When Becca, my massage therapist, came by a few days later, Satchie Red greeted her as usual, planting her nose in Becca’s bag in search of edible massage cream. Then she jumped onto the massage table, curling up at my feet.
As Becca kneaded my muscles, I told her how grateful I was to her for being on this journey with me. It was hard to believe that now the journey would soon be ending. While I had spent most of the last five months trying to keep this baby in, something inside me had shifted. I was ready to begin thinking about how this child was going to get out. Becca and I talked about birth plans, but given how the rest of this pregnancy had gone, we agreed that the best birth plan for me was no birth plan—go in for the C-section and let whatever happens, happen. But that’s not me. Of course I needed a plan. I needed my plan to have a plan. Becca, who was studying to be a doula, told me that things can change pretty quickly in a hospital setting. “Birthing babies is messy business,” she said. “I’ve seen some women get very upset when things don’t go their way. Be open to suggestions.”
As she massaged my legs, I considered her advice. I was getting a C-section per Dr. Specialist’s suggestion, so I had limited say in how the birth went. But there were things I could do to maintain some control. If I looked at this as more of a spa experience and less as a “cutting you open and ripping a human being out of your body” experience, it might not be so bad. I’d bring snacks, music, scented oils, and foot lotion.
Months ago Chris and I had agreed to hire a doula. This would ensure there would be at least one rational person in the room. We also agreed that our mothers should be at the hospital, and I even wanted my brother there, but only after the baby was outside my body.
When the massage was over, I climbed down from the table and squatted on the floor to stretch my hips, hands in prayer position in front of me.
“You are so ready to birth this baby. You look like a goddess,” Becca said. I was taken aback. I had forgotten that giving birth was a spiritual act. “Look at your hair. It’s almost down to your elbows when you straighten your curls, and it’s so thick. You’re glowing.”
I bet those sales associates trying to sell me a door the night before didn’t think I was glowing, and I’m pretty sure the wedding guests with their champagne flutes thought the only glow I had was that of a wild she-devil. But Becca’s words were empowering. I had grown an actual human being inside of me.
Now I just had to schedule when this human being was going to come out. After Becca left, I called Dr. Enchanté’s office, but he was on vacation. The nurse told me that she would get back to me with a date. Three days later, as I lounged on our freshly painted deck, she called. “How does September twenty-first sound?” the nurse asked.
I paused. I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “That’s my birthday.” Was she trying to clarify this for insurance purposes?
“Great, that’s when you’re having your baby.”
“Um, no. No, I’m not.”
“That’s the date.”
“It’s my birthday,” I repeated.
“And now it’s going to be your baby’s birthday, too.”
“No.”
“Most women are thrilled to have a baby on their birthday.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of complications with this pregnancy. If something bad happens, I don’t want it to be on my birthday.”
“Well this is when the doctor can get the OR, and it’s not a good idea to go too much longer.”
“So you’re telling me he can only get the operating room one day a week? No one ever has a C-section on, say, a Monday, or a Wednesday?”
“You’ll have to talk to the doctor, but like I said, he’s on vacation.”
“Maybe you can have him call me because, here’s the thing, I’m not showing up for surgery on my birthday.” I tried to say this in the nicest possible way. I’ve heard that if you speak with a smile on your face, it comes through in your voice. I turned the corners of my mouth into an overexaggerated grin.
I was in the home stretch. Everything would probably be okay. But there was still the potential for something to go very wrong during the C-section. If I died, my tombstone would read, “Born September 21, died September 21,” and people would point to my grave site and say, “Come look at the girl who died on her very own birthday, how sad!” Or worse (and this was the one that made me stick to my decision), what if I lived and my baby didn’t? Every year, for the rest of my life, I would remember that I lost my child on my birthday. I would never celebrate that day again.
Dr. Enchanté called that evening, the sound of Calypso music playing in the background.
“September twenty-first,” he said, as if we were in the middle of a conversation.
“That’s not going to work.”
“Has to.”
“It’s my birthday. You have to change the day.”
There was a long pause and what I’m pretty certain was a slurping sound. Mai tai? Margarita? I couldn’t tell. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
That was as good as a yes as far as I was concerned. I wasn’t really that worried. One way or another, this baby was going to come out.