For the Love of Claude

My word means nothing!

I went into labor 24 hours after posting my last substack essay about saying goodbye to my old life. That was 4 months ago. I have a four-month-old now. Lordy.

And because babies keep you awake all the goddamn time, these have literally been the longest four months of my life. I’ve never crammed so much awake-ness into four little months. Giving birth was eons ago. Can I even remember it now?

They say women forget the sharp pain of delivery, and the agony of healing slowly. “They say” it’s because, from an evolutionary standpoint, it’ll help us decide it’s not such a bad idea to do it all again. The idea being that we can be fooled by ourselves into having more and more babies. I find that cruel and hilarious. But my theory is that we’re awake so much during labor and early motherhood, that we couldn't possibly remember it all; too much is happening. Also, isn’t deep sleep the time when our memories from the day get logged into long term memory? When the fuck might that be occurring? Perhaps we forget the pain solely because we’re not well rested enough to have brains that function properly.

When I think about my son’s birth now, I feel warm and fuzzy. But because my memory bank hasn’t been in working order I’m not sure I can be trusted. When he’s asleep I obsessively scroll through my earliest photos and videos of him. I like to look at the last photo on my camera roll before he was born and then the first photo taken after his birth. I flip back and forth between the two. Before Claude, after Claude. Before, after. Old life, new life. Old life, new life. It makes me feel like the master of time, which is of course, the opposite of who I am now. My meals are cold and my showers short because I’m so time poor. But while I dance through photos of my son’s birth, I get to relive the memory without the pain, the way it somehow is in my head right now: a magical, not all that painful event, even though I remember saying to my husband, Jon, the day after Claude was born, “What psychopath would agree to do that again? I am never doing this again.”

In an effort to dig through the sleepless haze of the beginning, to unearth the truth, here’s what I remember now. But again, I don’t necessarily think you should trust me.

Most of my pregnancy, Jon expressed concern over whether or not our son would be born on Valentine’s Day.

He’d protest, “I’d hate for him to have overpriced menus on his birthday for the rest of his life!” And I’d chirp back, “I should hope he’s not having to pay for his own dinner on his birthday!”

Valentine’s Day grew closer as I grew impossibly bigger. Months earlier, I bought a dumb red silk maternity dress hopeful that we’d be able to go out for a Valentine’s dinner. But the morning of February 14th I told Jon I couldn’t commit to dinner, that I’d have to make a game time decision right before our early bird reservation; I was terribly bloated and exhausted, unable to do anything but sleep, eat and waddle.

An hour before our reservation, I woke up from a nap feeling like Cupid had just shot me in my swollen ass. I turned to Jon, “What if this is our last meal out alone? Kiss me and take me out to dinner, you fool!” My red silk maternity dress was at least two sizes too small but I used a hair clip to fasten it and we made it to our reservation on time.

It was an obnoxiously windy night. It was also apparently very cold but my furnace of a body couldn’t have registered it. Jon and I sat outside by a heater at Jewel, our favorite go-to restaurant, where we love coaxing the owner, Sharky, to come sit with us. Despite it being a busy evening, Sharky obliged and sat with us, marveling at my roundness while I sipped a Golden Milk. The three of us talked about love and horoscopes, as we often do, and then Jon and I left before sundown to have the rest of the night to ourselves. We went to bed that night impressed with how we’d still found a way to romance each other despite such sleepy, puffy obstacles.

I began to wake up in the dark, feeling like I … might be peeing my pants? I came to my senses. Wait. I don’t normally pee my pants. Holy shit. This must be my water breaking. What time is it?

I reached for my phone to check the clock. I braced myself, praying it was close to morning, knowing that if “this was it” I’d have to be awake for a long time, and I’d have to wake up my husband and Doula. I silently lit up my phone. It was 1:18 AM. Goddamnit. Do I wake up Jon over this? Am I surrrre I didn’t just pee my pants a little? It seemed worth confirming before causing a ruckus.

I slipped into the bathroom, dodging our squeakiest floor boards, my two needy cats trailing behind me. I peed intentionally, pulled up my underwear and looked at Fred and Elaine, their little eyes squinting, adjusting to the bathroom light. I turned the light off to relieve them, and sat on the edge of the tub in the dark. Drip. Drip. Drip. I’d just emptied my bladder but something was still leaking. This has to be it, I thought. That’s when I noticed the dark wasn’t really all that dark; the bathroom floor was glowing, slightly illuminated by our one bathroom window. I looked out and saw a waning crescent moon, comforted by another familiar face. I spoke out loud to all three of them: Fred, Elaine and the moon. “Okay. Let’s go tell’im.”

Once Jon was awake and aware of what was happening, I started manically sweeping the kitchen floor. Jon couldn’t wrap his head around my decision to frantically clean up, but I barked, “when we come home from the hospital this place better feel like a fucking hotel!”

I needed to control something.

My leaking body was manageable enough with folded toilet paper and pads; it wasn’t a gush like I’d seen in the movies. I thought, I can absolutely clean our whole home like this. I also took the opportunity to wash my hair. My son needed to meet me looking my best.

The drier buzzed and I took out my favorite sweatpants, washed just for this occasion. I threw them on, nice and warm, and then wrapped myself in what I call my “sleeping bag coat” (a floor length puffer coat). We threw our go bag in the car, and snuck out of our neighborhood like two runaways with a secret, the moon following us all the way to the hospital.

On the highway, we had our movie moment, water-breaking-wise. I tried not to send Jon into a panic,

“Um. Baby, I’m really leaking.”

“So wild.”

“No, I’m like, really, really- WOAH!”

I felt fluid soak through my newly cleaned sweatpants. I scooped up the bottom of my sleeping bag coat, using it as a puffy bathtub, trying not to ruin the passenger seat of our family’s only vehicle. Jon couldn’t quite imagine it, but his jaw dropped when he saw me roll out of the car in the hospital parking lot; I let go of my coat and birthed a lake. It didn’t stop there. I waddled with a wet ass all the way to the hospital entrance, leaving a snail-y trail behind me as Jon carried my things.

After struggling to find the correct entrance in the dark, we checked in and were put in a terrible, windowless room with what looked like dated equipment by a hospital bed. A single tiny ceiling panel had been replaced with a photo of blue sky, clouds and palm tree leaves. Or… wait. Am I remembering that correctly? Maybe I’m thinking of the ceiling from my dentist’s office. See? My memory is like a wedding VHS tape that someone accidentally recorded over.

We learned that I was 4cm dilated and eventually moved into a bigger room with a couch and window. This is where the magic is happening, I thought to myself. The sun had just come up and I was being put on IVs and things. This is when I learned that I WAS NOT ALLOWED TO EAT ANYTHING UNTIL I GAVE BIRTH. Had I known that, I would have forced Jon to drive my swamp ass to Jack in the Box before we got to the hospital. You live and you learn I guess.

The next thing I knew, my contractions became so unbearable that the word “epidural” came out of my mouth like a sneeze. My doula had brilliantly acquired the only anesthesiologist’s schedule ahead of time so that I wouldn’t suffer while he worked scheduled C-sections (one of the many reasons I personally loved having a doula by the way) so my epidural was pretty much ready when I was. Jon and my doula were ordered out of the room, and a nurse named Lisa held my hand while the anesthesiologist prepared my back for a needle I never cared to see. I sat on the edge of the bed hunched in a giant C shape so that my vertebrae were as separated as possible. They told me it was VERY important NOT to move AT ALL while this needle was in my back, so the plan was to insert it in-between contractions when I’d be least likely to writhe in pain. The contractions were so excruciating that it was hard not to jolt when they started; imagine being told to stay perfectly still while someone hit you over the head with a cast iron pan. So the three of us waited for a contraction to pass before the needle went in (not a great feeling by the way, but better than a drugless contraction). While the needle was in my spine, I did my best to tap into my elementary school “red light green light” days, my brain screaming, “Do not fucking move, Alix! Don’t breathe! Be frozen!” But I saw a look of concern creep over Lisa’s masked face as she watched my contractions monitor. One was coming faster than the previous ones, and the anesthesiologist still wasn’t ready to remove the needle. Lisa took hold of my other hand and got serious, “You’re going to have to stay still during this next contraction. Hold onto me and I’ll help you stay as still as possible. We’ll do it together, okay?” I realized in that moment that I didn’t really know what would happen if I moved with the needle still in my spine. Did they tell me and I’d just already forgotten? It didn’t seem like it mattered in this crucial moment. I was seconds away from bracing in a way I never have before in my life.

Lisa held me like a koala, and I played the part, gripping her tight. Despite the chaos and pain, I’ll never forget the feeling I had for Lisa in that moment, a complete stranger, while we held each other, both desperate to keep me still. I couldn’t believe I was having such an intimate experience with someone I didn’t know, or that I felt impossibly safe in her arms. I thought, I love this person and I will never be able to fully express my gratitude. I dream of becoming wildly successful just so that I can buy Lisa a house one day. Nurses are incredible.

Staying still was challenging but possible thanks to Lisa’s firm grip and words of encouragement. And within seconds the pain fell away. I looked at the anesthesiologist and said, “You must sleep well at night knowing you take people’s pain away.” He furrowed his brows and replied, “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Here are a few more moments I can recall, without remembering the timeline or order:

• At one point, Jon crawled into my hospital bed with me so we could try sleeping as spoons. His arms around me were like an epidural for my nervous system.

• The offensive overhead lighting eventually got to me, so Jon brought me my sunglasses. He took a photo of me wearing them to send to my friends.

• After what felt like a long time in labor, I asked a nurse if she’d check to see how dilated I was, certain it must be close to pushing time. She checked and said I was 3 centimeters even though they’d said 4 when I first arrived at the hospital. I was going backwards?? I could’ve cried, but was too tired to honestly.

The sun began to set, and Lisa came in to tell me she was going home for the day. My delivery would have to be Lisa-less. I was crushed and she could see it. She held both my hands and locked eyes with me. I’ll never forget this. She said, “Listen to me. When it comes time to push I want you to give it everything.” Her pep talk was punctuated by hospital beeps, and I felt weaker than ever. What a moment. She brought her face very close to mine and said, “When it’s time to push don’t give up, okay? No matter how long it takes. Do. Not. Give. Up.” I hardly knew what that meant, but I was suddenly making a promise to a stranger I wasn’t sure I could keep. “Okay, I won’t.” I thanked her profusely for being my nurse. The next nurse assigned to me wasn’t much for eye contact at all. She could not have been less Lisa. I tried not to dwell on it, the fact that this would be my nurse through delivery.

My contractions intensified, seemingly breaking through the epidural. I turned onto my side, moaning in pain, and then realized it had to be very, very late. Was it still even February 15th? Would I be giving birth before midnight? Or after? What was my baby’s birthday?? A digital clock adorned the wall behind me. I used all my strength to tilt my sweaty head backwards to read the time. Through the deliriousness I could make out an upside down 12:08 AM. I felt relief. Aww. The 16th. Perfect.

“You’re 10 centimeters,” said not-Lisa. I was still lying on my right side, not really even aware I was being checked. It was time to push. I asked if I could stay on my side, too debilitated to roll even slightly onto my back. My doula and not-Lisa gave me the okay and I truly didn’t feel like I had a choice not to push. I don’t know how else to explain it other than by saying my lower half needed to push. Lisa’s face appeared above me like she was fucking Mufasa. “Give it everything. Do Not Give Up.” Isn’t it epic that I thought of her during pushing time? I wish all women had a Lisa, and not just for giving birth— Passing your driver’s test? Breaking up with that loser? Finishing that overpriced dessert you regret ordering? “Give it everything! Do. Not. Give. Up!”

After almost 45 minutes of pushing, Not-Lisa expressed concern. I overheard her and my doula surprised by how effective my pushes were; we were making real progress much faster than we’d anticipated. But my OB, the one we’d carefully chosen to have this experience with us, still hadn’t arrived. Not-Lisa finally made eye contact with me, “You’re close but the doctor is still 8 minutes away. Can you hold it?” I don’t remember this next part but my husband claims that my response was a desperate, loud, “NO! I CAN’T! I HAVE TO PUSH NOW!”

My OB arrived at 1:25 AM. Claude was born at 1:24.

While I was pushing, My doula told me that if I wanted to I could reach down and feel my baby’s hair. I didn’t particularly want to, but I did because I wanted to distract myself, or maybe it was because I thought it would make me feel like this hell was almost over: the hair at the end of the tunnel if you will. But instead, feeling his hair, I thought yeah, yeah, I feel him, let’s get this over with. The rest of his head came out, and it felt like someone took a knife and a torch to my vagina at the same time. The pain shocked me and I screamed. While screaming I felt immense guilt; I worried about how I might sound to other pregnant women near by in their respective rooms, afraid I was terrifying them. During the worst physical pain I’ve ever felt in my whole life, a moment it should be hard to think about anything else, my urge to people please was still sitting in the front seat with me. I’m fascinated by that.

I also thought, This is how birth feels WITH AN EPIDURAL. God bless anyone who’s done this without one. And HOW did the pain not kill them. HOW??

A standby OB was with me at this point although I have zero memory of her face, her name, or what time she entered the room. My doula told me the baby’s head and shoulders were out and I could pull the baby out myself if I wanted to. So I reached down, easily felt his little armpits and pulled him towards my bare chest. This was the moment I saw my son’s face for the first time, and I genuinely thought he was the most perfect, beautiful creature I’d ever seen. I also couldn’t process that, like, there was a face in there? I intellectually knew there was a baby growing in my belly for nine months but… a face? It’s possible that this was actually the first moment I realized that there was somebody in there!

My OB arrived just in time to deliver my placenta. She held it up for me as if I gave a shit, like she’d missed her moment to shine and hold up my baby for me so she thought, how ‘bout I just hold up your beefy, disgusting placenta? Look at me! I still did something!

Jokes aside, I loved my OB. It was the general consensus that Not-Lisa had forgotten to call my doctor in time, and that was the reason she missed the birth. But she delivered my healthy placenta beautifully and started to stitch me up. I was in such a baby haze that I didn’t notice until I felt a sharp jab in my vag.

“Ow! Damn!”

My OB looked up at me, “You can feel that?”

You putting a needle in my freshly torn vagina? Yeah, I can feel that.

But instead I said, “yes.”

My doctor looked at Not-Lisa, confused, under the proper impression that I’d had the epidural.

Not-Lisa winced, “her epidural had pretty much worn off but she was already 10 centimeters.”

Not-Lisa then looked at me, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to scare you.”

Honestly, Not-Lisa did the right thing. I’m glad I didn’t know, but now knowing the truth explained a hell of a lot; at the end, I felt EVERYTHING.

I enjoy telling askers how I was genuinely overwhelmed with love and obsession when I saw my son’s face for the first time. But I think it’s important, especially for new moms, for me to share what came after that. Claude, Jon and I were all moved into a smaller, less inviting room only an hour after I’d given birth. I’d officially gone a full 24 hours without food or sleep, so it was time to replenish. But the sushi I’d made Jon promise me sounded awful all of a sudden. All food sounded awful all of a sudden. I force fed myself some of the probably delicious sushi my husband so generously had ready for me, and then tried to sleep now that Claude was swaddled peacefully beside me. I slept maybe an hour. When I woke up I saw a silent swaddled baby in the plastic bassinet next to my hospital bed, and I had horror movie style chills run through me. Who is that? Why on earth did we do this? How am I possibly going to take care of him?? My panic intensified. I wanted to shake Jon, beg him for comfort, but he was fast asleep; I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt his hard to schedule date with the sandman. I felt helpless, and brutally robbed of the euphoria I’d met with Claude.

Through calls to my trusted therapist, hugs from my husband, and a solid pep talk from a new nurse named Yvonne, or Yvette… I can’t remember, I worked through my panic attack, or rather, I let it pass when it was ready. I had one more panic attack when we got home. That first night, Claude and I were just two blondes crying in our diapers together. And the nausea from that panic lasted over a week, which was torture on top of the physical symptoms I was already managing. I honestly forgot most of these unpleasant details until I sat down to write my whole experience. It may be because I cannot even begin to associate that nightmarish panic with the angel I take care of now.

Claude looks at me today with so much admiration and bliss and sweetness in his eyes that words fail me in describing the elation his once shocking face brings me now. I believe I experienced panic attacks in my early days of motherhood simply because I didn’t know what I didn’t know. It’s terrifying to come face to (new) face with so much you don’t know and can’t comprehend.

But now I know.

I know Claude. And I know that I don’t know Claude as well as I will soon. I now know, and appreciate, how much not knowing there is in parenthood. That’s why instead of waking up with nausea, today I woke up eager to see my baby’s perfect face and smiles, excited to hear Jon lift him from his bassinet and say, “it’s a new day! Yeah!” as he does each morning. What painful birth? What panic attack? Have I already been tricked into doing this all again? I’m thrilled to say, “I truly have no idea.”

Since Claude sleeps 12 hours every night these days, our whole home is well rested, properly banking memories from the day: his ever-changing hair, his coos, his preciousness. And thank Claude, because I really, really don’t want to forget this.

♥