“We hate ’em, but we hate dead babies even more,” Troy says.
Then I speak. “And now, once and for all, Deborah, get the hell out of this birthing room. I will not hesitate to call Security to have you removed from a restricted area.”
Deborah Franklin leaves.
Troy smiles and turns to me. “You’ve got such a nice way with words.”
My voice goes loud as I say, “The mother is at nine centimeters, and …” I pause. I watch. “And now she’s ready.”
Val screams out, “I need one of those epidemics.”
Troy and I, of course, know what she means, and I’m hoping Troy will take on the job of telling her that it’s way too late in the process to even consider an epidural.
“This game is in the final inning, baby doll,” Troy says. “You just breathe some quick breaths and push when Lucy tells you. You’re with us. We’re all a team.”
Val speaks through her tears. “But I need some painkillers. I can’t—”
“Val,” I say. “Let me ask you something. Why do you think everybody always disagrees with me?”
“How would I know? All’s I know is that I can’t go on with all this pain,” she says.
“Val,” says Troy. “Nobody in God’s green world can stop you from going on with it. This isn’t in your hands now. This is no longer your decision. Your babies coming out is part of the good Lord’s plan. So … big push.”
The word push is barely out of Troy’s mouth when a baby comes sliding out of Val.
That’s right—sliding like a Snickers bar out of a candy machine. I don’t know whether it’s the quickest and easiest delivery I’ve ever helped with, but it’s in the running.
Even more spectacular is this: we are holding a remarkably healthy baby girl. Cord gets cut. Eyes get cleaned. Blanket tucked in and around the infant girl. On the scale: five pounds, three ounces. That’s a nice size for a twin, a very nice size. It’s especially, miraculously fine for a mom who’s a serious drug user. Pediatrics will test the baby for infant addiction, but the signs so far are showing that we’ve got a normal, healthy, bouncing baby girl on our hands.
“Gimme. Gimme. Gimme my baby,” Val is yelling.
When there are multiple births, the firstborn baby is placed on the mother’s shoulder as the next baby is delivered. It’s comfortable and safe for the baby and the mama. It also leaves a nice twin-size place for the second baby. Troy moves to rest the first baby on Val’s shoulder. She has an idea of her own.
“Let’s rest a few minutes while I get to know this one. Let’s not go get the new baby right away,” Val says.
Troy’s face—and I guess my own—clearly looks like he’s thinking, Is this woman just plain insane?
“I hurt too much,” she sobs. “I have to stop. I’ll spend the time learning to know my baby.”
“We don’t have time for a discussion, Val. There’s a baby inside you who’s got to come out.”
This conversation takes place while I am wrist-deep inside Val.
Troy has now handed the first baby off to Tracy Anne.
Meanwhile, I notice three ob-gyn residents have arrived in the room. A motley crew, as they say: one black, one white, one Indian. Surprisingly, the white resident is a man. That’s fairly unusual these days—a male ob-gyn—but now’s not the time to start a discussion about it. The group of doctors-to-be is quiet. I warn them to hold all their questions until after the delivery. Actually, I’d like to ask them to leave. But I don’t. I just warn them to keep very, very quiet. The mom and the babies are starring in this production.
Troy begins massaging Val’s belly. She has one fewer baby inside her, but her belly remains large and hard. We’ve never been sure that this belly massage has an effect on a patient, but it’s become almost like a good-luck gesture. We’ve just got to do it.
“Go easy, Troy. Go easy,” I say.
He shoots a look at me. It’s gentle, yes, but it says, I don’t need directions, Lucy.
Tracy Anne has returned from depositing Baby Number One in the nursery. She approaches me, stands close to me, then whispers, “They’ve already got a social worker waiting to see Val when she’s well enough. They know she’s a user.”
“I never filed a warning with the city,” I say. Then I realize what must have happened.
“I bet that bitch Franklin notified Social Services,” I say. “We can’t worry about it now. Damn it. Give us a hand here.”
Tracy Anne nods and begins wiping Val’s head and lips and throat with our endless supply of moist lavender cloths. I keep trying unsuccessfully to gently manipulate the fetus into a more “benign” delivery position. To be honest, this procedure rarely works. And this time is no exception. What’s more, there is a small but steady stream of blood beginning to cover my gloved hands.
“I’ll call surgery,” says Troy. “She needs a section.”
“Wait,” I say. “I’ve got an idea.”
“I’ve got an idea, too,” Troy says. “My idea is, let’s get someone in to do a C-section.”
I ignore him. I need to give it one more try. Not to worry, I don’t ever object to calling in an OB person if necessary. But I know when to make that call.
“Help me move her,” I say. I remove my bloody gloves and pull on a new pair. “Come on. You take one side. I’ll take the other. Let’s get her into the bathroom. Tracy Anne, go inside the bathroom and turn the shower on full blast, very hot, as hot as someone can stand it.”
“But she’s bleeding, Lucy,” Troy says, his voice full of alarm with a touch of outrage.
“Just do what I tell you to do, for Chrissake,” I snap back at him. “Tracy Anne, go into the bathroom and blast the shower water up as hot as it’ll go.”
Tracy Anne rushes into the adjacent bathroom. Troy and I begin lifting the screaming, weeping Val.
“Lucy, have you ever done this before?” Troy says.
I don’t answer him.
CHAPTER 6
VAL IS ALTERNATELY SCREAMING and sobbing. I test the shower water with my hand. Tracy Anne has, as always, followed instructions. It is full-blast hot. I lower it to a still very hot, but not scalding, temperature. Then I slip Val’s hospital gown up and over and off.
No, I have never used this method before. But my mama was a practicing midwife in West Virginia, in a place and at a time when there wasn’t always a doc to do a C-section. Sometimes you’ve got to do whatever it takes to get the baby moving.
Val vomits on the bathroom floor as we try, as gently as possible, to get her into the shower stall. We three midwives are wearing disposable paper slippers. The soles of these slippers are so well engineered that you could walk on a frozen lake and not fall.
I ask Val to lean against the wall. She doesn’t move. I realize that one of us is going to have to get in there with her. It certainly won’t be Troy; he’s way too big. I step into the shower myself. I move Val’s hands onto the tiled shower wall.
“The shower helps with the pain,” I say.