbit died”, they can't tell you that you are preggers until all the test results are in. 

         So I ask, “I am an avid hiker.  Are there any precautions I should take?”

         He said, “I would not recommend any 100 mile hikes during the first trimester,” and he chuckled a little.

         “Mmm, too late.  I just finished one.”

         The chuckle went away and he sighed.  “Oh, well, I guess you can't knock a good apple from the tree.”

         This would not be the last time I got that sigh.  I got another when I tried rock climbing and my growing stomach pushed me off the wall.  And another when I was hiking in Phoenix’s South Mountain Park right after a rain, and I slipped on a wet rock and fell about 15 feet. 

         The doctor would smile feebly and explain that the fetus was “fairly bombproof” floating around in his amniotic fluid, but I may have to slow down a bit in the last trimester.  I did as a matter of fact, but more because it was kind of impossible to hike in the desert when I had to pee every five minutes.  There aren't enough trees to hide behind.

         All my friends assumed that I would have a “natural” birth.  I assumed that I live in the 20^th century and we have gone way beyond natural.  When the pains started, the doctor said to walk, so I took my regular three-mile hike and then went to the hospital. 

         I am a big woman, six feet tall.  I figured I would have no problem with delivery. Everything would be fine.  I was healthy and strong and big.   My ObGyn was also not a believer in the Lamaze method: he said his wife wanted her epidural in the second month.

         Suddenly my normal, no problems, not interfering with my regular routine pregnancy complicated.  I had eclampsia.  My blood pressure shot through the roof. 

This is no joke.  Eclampsia is how Lady Sybil died in the PBS potboiler, Downton Abbey.  The kindly neighborhood doctor advised that Sybil be treated, and Lord Robert listened to the society physician, Sybil died and was freed to work for another sitcom. 

All of a sudden there were nurses, and physician’s assistants, and the ObGyn.  I had one IV in for hydration and another for drugs.  I have notoriously slippery veins, so the needles were inserted in the back of each hand, and that is just about as comfortable as it sounds.   I had a catheter and a baby monitor in the baby’s head.  A blood pressure cuff.  I was more wired up than our home stereo system.  At one point I said, “I'm glad the Lamaze people can't see me now.”  Dr. B muttered, “The Lamaze people are home in bed.” 

         After many, many, many hours, the doctor announced that I was at 10 cms.  “Good”, I thought, “If I remember correctly from birthing classes, that means it’s almost over.  The doctor straightened and gathered his accouterments. “I'll see you in two hours”    !!!!! 

         Finally the main event. The cord wrapped around the baby’s neck, the head was stuck and the doctor needed forceps.  So what else can go wrong?  The doctor told me he was about five minutes from a C Section when things finally came together.  I thought, “If I'd gone through 36 hours of labor, and THEN we did a C, I would be highly pissed.” 

         I am a big woman: the baby was a big baby.  9 pounds, 10 ounces.  No wonder he got stuck.

         Trailing my IV stands, we wandered down the hall to observe our offspring.  Every other newborn was peacefully asleep, or playing with its hands.  Robbie was screaming.  In fact for the next several months, if he wasn't eating or sleeping, Robbie was screaming.

         So I think: nine months of getting fat and clumsy, 36 hours of labor, and I get a car alarm for a kid.  Why do people do this, and why do they do it more than once?