Special Delivery

When the phone rang that summer morning I already knew who it was on the other end. Earlier in the day, when my belly seized up with week-early menstrual cramps, I knew it was because our uteruses were talking to each other. Here, this is how it’s done, mine said to hers. In the background I heard the bustling of impending birth. I could almost smell it. “How’s she doing?” “Pretty good. She’s already at six centimeters so it won’t be long, Mom.” He calls me Mom, this pink-faced boy who loves my daughter as much as I do. “Well, you best stay close to her, honey. She’s not exactly the independent type when it comes to pain.” As if on cue, I hear A let out a moan to wake the dead. As much as I make light with her husband, I want like everything to be there in that room, holding her hand and wiping her brow as she propels my grandchild into the world. “Okay, Mom. I’ll keep you posted. Love you.” “I love you, too. Take good care of her.” “You know I will,” he says, and I do. Here's where I'm tempted to describe my own three babies' births, but like dreams, delivery stories are only interesting to the people who experience them. Unless it’s your baby tunneling its way out of you or your partner’s body, the whole thing is quite repugnant. But there are exceptions to every rule, and L is one of them. Her story is one that begs to be told every time the subject of childbirth comes up. No matter how horrendous, how long the labor, how terrible the pain, L's story always wins the prize, leaves every eye glistening. It was in the middle of a particularly cold Michigan winter, three years after I’d opened my massage practice, when her mother called me. “She won’t talk and she won’t leave the house except to follow me wherever I go,” she told me on the phone. “Maybe a massage will help.” “Bring her in,” I said. “I’ll do my best.” A week later, they stood in the doorway, L hiding behind her mother, fierce brown eyes as wide as a bush baby’s. “L,” the mom said to her daughter. “This is Ellie. She’s going to help you feel better.” The girl looked from me to her mom, clinging to her mother’s shoulder bag like a guide dog’s harness. She looked barely sixteen. “Hi, L,” I said. “Why don’t you come into the other room and we can talk?” When she didn’t move, I reached out and gently took her hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I’ll just see what I can do to help you, okay?” I knew she wouldn’t answer and she didn’t. With a gentle nudge from her mother, she was in my massage studio, staring at the table as I closed the door. “Your mom tells me your pregnant.” L immediately dropped her chin to her chest, below which, the beginnings of a bulge pushed at her red sweatshirt. “You know, expectant moms who get massage are more relaxed and often have easier labors than those who don’t. I’ll just give you a little back rub. How would that be?” She glanced toward the door. “Your mom’s right on the other side, Hon, but she can’t hear us, so if there’s anything you want to ask or tell me I promise it’ll stay between us. I’ll just step out for a minute while you get undressed.” Her voice surprised me. “Please stay.” “Sure, L, of course. I’ll stay right here.” Sensing her shyness, I turned my back and fussed with the music while she disrobed. When I heard her climb between the sheets, I sat on the stool and pulled the rubber band from her dark hair. L’s body was stiff, as if rigor mortis had set into her bones. She fixed her eyes on a spot on the ceiling and disappeared into it, the way a frightened child leaves their body during the violence of abuse. For the first several minutes, I made tiny circles with my fingers on her scalp before moving to her arms and legs. “It’s okay, sweetie,” I whispered. “Just relax. I’m going to try to help you feel better. I promise not to hurt you. Do you trust me?” She nodded. “Then close your eyes, all right?” She complied, and eventually her breathing slowed. By the time we finished she was nearly asleep. “Feel better?” I asked, after she was dressed. “Yes. Thank you.” She nearly knocked me over with her next question. “Can I come back and see you again?” I hugged her. “Of course you can. As often as you like.” Her mother brought her every week after that. Over time, L began to talk. She told me about the boyfriend who’d forced himself on her and made her promise not to tell. When he threatened to hurt her family if she didn’t comply, she became his regular victim. Unlike most girls her age, L was an innocent who knew very little about sex or her body. She once shocked me by asking if the baby would come out of her belly button. Not unlike the day of my first granddaughter's birth, I sensed the impending delivery even before I got the call from her mother, wondering if I’d come to the hospital. “L's asking for you,” she said. I cancelled my afternoon clients and drove forty miles to the hospital, where I found my young client in the midst of hard labor. As soon as she saw me, her already-wild eyes widened even further. Having visited that primal place beyond the limits of tolerance three times over, I recognized the ferocity in her pupils. I touched her cheek. “Hi, honey.” She tried on a smile but another contraction gripped her body, and she squeezed her eyes shut. I rubbed her back until it passed. A young doctor strode into the room, confident but gentle in his approach to L. Her mother introduced us and he nodded at me, smiling. “I’ll take all the help I can get,” he kidded. “Right, L?” She smiled weakly. Although I’d worried L might not be able to deal with the loss of her modesty during childbirth, she proved me wrong. When she became hot and sweaty, she threw off her gown and kicked it away; exposing dark areola like tarnished silver dollars and a swollen belly streaked with the roadmap of pregnancy’s betrayal. She never screamed—not even after she’d pushed for over an hour with little progress. As she became more exhausted, the doctor got nervous and whispered for the nurse to prepare for a c-section. Not wanting L to miss what I knew could transform her suffering in a single miraculous moment, I became proactive. When the next contraction curled itself around her, I grabbed her delicate hand and squeezed it. “Look at me, L.” She looked. “I want you to get pissed off, do you hear me? I want you to think about the asshole who did this to you and use the force of your rage to push this baby out right now!” Before she had time to respond, the doctor yelled push! and every woman in the room—her mother, the nurse, her counselor, and me—took a deep breath and pushed right along with L. She grabbed the bars at the side of the bed, her face turning the color of wild strawberries as she strained and grunted. In a rush of blood, water and tears, CR slithered into that holy room and blessed us all with his first cry. Every single person in there joined him, including the doctor, who begged our forgiveness for the deeds of his gender as he repaired L’s torn flesh. While L held her newborn son, I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Honey, you did it. You used your anger to get this baby born. Good girl.” “I did use my feelings,” she said, caressing the waxy head of her new baby. “But not the ones you said.” I stood up. “What do you mean?” Her eyes filled with liquid light. “I looked around at your faces and felt all the love in this room and, well, how could I possibly let anger get in the middle of that? My son may not have been created in love, but he was born into it.” Despite her naiveté, L’s wisdom collided with innocence, forcing pride and betrayal into the corners of the room as she made way for her precious child. It was a time for renewal, not hatred, and she knew it. The rest of us knew it too, and saved our anger for depositions and letters to the court, although we’d never be able to take back the violence that would likely scar L for the rest of her life. However, I will never, ever forget her great courage and how she became my teacher in the midst of suffering. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When the phone rang again I heard my new granddaughter's cry as soon as I picked up. “Hi Sweetie,” I said. “How’d you do?” “Not bad, Mom. Only two hours. We’re all doing great.” “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry I missed it. I thought I got my tickets early enough, but apparently E had other plans.” “Mom. You were here. I felt you with me the whole time.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” I heard a whimper, then the sweet suckling noises of an infant nuzzling his mother’s breast and instantly, I was there in the hospital room. Except it was me in the bed and her sweet-smelling head under my chin, twenty-four years ago.

Comments

[wendy]

Ellie, I haven't personally experienced this - but reading the story - of all 3 births - makes me feel the power in it.

[Jo]

Wow, what an amazing story.

[Sheree]

Thank you for this. I am days away from my first child's arrival. This was a great, great story.

[Debby T]

You're absolutely right. This story deserves to be told as often as possible--and you tell it so well.

[tony neiburg]

It is not easy to put things together, I have enjoyed myself reading and viewing your site.
Thank you. Tony