As luck would have it, one of my best friends went into labor on Mother's Day. The baby was already five days late for her own birth, a trait definitely genetically inherited from the mother. We planned, and packed, and rehearsed. I was to be one of her coaches in the delivery room along with her boyfriend. She had her stereo with some Clay music on it, and a prepacked bag with other goodies in it.
"Now if your water breaks, don't panic", I told her.
"Don't panic. Don't panic. Yeah. Got it," she said while bobbing her head up and down.
She didn't panic. I did.
At almost one a.m. she called me. "Uhhhm. I think I just started labor."
I bolted upright in bed, fully alert. "What? What do you mean?" I asked as I frantically tried to find my clothing. And shoes. And keys. And purse. And camera.
"My water just broke and I'm cramping."
"Ok. Ok. OK...uhhhh. I'll be right there! And for God's sake, DON'T PANIC!!"
"I'm NOT panicking! YOU are!" I could see her rolling her eyes at me.
"Stop it," I said.
"Stop what?!"
"Stop rolling your eyes. I can see you!" I yelled accusingly as I slammed the phone down.
By this time, my husband was awake. I told him what was going on, and he grunted as I yelled out that I was leaving for the hospital. I got to her house, and screeched to a halt in front of her door. I ran out of the van scrambling like a Keystone Kop and out she waddled, bag in hand, out her door as I opened up the van to let her climb in. We have discovered that climbing into a one ton conversion van while nine months pregnant can get pretty tricky, but she did it. I just grabbed her from behind and shoved.
We picked up the boyfriend, and off we went. At the hospital, once everything was set up, we waited. I asked her how she felt. She said fine. No pain, just cramping so far. Only dialated two centimeters. She said it was a breeze. I had never been with a woman in labor. Not so bad so far, I said to myself. I was calm now, thanks to the wonderful invention of Valium.
The quiet didn't last.
"OW! OW! OWIE! OWIE!" she yelled fifteen minutes later. The boyfriend stroked her hair, talking to her quietly. I was on the other side holding her hand saying "You can do it. Thaaaaaat's right. You're doing great," I beamed.
" SHUT UP!" she said. "I'm trying to concentrate on breathing please!"
She gave both of us the evil eye. Who WAS this woman? Where was my friend?
I suddenly had this incredible urge to go to the bathroom and hide.
OK, I said to myself. Time to bring out the reinforcements. Out came Clay's ATDW c.d. and I put it in the boom box and pressed play. His glorious voice filled the room softly.
"EEEERRRRRROOOOOHHHHHH!" was her reply.
I suddenly saw Linda Blair.
I grabbed her hand and soon discovered what it must feel like to have your hand stuck in a vice. Mr. Boyfriend had safely removed all appendages within reach and put her hand on the bed rail while she was in the middle of a contraction. She hadn't noticed. Why hadn't I thought of that?
"Listen hon. Can you hear Clay? Huh? Huh?" I squeaked in pain.
She nodded in between breaths and smiled. She was glad to hear the other man in her life. I had Clayverted her a couple years ago, and she has become as avid as a fan as I.
The pain abated for a bit, and she was able to listen to him sing "When I See You Smile". Nurses came in and out, checking on her, asking who was singing. She was able to croak out his name. Some seemed mightily impressed.
"That's Clay Aiken??"
Who knew, right? We might Clayvert some of the nurses while here. Heh. Always promoting Our Clay.
Time seemed to stand still, and then we were listening to a c.d. of the Solo Tour. Clay's growls during "Chain of Fools" could only be matched by my friends grunts and growls of pain.
I was starting to get nervous because we were running low on music, and I doubted she wanted to hear me sing "I Will Carry You" in the middle of a contraction. I'd make William Hung look like Michael Buble'. They were coming a bit faster now, and she was begging for the blessed epidural.
A chipper nurse came in and told my friend to hang in there for a bit more, as the midwife was arriving in 45 minutes and she had to approve the procedure. Forty-five minutes? That would seem like an eternity. We both hated Ms. Chipper. My friend wanted her to feel as miserable as she was. Examined again, she was dilated to four centimeters. I asked how many centimeters she had to be before they went in and got it. Ten. Ten? Oh my gosh. How long would that take? The nurse laughed when I asked her that. Not a good sign.
"Oh, once she sits up and gets the epidural, it could go rather quickly. OR.."
(Why is there always an "OR"??)
"Or it could take many hours." We both glanced at one another and didn't want to ask what many translated to.
Right around the fifth hour, she was rather gnarly.
"Where's...my... EPIDURAL?!" She yelled at me.
"I'm on it", I said, fleeing the room. I was also the Bulldozer. The German Tank there to make sure they did what they were supposed to. I went and asked about the epi, and the nurses told me that she was next in line for it. Thank heavens.
I went to relay the message and she was writhing in pain. I took a picture.
I had to replay MOAM, and she was sweating, breathing hard, and I went to her bag and grabbed the cover to the Christmas c.d. "All Is Well". I brought that and her "Measure of a Fan" fan to cool her down. While fanning her, Mr. Boyfriend went out for a short break. I held Clay's pic up in front of her, as I fanned her face.
"Here, honey. Look at Clay. Focus on that face. Isn't he beautiful?" She stared at him, never taking her eyes off of his picture. "He'd be proud of you," I said. I was hoping that would relax her a bit, and it did. She would smile occasionally, as if to say thanks. I fed her ice chips as Mr. Boyfriend wiped her forehead. We just kept up with the music, and I would rotate the pictures. She had a little photo album of Clay pictures that a friend of hers had made for her. She'd stare, grunt, stare, grunt. She received the epidural, and then another one later on that day. After almost 18 hours of labor, It was almost time. She was nearing ten centimeters. All of us were exhausted, needless to say. Someone would invariably try to move the boom box or turn it down, and she'd tell them to leave it there. That was what was keeping her sane. Hearing Clay's voice was soothing in the middle of all the chaos.
The midwife came in, looked, and said "It's time to push!" We were relieved to hear that.
Two hours later, with Mr. Boyfriend and myself looking on, she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She kept asking if her baby was ok. The little baby girl had a bit of trouble breathing, but that was mainly due to having to push and kick her way out into the world, listening to Clay Aiken sing for her. All of us were crying.
"You did it, " I said, tears streaming down my face. I went to take a picture of her daughter. She looked and couldn't believe she had created that beautiful little baby.
I could end it here, but there's another part of the story that I think needs to be told. My friend lavished her child, her daughter, with hugs and kisses and love for the first 48 hours of her life, all the while listening to Clay for company. And then she had to let her go.
The adoptive parents came in on and off those two days, but kept their space as much as possible out of respect for my friend. We both personally hand picked these two wonderful people. They had the money and the means and the patience that it would take to raise a child in today's society. Even better, she would be living on a farm out in the middle of a small Midwestern town.
At the end of those forty-eight hours, rather than them taking her, I suggested that she give her child to the mother and we leave first, hoping to ease our grief. Well, it didn't ease our grief, but it made things a bit easier. It was an open adoption and of course she would get some pictures and a letter here and there, but there was to be no contact whatsoever.
We walked out of the hospital room, all of us with red stained eyes, including the adoptive parents. They knew it hadn't been easy to let her go.
On the way home, we were quiet. My friend took out her "All Is Well" c.d. and put it into the c.d. player, and we listened to it together, tears streaming down our faces, and said a prayer that she had done the right thing, and that, indeed, all was well.
She won't know for sure for at least 18 years, but we were pretty sure
things would turn out for the best. But most of all, we knew that she had
unselfishly done what was in the best interest of her daughter. And once
again, Clay's voice had eased another person's pain, and soothed all those
who were involved in the creation, birth and adoption of my friend's child.
Gracen Elizabeth
May 14, 2007 @ 8:24 p.m.
