Standing On A Chair

Telling it like I see it…

Rants from the Chair: On What Happens When You Marry Your Shrink – Part 15

The final few weeks of my pregnancy were basically hell on earth.  I was hungry but couldn’t eat.  There was simply no room inside me for the food.  My sinusitis was so bad even the prescription nasal spray wouldn’t work anymore.  I got my lesson in sleep deprivation earlier than most.

And on one particularly awful morning, when I was coming out of the bathroom for about the seventeenth time, Andrew told his visiting colleague, “She’s in a state of agitated depression.”

“Agitated depression?” I screamed.  “Agitated depression my ass!  I haven’t enjoyed a bowel movement for a month, and I’m scared shitless that if I try too hard, I’ll give birth to my baby in the fucking toilet!”

Then one glorious spring day in April, I left Dr. Frankel’s office in Century City after a routine checkup, and drove east up Wilshire, then cut over to Sunset Boulevard for a visit with Andrew’s bed-ridden mother Bert.  Although I have not mentioned her up until this moment, the truth is, I had grown to love her, seeing her as often as I could.  Absolutely all of her joints were twisted and crippled from rheumatoid arthritis.

Anyway, a few blocks before turning onto her street, I felt a gush of warm liquid spill out of me.  At first I thought I had peed or something, but oh no…this was very different.  And it just kept pumping out in what felt like enormous volumes.  I managed to park in front of Bert’s apartment building, where I sat until I thought the floods had stopped.  Soaking wet from the waste down, I made my way to her second floor apartment and let myself in.

“Towels, Bert!  Where are the towels?”

“In the bathroom of course, dolly!  What is the matter?”

 “Oh my God, more is coming!  Water is pouring out of me, Bert!”

I think back so fondly to that time with Andrew’s mother, sitting in the chair beside her bed, all wrapped in towels, with her so excited, “sitting on schpilkas,” as she always said, her version of “pins and needles.”  

I called Dr. Frankel, of course, who advised me to go home and wait for labor to begin.  I also called Andrew, whose answering services wouldn’t interrupt him in session, so I left a message.  I drove home draped in towels, my wet clothes in a paper bag.

By late afternoon labor had not begun, so Dr. Frankel said, “Go to Cedars now, I’ll meet you there.  We need to induce.”

Andrew was reluctant to leave work, so he told me to take a taxi to the hospital.  Which I did.  Dr. Frankel put me on pitocin and sat with me for hours, while I screamed with each painful assault from inside me, swearing I would have this baby naturally.

When Andrew finally showed up, he was completely shitfaced.

“Where in the goddamn hell have you been you bastard!” I shrieked in unison with another huge labor pain.  “Fuck this shit, Dr. Frankel!  I want that epidural and I want it now!”

They scrambled to find someone from anesthesia, I was finally and blissfully dead from the waist down, Andrew argued with staff about having to wear hospital scrubs and a cap into delivery, Dr. Frankel threatened to have him thrown out if he didn’t, and the next thing I knew, I was on the table pushing, and Andrew said, “Wow, he just cut you open from pussy to asshole,” and then there was a baby covered in cottage cheese lying on my breast, breathing and beautiful, and I cried, “It’s a girl, Andrew!  We got our baby girl!”

Andrew went home shortly thereafter, and did not return to visit during my two-day stay at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.

Andrew didn’t want to drive in rush hour traffic, so I took another taxi, this time going home, holding my beautiful newborn baby in my arms.

An hour later, as I sat up in bed on an extremely painful episiotomy, nursing little Farrah with a thick and sticky substance called colostrum, Andrew walked in with a plate of roasted chicken, boiled potatoes and green beans and said as he placed it beside me with a napkin, “One of my patients is having a party tonight.  It’s a big deal for him, so I promised I’d be there to provide support.”

As I silently watched Andrew leave, I realized how much I had grown to hate him. 

I didn’t think things could possibly get any worse than they already were.

But they did.

Stay tuned for Part 16


October 4, 2011 - Posted by | Psychotherapy | , , , , , , , , ,

1 Comment »

  1. I want more! i want the whole book!

    Comment by geri wright | October 4, 2011 | Reply

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