inklingfair *Title stolen from one of Bono’s inscrutable lyrics, right up there with “A mole, digging in a hole / Digging up my soul, now / Going down, excavation”
Now that I’ve given birth in the middle of a global pandemic, the words start to make some sense. For the last five months of my pregnancy, Josh and I had been living in a self-imposed lockdown, only stepping out of our home for one family meal during the fleeting first GCQ and three essential hospital visits: my second trimester ultrasound and blood tests, my flu and tetanus vaccines, and my final ultrasound — which rapidly escalated into “Your cervix is 3cm dilated, 80% effaced, and this cardiotocography shows you’re having contractions every 2-3 minutes. It’s time.” My RT-PCR test results hadn’t yet come out, so to clear me for the temporary isolation ward (for non-confirmed cases; confirmed patients had to labor and deliver in a partner COVID-19 referral hospital), they x-rayed my chest and took a blood sample.
Three hours later I’m lying supine on the delivery bed (a repurposed colonoscopy exam table, actually — the isolation ward hadn’t been completed yet) with Josh just outside the room, calling family and friends for prayers.
I remember flashes of details out of time:
My anesthesiologist calmly describing to me what I would be feeling when the block took effect as he inserted the needle into my epidural space: pins and needles, then cold, then heaviness creeping up my legs and torso. My ob-gyn coming in with the rest of the team, she in her head-to-toe hot pink PPE, the nurses in cheerful teal and yellow. I felt strangely happy as they bantered among themselves, adjusting the tilt of my bed, screwing in the hand grips and stirrups, remarking that my feet ought to be facing the wall instead of the door. Personnel wheeling the lights in as my ob-gyn exclaimed, “Now, that’s a ring light!” (she had been making videos for expecting parents and her patients throughout the quarantine). One centimeter dilation per hour, then skipping to two by 7 p.m., then stalling at nine. “The baby will be out before midnight”. Pushing practice while counting to ten. Grace: “We’re the only ones here, no hurry, take thirty minutes to catch your breath.”
“I see his hair!” Me panicking slightly because the second dose of anesthesia made me lose the feeling of contractions. “Don’t worry, his heartbeat’s fine. I’ll tell you when the next one’s coming. Remember to release your breath gently and slowly after the last push.”
“… eight, nine, ten… Can you do three more counts? One, two… Baby out!”
Slippery vernix all over him and trailing a fat rope of cord. Loud, staccato wails as he’s whisked out by the pediatrician. An unusual placenta with an extra lobe. “Do you want to keep it?” Blood and repairs, more than I what remembered with our firstborn. “Thank you. Thank you” to everyone in my line of vision.
Being wheeled to the recovery ward. A cup of warm water. My legs starting to tingle and shed weight. Finally nestling him on my breast. Humming to him when he began fussing.
And again, wheeling, wheeling away to the room where Josh was waiting for me with a hot burger, which I wolfed down with gusto, after twelve hours of not having anything.
We had named our daughter Amelia, after two adventurous Amelias — Pond and Earheart. We didn’t give much thought to what her whole name meant: “work”, and her second name, “companion”. Little did we know then how much we three would labor and struggle together during her first days, comrades battling against bad latches, dehydration, and severe jaundice. We would end up spending Christmas in the hospital under the glow of bili lights.
Our son is named after Daniel, the prophet exiled to Babylon, who was thrown to the lions, was not devoured, and was freed in the morning. I had been looking forward to his birth with a mix of hope and dread: What if I test COVID-positive? (I didn’t.) What if he was still breech when the time came? (He wasn’t.) What if we got stuck and I had to get an emergency c-section? (We didn’t.) Would we struggle with the same issues we had faced with Amy? (Yes… and no. He has jaundice, and my nipples are worn ragged, but he’s latching well, sleeping well, we got a home phototherapy kit, and Josh and I are eating on time.)
Oh, but we fight more fiercely now, with the vigor of a couple no longer shy about letting the other know about how one feels about bland chocolate oatmeal or being woken up way ahead of schedule or changing nappies. We still are working on being gracious to each other.
The lions are here waiting and hungry, but an angel has shut their mouths. We are in exile in our own homes, yet we are free. We labor and struggle, and this labor is love.
