Fear, friends, and motherhood.

I was standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth when I first noticed. With the tip of my index finger I pushed into my right side. After 35 weeks of pregnancy, I knew exactly where your tushie was and just what it would take to make it dance. "Wake up, sleepyhead," I said aloud. When you didn't wiggle, I shook my head and chuckled. "And here I was thinking you were a morning person like mommy."

Normally, it was you who woke me up. Rhythmic hiccups that came in the wee hours of the morning like clockwork. Every moment of my pregnancy with you kept me in such awe. I'd lay my hand on that right side--the dancing tushie side--and try to predict the next tremble of your tiny diaphragm. Harry was always still fast asleep but I didn't mind. This was our me and you time. And I loved it.

Yeah.

You had a right to be tired that morning. I was giving a lecture to the residents that day at noon and my pregnancy brain had me pretty out of sorts as I attempted to finalize my slide set. I guess all of the late night movement made you euphoric. I felt your little legs kicking and arms punching with every stroke of my keyboard. It was well after 1AM when I finally turned in and, fortunately, you let me sleep that night. I guess that's why I wasn't too alarmed by the fact that you weren't up and at 'em at 7 the following morning.

By the time I was about a mile or two away from home and en route to work, I'd poked that right side at least ten different times without much of a response. Instinctively, a wave of fear washed over me and I tried to shake it off. I turned the nob on my radio dial to the gospel station and brought the volume up as loud as I could stand it. I guess I hoped that some throaty vibrato thumping from my speakers would reach God's ears a lot more quickly than my fretful whispers.

A few minutes and several more pokes later, I reached for my cell phone and called Tracey, my obstetrician. She immediately picked up on the first ring.

"How's my star patient?" she playfully asked.

"Good for the most part. But your little fella is being lazy this morning." I was careful not to sound like I was worried. And my hope when I said that was that the very act of bugging my OB at 8:30 in the morning would get the tushie dancing immediately. But it didn't.

"What do you mean, bud?"

"Um, well. I guess it's just a little weird because I've not felt him moving this morning. Like, at all."

I could tell she heard the mounting fear in my voice. "This happens when you have a big baby in a small space sometimes. All the little fella needs is a sugar rush and he'll be up in no time. Are you near a McDonald's?"

I looked from side to side to note my location. "Actually, I'm coming up on one right now."

"The orange drink," Tracey said. "That orange drink is like a doggone glucose tolerance test. He'll be awake until I deliver him. Get that and something to eat and hit me back, okay?"

"Okey dokey," I replied. And honestly? I felt fully confident in this plan and that it would be the money shot.

I should explain my relationship with my OB/Gyn to give better clarity. Tracey L., my obstetrician, was more than just my doctor. She was the very first person I met in the parking lot on my very first day of medical school in 1992. She, a recent graduate of Florida A&M in Tallahassee, and me, a proud Tuskegee alum, immediately clicked upon first meeting. Our friendship developed quickly and easily, too. And interestingly, we didn't hang out a whole lot during med school. But we did always have an understanding when it came to our friendship.

Yep.

As you've gathered by now, Tracey went on to do her post graduate training in Obstetrics and Gynecology. After finishing residency at Tulane in Lousiana, the Atlanta native returned to her hometown and arrived here right around the same time that I did. Time and other factors had caused a drifting between us. I think this is the reason why I felt comfortable seeking her out as a patient when I needed an annual one year. I knew her enough to trust her. Yet we weren't so connected that it would be weird. Tracey had just started up a solo private practice and I couldn't see a reason why supporting her wouldn't be a good idea. And so I did.

It may sound odd but that annual visit is what put us back in stride as friends. And since I didn't really need much of anything as a patient, I continued to go to her each year as her patient. Which was, in my opinion, no big deal.

By the time I got pregnant, we were very close again. I went straight to her to ask her opinion on a referral for an obstetrician to manage and deliver my pregnancy--because clearly our friendship was too tight now for her to serve as that person.

"Say what?!" she said.

"It's too close for comfort, don't you think? Way too much pressure for you, I think."

"Naaah. I'm good. But I tell you what--if I start to feel overwhelmed, I'll let you know."

And that was that.

The truth is that it was probably a horrible idea. Babies are so high stakes and having a close friend as the responsible party could be disastrous if anything went awry. But in our youthful idealism, we went forward. One of my best friends and medical school classmates would be the doctor to deliver my first baby.

That brings me back to that fateful day. Just as Tracey had advised, I bought an orange drink from McDonald's. And yes, she was right that there was nothing more sugar-laden that I could possibly have picked up through a drive thru than that. But even with that mighty high fructose bomb, I still didn't feel even the tiniest kick.

This was what I'd dreaded. A complication. And my friend having the agony of having to navigate the awful of it--not just as my physician but as someone who loves me.

"How's our little fella?" That was the first thing she said when she called me in my office a bit later.

"Uhhh," I stammered a bit, "he's . . uhhh. . .still being a little bit sluggish this morning."

"You didn't get the orange drink?" I could hear a twinge of something in her voice and I didn't like it.

"I did. A large one at that."

"Huh." That was all she said. Tracey was thinking. I know her so even through the phone I could tell that much. "Okay. So do this--where are you?"

"In my office where you called me."

"Oh yeah. Okay. So lock your door and lay down flat on your back on the floor. Babies don't like their moms to be flat on their back so that's a good way to get your little pumpkin moving." She was careful to use pet names to lighten things up. I appreciated that.

"How long should I do that for?"

"It shouldn't take long."

"Um, okay." I looked at the clock which read 10:30 A.M. My lecture was just one and a half hours away at noon. Before I could say more, Tracey got paged and had to get off of the phone. She instructed me to call her back as soon as I felt my baby move.

I carefully climbed down to the floor. First on all fours, then rolling over on to my bottom, and finally leaning back to lie flush with the floor. Limp like a rag doll, I lay there, staring at the ceiling. My heart was pounding hard in my chest and I wasn't sure if it was because I was nervous or due to some physiologic response to being supine.

But still. . .nothing.

Being down there hurt my back so I'd lie there for ten or fifteen minutes and then roll to the side and get back up. Then I'd do it again. Next thing I knew, it was 11:40--just twenty minutes before my lecture was scheduled to begin. I took a deep breath and fought back the emotion when I called Tracey back.

"I still can't feel anything," I whispered. "I. . I . . just. . I can't feel movement. At all."

"Buddy, really? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"I'm coming to get you."

"I . . I. . I'm giving a conference in a few minutes. And I know folks will get all worked up if I cancel and say there's an issue with the baby."

"Kim. What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know." Now I was full on crying. I wanted her to make my baby move again. I wanted her to remove the sinking feeling and the dread that came from knowing the medical side, the reality that sometimes  babies stop moving. At near term. For unexplained reasons. "I need to call Harry. I need to.  . . okay. . .I'm just gonna get this lecture over with and maybe. . ." My voice trailed off.

"Call Harry. Or I can call him."

"No. I'll call him."  Which is what I did.

Poor Harry. He got this very matter of fact, staccato sounding call with me trying to sound anything other than terrified.

"What did you say?" Harry asked.

"I can't feel the baby moving. And haven't been able to all day. So I'm going to give my lecture. And after that, I'm going to drive over to Tracey's office to look for a heart beat. Yeah. So I'll keep you posted."

"A heart beat? What?"

"To see if that's why the baby isn't moving. Like to see if it's a intrauterine fetal demise." I used medical jargon to keep him at arm's length. I knew if he truly knew how upset I was, he'd be at Grady hospital in five seconds flat.

And so. I gave my lecture. It was supposed to be from 12:00 to 1PM. But I was so distracted and so worried that the entire time all I could do is poke my sides with my finger and imagine whether what I was feeling was in my head or truly some kind of real response. I reached my last slide by 12:33--shortest noon conference ever.

I fielded a few questions and then went tearing out of that lecture hall before they could even finish applauding. Scrambling for my phone from my lab coat pocket, I frantically called Tracey once again. "I . . .heee. . heeeee. . .I still don't. . I don't . . .no.. .  I don't. . .he's not . . .he's not moving." My body was heaving and those tears that I'd choked back for 33 minutes were now spraying from eyes like a faucet. And just as I reached the end of the sidewalk and looked up to cross the street, I saw something familiar.

Tracey's car.

"Do you see me?" she asked. "I'm here. I've been waiting for you. Just get in and come with me."

"I. . I. . .I need. . I need to . . I need to call . .Ha-Ha-Harry. And. . and . . I--"

She cut me off. "I called Harry. He's on his way to my office. And so is your mom. Okay? Come get in. I'm here."

And that was that.

I got in the car and not only was she in the driver's seat, my other best friend--also our med school classmate--was in the back seat. "We are with you," she said. "It's okay."

And she rubbed my back while I cried hysterically all the way to Tracey's office. Which, by the way, was closed that day since it was a Wednesday.

Harry was waiting near the entrance when we got there. He didn't say anything. He just took my hand and we followed Tracey into the office.

It was dark when we got in there. No people in the waiting room. No staff. No hustle or bustle. Just us.

She reached down to plug in the ultrasound machine. "Go ahead and sit up here, okay Buddy?"

I nodded and did as I was told. And all of us just sat there with hitched breath as she squirted that cool jelly onto my protuberant abdomen and pressed that ultrasound probe firmly into the side of it. Harry clasped his fingers around mine and Lisa stood by quietly. I think my mother may have come in shortly after that, but I can't fully remember. What I do recall is that poor Tracey had the horrible task of guiding that wandering device around my abdomen during all of this.

Ugggh.

Those moments. . .the ones where we were waiting and looking and hoping? They felt like a million years. Harry squeezed my hand harder. I wasn't sure if he was bracing himself or me for the impact of whatever could be coming. I just stared into his eyes and held his gaze, knowing that no matter what was going to happen next, we were together and we'd get through it.

And then. . . that's when we heard it. Hard like a washing machine. The welcomed whooshing of that heart beat--Isaiah's heart beat--strong and . . .just. . .alive. Alive. "Heartbeat!" Tracey announced. And when she said it, I could feel her arm trembling on my belly. She was fighting with all of her might not to break down crying.

But me? I came completely unglued in that moment. Because for those seven hours before that announcement, I'd been trying to get my mind and heart around this little baby who'd been growing inside of me for all of those weeks being a baby I'd never get to truly know. Because sometimes that is what happens. Except this time, it didn't.

Now.

I realized something really important with my pregnancies. I loved those boys from the first moment I peed on the stick. I mean it. Because even taking a pregnancy test when you desire pregnancy fills you with ideas and dreams. You imagine what if I am pregnant and then you pull out a calendar and count the months. He'd be a spring baby, you tell yourself, and then you start making mental plans around what that will mean for your summer.

Yeah.

So, to me, the love that goes into the idea of motherhood is a part of the tidal wave that becomes the reality of it. And I guess I'm just reflecting on that and how none of it is promised. I'm also imagining every single woman who has ever been pregnant, whether she carried her babies to term or had the dream of their life interrupted by bright red blood trickling into cotton briefs. For some, that happened many times. It did.

I guess, I'm thinking, you know? I was Isaiah's mother long before May 6, 2005. I was his mom when I stared at that pink plus sign as it emerged before my eyes in my guest bathroom. I was his mother as I stared at the ceiling tiles in my office while lying flat on my back hoping that would coax him into moving. I loved him just as much as his mama when that ultrasound showed me his beating heart and his nearly nine pound body in a breech position--that had simply run out of space in my smallish frame.

Yeah.

So. On this day-after-Mother's day, I'm celebrating every woman who has ever known motherhood at any of its stages. Because you, my sisters, are mothers, too. Your heart knows that love, that yearning, that angst. And whether you got the chance to see your babies walk and reach milestones or never had that part work out . . . or even said good bye to them too soon. . .you are mamas, still. You are.

And let me just say this lastly--I have some amazing sisterfriends. They are brave and loving and wonderful. But if you read here, you know that I believe in women needing women to survive. So yeah. I'm really glad that Tracey was my doctor that day. And also my fearless friend.

That cramped little baby who was mistaken for sluggish, decided to turn back over just one week before I delivered. He arrived a few weeks after that day and Tracey caught all nine pounds and two ounces of him. That beautiful baby boy is now a happy, healthy ten year old.

Yep.

I guess this is one of those stories that I'm writing down for him to read some day. So that he can know that he was loved before he was here and how these women that he calls his aunties and this man he knows as his daddy and his mama and his grandmama all cherished him even then. I want him to know that nothing is promised and that we must let our actions show our devotion. That day? That was a day of love in action. And that day when I stepped out of Steiner Auditorium and saw my friend's care parked outside--on her off day and waiting for me? It's one I'll never, ever forget for as long as I live.

The first person to ever meet my children--the one who delivered them, Tracey. 

Okay. I'm rambling. It's late and I'm getting tired. That's all I've got, okay? Thanks for listening. Really.

***
Happy Mother's Day to every version of a mother.

The moon is high.

 

 "The moon is high.

The sea is deep.

They rock and rock and rock to sleep."

~ Sandra Boynton

Watching them sleep remains one of my favorite pastimes. First I hover and just watch. Then I lean in and inhale, taking in the scent of their skin, their hair and that little boy smell that lingers if it was too late for a bath. Reflexively, I plant kisses all over them. Forehead, cheeks, forearms, hands, fingertips. They shift a bit and eyes flutter. Then settle back down.

Shhhhhh.


I whisper, "Do you know how much you are loved? So loved. So cherished. I love you, I love you, I love you."

Bodies squirm but then go back into a content slumber.

At some point in the night, I sneak in and do it again. And just maybe again.

My goal is to let them sleep while it is time to sleep. And to protect them from things that go bump in the night or things that make people scream during the day.

Or at least try.


Yeah.

***
Happy Thursday.

Signs you need to slow down.

Two weeks ago I opened Zachary's backpack and found an envelope. To Zachary and Isaiah, the outside of it said. Inside of it was an invitation to a birthday party. Nothing unusual. I quickly scan the card and walk over to the family calendar in our kitchen.

January 22, 2011. 4 - 5:30 PM

I am normally on party duty for Team Manning. Not sure how this happened, but it is what it is. Problem is that I had a work commitment on January 22 until 5 PM. This meant party duty would be handed over to Harry. That conversation (which took place while we were both brushing our teeth) went something like this:

"Babe."

"Yep."

"You will need to take the kids to Dyl's party on Saturday. I'll be at work."

"Okay. Did you get a gift?"

"Yep."

"Where is the party?"

"At some kind of play center off of Roswell. It's on the invitation."

"Uhhh, okay. What time?"

"4 PM."

"Just make sure the gift is somewhere where I can find it."

"Done."

So. I go to work on January 22 early in the morning. And Harry, in his normal Harry way, plans a fun-filled day for the children culminating with the aforementioned party. When Harry takes the kids to parties (alone), it often becomes a bit of a production. He needs every single detail laid out the day before. Unlike me. Who just knows the day and roughly the time, and considers that enough.

Not my husband. He is one of those people that (exactly like my father), when he opens a box, lays down every single piece in a perfect row next to the instructions before putting one single thing together. Now that I think of it, they both completely cut up all of their pancakes and then put syrup on them. (I'm a cut as I go kind of girl.)

But I digress.

Back to the party.

My ex-military, Army Ranger, order-loving husband has everything set before we go to bed on January 21. Gift on the living room table. Directions next to the gift. Good to go.

3PM, I send a text:

"How are you coming along?"


"Good. Heading out now. Put it in navigation."


"Got the gift?"

"Yep."

At 4:20 PM, I peek at my phone to confirm that Harry had made it safely. Doh! Four missed calls. One text message:


"Call your husband."


Call my husband? Eek. Opt for wimpy text message instead:


"You okay? Still in the conference."


"Not okay. Party is not today. It is next week. RSVP was by 22nd."

Rut roh.


(before I could reply with my pathetic apology)


"And this place was far as hell."


"Yikes. I'm sorry."

(No reply.) Double yikes.

So. After hearing my husband repeat to me approximately 700 trillion times how crappy it was to drive across town to some hard to find party spot, I assure him that I will be back on party duty the next week. No problem.

Yesterday, I came down with a terrible cold. I slept in this morning, and although I was sure he would if I asked him, I couldn't bring myself to ask Harry to pick up party duty for me. I sucked it up, and planned to take my lumps.

3:50 PM: Called Harry because I was lost.

3:55 PM: Still lost.

4:05 PM: Called Harry again. Still lost.

4:10 PM: Busting into play center huffing and puffing with two groggy children (who had fallen asleep in the car) in tow.

4:11 PM: Recognize exactly zero people in the entire (not very large) center.

4:12 PM: Kids crying. Isaiah wailing, "A-gaaaain??"

4:13 PM: Texting Harry from the parking lot:


"Party is on January 30. Today is January 29."

"Damn."

"I know. We suck."

"No. Not we, babe."

***

Please tell me that you guys make equally embarrassing mistakes. . . . . please tell me so I can be reminded of what a great mother I am. . . .

Sigh.

A much-needed nap interrupted: The worst and yet the best.

Cool thing I read today:

"The worst things about being a parent
are still better than the best things about every thing else."

~ Will Arnett, actor and husband of SNL funny-lady Amy Poehler

The Last Word.

Two weeks ago, my son Isaiah demanded that I do a few things while in the car with Zachary and him "from now on." :

1. Not talk on my cell phone, even with an "ear-bug."
2. Not make them listen to NPR with me.
3. Especially not make them listen to "Fresh Air" on NPR . . . .which they giggle at profusely when the host says "I'm your host, Terry Gross"--like she's really gross or something.
4. And since I won't be doing 1 through 3, talk to them instead. (Unless, of course, I want to pop in a DVD and let them watch TV or play on my iPad, which negates 1 through 3 and allows me to do the default "whatever you feel like doing, Mom.")

It's actually worked out quite well so far. First of all, it's a wonderful way to grow your kids' vocabulary and to see what's going on with them. Second of all, it's a great time for bonding. Kind of like the kitchen table, but without the kitchen or the table.

Here is our unabridged conversation that took place on the way home two days ago. Brought to you straight from the back seat of Mommy's thinly veiled attempt at avoiding the mini-van a.k.a. the Volvo SUV (which equally screams "soccer mom" . . .sigh. . .I know, I know.)

Isaiah:  "Hey Mom?"

Me:  "Yes, Poops?"

Isaiah: "Mom, why did you want to be a doctor when you grew up?"

Me:  "Hmmm. I think I wanted to be a doctor because I wanted to help people."

Isaiah:  "But you can help people even if you aren't a doctor."

Me: "Okay, sick people."


Isaiah:  "You don't have to be a doctor to help sick people."


Me: "But you can't tell them what's wrong or give them special medicines if you aren't a doctor."

Isaiah:  "Remember that time when I told you that Zachary had a fever and you said, No he doesn't, and I said, Yes he does? I knew what was wrong with Zachary and I am not even a doctor.

Me: "But you couldn't give him special medicines, though."

Isaiah:  "You couldn't either, Mom. You called our pediatrician, remember?"

Me: "That's because it's not good for me to be you and Zachy's doctor."


Isaiah:  "Then why be a doctor in the first place?"

Me: "Because being a doctor is . . . . cool."

Isaiah: "Well, it's not so cool if you still have to take your kids to the doctor after learning all that stuff."

Silence

Zachary: "Mommy?  I'll be a doctor, okay? Does that make you happy?"

Me: "Zachary, I want you to be what makes you happy. Wait, I mean what makes you happy and gainfully employed enough to live by yourself in your own house and not with me."

Zachary:  "Okay then I don't want to be a doctor I want to be a ninja."

Me:  "Do ninjas get a paycheck?"

Zachary: "Ninja turtles do."

Me: "Cool beans, dude. Works for me."


Silence

Isaiah: (brow furrowed) "You know, Mom. . . .If I were a. . . painter, I would definitely paint my own house. Definitely. Seems like it would be dumb to learn how to be a painter but have to call in another painter to paint. . . .especially if you are real, real busy. "

Me: (in mirror to myself)  "What the . . .?"

Isaiah:  (folds arms and smirks) "That's what I think about that, Mom."

Silence

 (Terry, I don't think you're gross.)

Terry  Gross through my VERY LOUD radio:  "You're listening to Fresh Air, and I'm your host, Terry Gross. . . . "

Well, that's what yo' mama thinks about THAT.

Knowing better.

Still on the Zachary's birthday high. . . . .

photo credit

October 22, 2006

"Pregnancy turns your bladder into the most useless organ ever."

Harry looked over at me and my very pregnant self sitting in the passenger seat of his car and laughed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said!" I replied with a chuckle, "It can't hold much of anything, and if you do so much as sneeze you wish you'd wore a Depends."

Harry kept driving while shaking his head. "Not the Depends, babe!" He glanced over at me and we both laughed out loud. "Not a sexy image to give your husband. At all."

"Don't make me laugh!" I playfully scolded him and then looked down. "Aww man!"

We both cackled again, and then instinctively looked over our shoulders to be sure we hadn't awoken 16-month-old Isaiah who was fast asleep in his car seat behind us.

I thought for a moment as the wheels turned beneath the car. "Hey, babe?" Harry raised is eyebrows in response. "What if I don't just have a faulty bladder? Like, what if this is amniotic fluid? You know. . like my water is slowly breaking."

"I thought when your water broke it was like a water balloon?" he countered while hitting the blinker. Then, for emphasis, he slapped his hands on the steering wheel and said, "SPLASH!" After which he looked over in my direction. "Like that."

"No, I'm for real, you goofball! And it isn't necessarily like a water balloon. Although, I don't really know first hand since they broke my water for me last time."

"See? Don't call me a goofball! Why don't you just call Tracey? I'm not your OB."

"I know I'm probably tripping, but you're right. I'm no OB either," I said as I pulled out my cell phone. "Dang. And it's Sunday. But I guess when you catch babies for a living, this is your thing."

We were on our way home from a lovely dinner with Lesley M., her husband and three other Grady doctor friends/fams that evening when this whole conversation transpired. I was two days shy of my due date with Zachary and, other than feeling like my bladder would explode 24-7, I felt pretty darn great for the entire pregnancy. Even still, I know that I have a tendency to undercall things when it comes to my own health. I went ahead and called Tracey L., my OB-slash-med school classmate-slash-very good friend, to discuss my questions. She promptly instructed me to go to the labor and delivery to get checked out.

Damn.

I threw my stuff in a bag (nope on baby #2, you don't already have it packed) and headed to the hospital. By 10 PM, I was checked in and by 10:45 I was being checked by the nurse.

"Chile, you don't have nothin' goin' on in there!" the nurse teased. "That cervix is as tight as a drum. We'll see you back in like two weeks." She laughed at her own joke which was, in my opinion--one point five days before my due date--only a '2' on a funniness scale of 1 to 10.

"Hey, do you think you could draw my blood just in case I do go into labor? Like my CBC and platelets so that I can get an epidural right away if something happens in the next 48 hours?" I knew that the anesthesia guys needed to be sure you had normal clotting before harpooning your spine.

Let's just be clear here. I'm not one of those super-bad moms who toughed it out sans analgesia. Well, I take that back. For the first 12 hours of labor with Isaiah I thought I was going to be one of those "Yeah, girl, I did it natural!" moms, but 12 seconds after entering otherworldly pain-free bliss, I wondered what I was thinking and changed my tune big time. This time, I didn't want any delays in pain relief, just in case things didn't happen as Nurse Know-it-all predicted.

"Chile please! You ain't goin' into no labor no time soon. That wasn't amniotic fluid and your cervix could not be more closed. That baby boy wants to float a little longer." She laughed one more time. I know she didn't mean to be annoying. But she was. Very.

Then, as obnoxious as it sounds, I decided to pull the faculty card, since I was at one of our teaching hospitals. "I'm actually on the Emory faculty," I said (eeewww, name-droppy and lame, I know!)"Would it be okay if--"

She didn't even let me finish. "Then you should know better, Dr. Manning. Go home and get some rest. And enjoy these next two weeks before he gets here. You know, they're a lot easier to care for in there than on the outside." Seeing as she was about twenty years older than me, there wasn't much more I could say.

And so, that was that. I was discharged at 11:30 PM, overnight bag and all. No blood draw. No "baby on the way!" phone calls to my parents. No amniotic fluid leak. Just a bladder that didn't enjoy having 8 pounds of baby pouncing on top of it every five seconds. Good night, Dr. Manning. See you in two weeks (when you have to get induced.) Ha. Ha.

Now.

By now, y'all have to know how Seinfeld-ish my life is. So clearly you know what happened next, right? Claro que si!

1:45 AM. Awaken suddenly with intense need to bear down, as in the feeling immediately preceding #2. (I worked hard to find a non-disgusting way to say that on this blog. I hope this was acceptable.) Left the bathroom after nothing happened and got back in bed. Exactly eleven minutes later, it happened again.

Hmmm.

And again. And again. Eleven minutes on the dot. I woke Harry up and told him flatly, "Dude, I think I'm in labor." Just like that. Then I added, "But my cervix was 'tight as a drum' less than 3 hours ago according to the L and D nurse, so no need in waking up. I'm going to just hang out downstairs and watch TV. I'll call Tracey, and then we can go to the hospital after we take Isaiah to daycare."

After one obligatory, "Are you sure?" my sleep-loving husband turned over and zonked out. (Can't you tell this wasn't our first baby?)

And so. I watched two DVR'd episodes of Entourage. Another of America's Next Top Model. I cleaned and cut up some collard greens. Did a load of laundry. And even made a turkey meat loaf. All while timing these intermittent episodes of feeling the need to do #2 without it actually being because of #2. (My description of contractions.)

7AM the bear-downs have evolved to uncomfortable. We quickly get Isaiah dressed and fed. Then get ourselves dressed and fed. (Can you believe that I was vain enough to shave my legs that morning? Ha ha ha!) Finally, by 8 AM, we are in the car and on the way to drop Isaiah at daycare and then to the hospital. Bear-downs officially hurt.

8:25 AM, Isaiah nearly thrown into daycare like a 16-month-old football (terrible, I know.) Bear-downs getting slightly un-bear-able. Oooh weee. Oooh wee.

8:45 completely at standstill in Atlanta Monday morning rush-hour traffic. Officially miserable.What. Were. We. Thinking? Harry did his best to make things better. He spent half the time trying to make me laugh and the other half rubbing my leg and saying the kinds of things that sweet husbands are supposed to say while you're in labor.

"Sssssh! Shssssshh! Sssshhhhssshh!" (That's me trying to breath through the contractions in the passenger seat.)

"What in the world are you doing?" Harry asked me with a chuckle.

"Breathing . . . .sshshh! shhssshhh! sshhhhh!" I replied. I was unable to hide my amusement with the situation so burst out laughing, too.

With both pregnancies, we never got our act together enough to go to any kind of birthing classes. All I could remember was what I once heard my grandmother say-- "Whether you get lessons or not, that baby is coming out of you." This became my mantra (read:excuse) for not giving up an evening or weekend to learn the proper way to breath/manage pain/etc.

Instead, I resorted to what I'd seen those women do with the doulas on "A Baby Story." It was a pretty darn hilariously awkward thing to see.

By the time we reached Emory Crawford Long Hospital at 9 AM, the bear-downs were every 5 minutes. The pain was mind-numbing, and I intensely wished I hadn't turned to Bravo during the parts on TLC's Baby Story when some very granola, yet knowledgeable midwife explained how to redirect one's mind away from the excruciating pain of an 8 pound human being forcing his way out of a very small, yet allegedly expandable trap door.

"Wait! What if I see one of our residents?" I asked Harry in terror. This was totally possible since it was the 9 o'clock hour at one of the Emory teaching hospitals. I looked at myself. Feet slid into sneakers that were unlaced. Nonmaternity Seven jeans unzipped halfway. Nonmaternity t-shirt with high rise in the front and low rise in the back (kind of like the t-shirt equivalent of a mullet.) Fortunately, I had my hair in braids, which was the only thing that looked even half-way presentable.

"Please don't let me see any residents. . . .Please don't let me see any med students," I muttered under my breath in between contractions, giggles and goofy breaths. The whole sight was pretty ridiculous, I'm sure. Harry and I could not stop laughing.

"Heeeeey Dr. M!"

O.M.(expletive)G.

It was a pack of residents and medical students. Walking in my direction. Waving. All jovial and chatty. Just as they approached, I felt a bear-down coming on. Lawd, lawd, lawd.

"Ummm, hey guys," I said with a wince. "Umm. . turns out, I'm in labor. Sooo. . .yeah. . . I'd better go before I have a baby in this hallway."

And before they could reply, I was around the corner. Mullet shirt and all.

When I get to the L and D, the nurse checks me and asks, "Aren't you a doctor? Honey, you're almost 8 centimeters! Now you know you should know better."

That was the second time I'd heard those words in 24 hours.

"Listen," I cut to the chase, "I need you to draw my blood right away so that I can get an epidural."

She laughed out loud. At me. So not with me. "Oh, honey, it's too late for that. You're there already."

This was the moment where I suddenly understood every single patient who went off on a health care professional when their agenda did not line up with that of the caregiver. Every drop of "professional" flew out of the window. All I could think of was the fact that Isaiah A. Manning was weighed just two seconds after I pushed him out, and that scale read "9 pounds and 2 ounces." This kid could be a ten pounder for all I knew.

"Oh, hells no!" I firmly declared. Harry looked at me sternly. I didn't care, so repeated myself. "Oh hells no, I'm getting something!"

She laughed again. Then she slapped my arm a few times and commenced to try to insert an IV in my arm. 3 times. Unsuccessfully. Oh hells no.

"Please, let me just put it in so you can draw my blood," I said. "I can do it. Give me the catheter."

Wait. Really? Yeah. That's what I said. I'm not proud of it.

"I can't let you place your own IV," the nurse responded.

"That doesn't make sense. Let me just do it because I'm about to jump off this table if nobody gives me something for this pain."

Harry leaned in to my ear and whisper, "Wow, you are being SO obnoxious."

The nurse knew she was in control of this. Despite my foul behavior. After what felt like 100 years, I finally received my IV, along with some kind of narcotic that made me start hallucinating. But not enough to stop demanding an epidural. Now I was just high and demanding.

Once Tracey L. arrived, I launched into begging. "Please, please, please call anesthesia. Please, Tracey. Remember? Isaiah was a 9-pounder. I'm scared. Please, please call them." I was on the verge of obnoxious, hallucinatory tears. "And tell them I'm faculty." Ugggh. There it was again.

The nurse rolled her eyes very obviously. I knew I deserved it, so I didn't get mad. When anesthesia arrived, I realized that I knew the anesthesiologist. Yes!

"Give me something! Anything!" I pleaded. "My first child was almost ten pounds!" I felt the need to exaggerate to make things move along. Plus I was hallucinating, remember?

A few moments later, I received what definitely wasn't an epidural, but what I'd like to call an "epidural-lite." And I am the first to admit--I should have just sucked it up considering literally one minute after they taped it in place, I rolled on my back to push.

Three pushes later, Zachary was here.

The main thing I remember is being so spaced out from Demerol that all I could say was (through trippy tears), "Awwwww, I love him! He's such a little pooda!! But I feel like I'm loopy so take him!" (Which my mom was very happy to do.)

7 pounds and 14.5 ounces. Not quite a ten-pounder, but definitely a respectable size to request an epidural-lite.

****

Okay, so today, I'm reflecting on how frustrating it can be for patients when the caregivers have one agenda and they have another. This experience made me realize how important it is to keep this in mind with every patient I encounter. Like, for some people, their agenda is as simple as "I'm a healthy person who took off work because I think this is strep throat and I need antibiotics" while as the doctor you think it's a straight forward case of allergic rhinitis with sore throat secondary to post nasal drip. If you don't reflect on the patient's agenda, you write them off as "demanding" or "antibiotic-seeking" or "annoying" or all of the above.

I'm not saying the nurse who saw me that Sunday was wrong to say no to a blood draw. But maybe a little more discussion would have been good. And even though I was able to get the epidural-lite, as a patient, I could have done a better job at recognizing the nurse's agenda to follow protocol. And I'm sure that my behavior didn't exactly help her IV placement skills too much.

In the end, it all comes down to listening, doesn't it? Just respecting each other enough to get where the other person is coming from. That's important for doctors, yes. But probably just as important for everyone else, too.

As for the birthing classes, while they do seem like a good idea for most folks, the fact that I didn't take any makes the story even more Seinfeld-esque, which I dig. And. My grandmother was sho'nuff right:
"Whether you get lessons or not, that baby's coming out of you."

And I'm so glad he did.

Reflections on my son's birthday: All that I can and can't say.

Classic Zachary move:

Grandma:  "Put Zachy on the phone."

Me: "Okay, Mom. . .Zachy! It's Ma-Ma!"

Zachary: "Hi Ma-Ma."

Grandma: "Hi Zachy! Happy Birthday! Did you have a great day?"

Zachary: "Ma-Ma, I'm four!"

Grandma: "I know! How's it feel to be four? Tell MaMa all about what you did toda--"

::THUMP::

Drops phone and walks away to go play with his new toys.

Love it. And him. :)

____________________________________________________________

"Loving you is wonderful

Something like a miracle

Rest assured I feel the same way you do. . .

Needing you it isn't hard

With you I can let down my guard

Stay secure that's all I'm asking of you . . .

I wish I had words to tell

This feeling that I know so well

But I don't, I don't. . . .

All that I can say. . . .

All that I can say. . . .

. . is knowing him, loving him

showing him that I'm all in

living and forgiving him

I would do it all again. . .

. . .genuine seraphim

sweeter than cinnamon

heaven-sent gentleman

Synonyms for loving him. . .

 I love you, I love you

Oh I don't wanna live without you

You're all that I can say. . . ."

~ Mary J. Blige's "All That I Can Say" (written by Lauryn Hill!)*

Dear Zachary,

All that I can say is that being your mom makes me want to wake up in the morning. All that I can say is that my answer to Toni Morrison's question is YES. Yes, son, my eyes light up when you come into the room.  All that I can say is that your laughter sounds like music to my ears, and that I love your scratchy-baby-baritone voice. I can say that, even though when I was pregnant with you I terribly feared that I could never love any child as much as I did your brother, that I was wrong. So wrong. I can say that the day God saw fit to let me be your mom was the day He created a new space in my heart just for you. A space that is every bit as special and cozy and perfect and open for more growth as Isaiah's space or Daddy's space. And that I'm so glad that He did.

All that I can say is that my life is indescribably better with you in it.  That you make me desire to be a better human being. And that every day, even if it makes me cry a little bit, I make myself realize that seeing your face and touching your cheek and smelling your skin is not a guarantee. . . but a privilege that I should never take for granted.

All that I can say is that I love you, son. And that I promise to make my love for you a verb every single day so that you grow up feeling and knowing and believing and internalizing the love in my eyes that sometimes has to speak for all that I cannot say. 

Happy 4th Birthday, son. . . .

Mommy

_____________________________________________

*(Hear Mary J. Blige singing this lovely song here.)

Reflections of a Full-Time Working Mother slash Clinician-Educator: "A Change is Gonna Come"

Things that make life easier for me, Volume 1.

Apple stuff. . .the boom boom and the pow.

Okay, so today I was off--YAY!--and in the grocery store grabbing a few items (or "staples" as my mom says) for the house. As I pushed my (kid-free!) shopping cart, I found myself thinking about how many great inventions there have been over the last two decades that have made my overscheduled, overstretched, and all-around wacky life much easier. Boy, have the last twenty years been good to us technologically!

At this very moment, I have no idea how my mom and all the moms before her managed without microwave pancakes or phones that email and text. It's good to be an adult in the midst of all of this. Getting in trouble and getting "busted" take on a whole new meaning with all this technology. One time, Isaiah's pre-school teacher sent a multimedia video text of him throwing a temper tantrum. Just pulled out her phone and just like that, he was totally busted. Talk about the Y2K version of a "note home from school!"

Anyways, I can't say enough how much some of these inventions that now seem every day have changed my life. I gave God a shoutout right there in Publix Supermarket for evolving life to this point, just in the nick of time for me to take the stage as a mother/wife/physician/teacher/grown woman.

At the risk of seeming like a horrible mother and homemaker, I will list a few things that I periodically look at and think, "What a great idea, man!" Would totally be interested to hear a few of yours. . . . .

1. Text messaging and the QWERTY keypad.

First of all, I personally think this was invented for husbands, or at least mine. 99% of the sweet nothings I hear are not whispered in my ear at all but are in the form quick text messages (fortunately without too many gag-inducing emoticons.) "Love You." "You make me so happy." "Thank you for all you do." It's like my stoic Ranger Harry turns into a big ol' soft teddy bear at the hands of a Blackberry. I firmly believe that the text message revolution is one of the best things that has ever happened to our marriage. Not the best, my friends. . . but like. . definitely one of them. I'm just saying.

2. Microwave pancakes and fully cooked microwave bacon.

OMG. Praying that the microwave is not a poison box because it sho' nuff gets used in my house. Whoever came up with the six second bacon deserves a fist bump, for real--it's crazy.

For the record, I don't even EAT bacon. But kids? Kids like bacon and pancakes. (If you are a health nut and a strict vegan, I assure you that behind your back, even your little angels would inhale some bacon, too.) In case you missed it, I barely have time to eat a bowl of cereal, let alone whip up pancakes with a side of bacon. This invention completely rocks. Completely.

3. ON DEMAND Cable Television and DVR/TiVo.

You pick the show you want to watch, and watch it when you want. Genius. You can record what you like, and then fall asleep in front of it at your own discretion and schedule. Double genius. Thanks to this, I will never miss the Oprah show again. (Although I am starting a one year mourning process as her final season starts this September. . . . )

4. Wi Fi and changes in the internet.

Good heavens. What on earth did we do before "hot spots?" Do you remember waiting for your phone modem to connect? The only thing I miss about that is the AOL man saying, "Welcome! You've got mail!" Other than that, it's a beautiful thing.

Furthermore, this has revolutionized medical education. I cannot believe that when I was a med student we had no email, email addresses or Power Point. No Power Point? Crazy, I know!

5. Multi-media text messaging and cameras that take photos.

Keeps you and the kids in touch with the grandparents, and is a great way to amuse yourself during boring meetings. (Just kidding. . .errr. . .I always pay attention in meetings.)

6. Navigation systems.

The best, man.

7. The complete comeback of Apple products.

The iPod started it all, and then they were on a roll. Am in love with all from my MacBook Pro, to my iMac, to, of course, the iPhone . . . . .gasp. . . and my newest baby, the iPad! I even named her. "Patty." (Lame I know, but she's such a great friend.) I'm a self-proclaimed Apple snob--totally.

Case in point:

Colleague-friend: "I don't know what's wrong with this stupid computer!"

Me: "I do. It's not an Apple."

Colleague-friend: "Snob."

Me: "At least I ain't two-thousand-and-late like you." (Yes, I may have actually said this. . .)

8. Jog Strollers (Double and Single.)

Looovveee them. The only thing better than the single jog stroller is the "double wide."

9. One cup coffee makers.

Feeling warm and fuzzy just thinking of it. . . .

10. Digital photography.

You can take a trillion and delete all the ones that make your face look fat or where you forgot to hold in your tummy.

11. Amazon kindle and the whole book download revolution.

Love. It.

12. On-line Bill Pay.

The bomb. Haven't bought a stamp in like, ten years.

13. Cosmetics for people of color.

God bless you, MAC cosmetics.


14. iTunes.

Sigh. Yesterday on rounds my almost 80 year old patient told me she loves Nat King Cole and Sam Cooke, and wished she could find her old albums. I downloaded her two favorite songs right there on the spot, at her bedside, and played them for her on my iPhone. "Unforgettable" and "A Change is Gonna Come." You tell me what is doper than that? Better than any medication I could have ordered on her chart or any consult.

Her smile and surprise were absolutely the best things I have seen all month. The best. Hands down.

15. Google.

Heavens to mergatroid! What did we do without you, Google? How were we able to determine impostors from real folks while simultaneously finding the nearest "Yoforia" yogurt spot?



I'll stop at 15, but am sure more will come to mind. . . . . .aww shoot! Forgot to say on-line shopping and on-line pizza ordering . . . . .oh and can't forget on-line airport check-in. . . . .oh man, and YouTube. . . . . . .


__________________________________________________
Click here to hear Sam Cooke singing "A Change is Gonna Come" the song I played for my patient. . . . I wish you could have been there to see it. . . . .eyes closed, shaking her head from side to side, and snapping her long, leathery fingers. . . . sigh. . .makes me wanna cry just thinking of how happy hearing those songs made her. :)

"MY Sam Cooke" as Mrs. T called him