How to Have a Baby

Your Aunt Lucy will die of pancreatic cancer the morning of your OB/GYN appointment: the one where they check on your dilation, the position of the baby, the circumference of your belly. You are full term, due any day, and you waddle down the stairs of your condominium complex, down the sidewalk to the car. You notice a slight chill in the air, and wonder whether the leaves are at their fall peak these last days in October. The fall lasts forever in DC, you think. There’s still time for their color to brighten.

Unlock the car. Sit down.

Today is a Wednesday. If you have the baby today, and stay in the hospital until Friday, then you can get to the funeral by Saturday. They sell plane tickets for funerals cheap, you think. Maybe they’re free. Southwest Airlines now has nonstop flights from DC to Grand Rapids. It’ll take two hours, tops. The flight, not having the baby. That could take longer but if you have the baby today you could get to the funeral.

You turn the car on and decide to tell your OB/GYN that you need to be induced today. Your first baby was ten pounds and ten days late so you figure the baby you’re carrying now is around eight pounds. That’s plenty healthy. You’ll be fine. You are excited about this plan as you reverse the car out of its parking spot.

You pick up your phone to tell your husband about the plan. Maybe he can start looking for plane tickets. You hold the phone to your ear and think the sun is so bright as you drive towards it. You think of your grandma who’s been dead for six years, and your grandfather who died before you knew him. You wonder if they know about Lucy, their last baby; their surprise baby. You think it’d be nice if, when Lucy got to Heaven, her mom and dad were at the gates. Maybe standing with Jesus and then they are hugging and laughing and there is no more pain. That is so stupid, you think. You are crying because you miss your grandma and you never knew your grandfather, and you can’t believe Lucy is dead, and you are imagining Heaven to be something like Sesame Street.

Your husband doesn’t pick up the phone. He’s probably busy with your two-year-old daughter. You decide not to tell your husband about your plan. You’ll call him on the way to the hospital.

You flip the windshield down because the sun is overwhelming. You can barely see. You think everything is shaky and blurry. Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad. You turn on the radio and press the arrow on the volume frantically until the windows pulsate. The baby kicks. Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad.

Put the car in park. Walk up the steps to the office. Open the door.

Fill out your name and which doctor you are seeing at the reception desk. Write neatly and say hello to the nurse. She knows you now because you’ve been coming here pretty consistently for two years. She knows about the miscarriage, the late arrival of your first, the scare the baby you’re carrying now gave you because of all the bleeding. When she asks how you are, tell her you’re fine. Say it cheerfully because she knows you to be nice. Don’t tell her about Lucy. She expects the neat handwriting and your friendly face. Don’t be sad.

You sit and attempt to cross your legs but remember you can’t so you lean back and rest your hands on your stomach. The baby kicks. You think you felt a knee or maybe it was an elbow. You circle your stomach with your hands, and watch the buttons on your shirt shift slightly; one of your husband’s work shirts because that’s all you can fit into now. It smells like him, and you think maybe you should’ve told him your plan. He could be at home packing for the hospital, and for the funeral. Your two-year-old will need a dress. You too, probably. You won’t fit into any of your old clothes in two days. The baby will need something too, but you can figure that out once you know whether it’s a boy or a girl. You fiddle with the buttons on your husband’s cuff and notice the hem. You begin to study the pattern to see if the cloth matches where it’s been sewn.

***

I was 18 when Lucy told me about matching hems. It was a Christmas evening and I was bringing in the plates from dinner; the red ones she reserved for this time of year. Lucy didn’t like anyone in her kitchen during cooking and clean-up. None of the women in my family did. They liked to do things by themselves, but none of them were very good guests—they all liked to make their way in the kitchen and help when help wasn’t wanted. She wouldn’t tell anyone not to help, that wasn’t her style. But somehow, as family chopped or sautéed, she’d quietly move about, checking on her twice baked potatoes nobody could replicate, or swirling a pat of butter into the green beans and giving me a wink as she stirred.

I loved watching Lucy work. She was graceful and confident; like she knew what she was doing would be perfect and she had all the time in the world to do it. I was always so fidgety and frantic—never knowing where I fit in or what it was I was supposed to be doing. Watching her made me peaceful. I hoped I could be like her someday.

I placed the red plates in the dishwasher and Lucy asked me to make a pot of coffee. She opened a cupboard with coffee and filters in it, then walked across the kitchen next to the fridge and back to me, with a four pound bag of sugar. She thunked it down on the counter. “This’ll be enough for you, won’t it?” She laughed and elbowed me in the side. Back then, I scooped large amounts of sugar in my coffee, and Lucy loved to tease.

While the coffee brewed, Lucy wiped down the counters, and I scanned the kitchen to see if there was anything I could do; not so much because I wanted to help but because I didn’t want to leave. I loved the clean kitchen and the smell of coffee brewing, and that it was just me and Lucy in there together.

“Can I get the red mugs?” I asked.

“Yes, and get the cookies, too.”

I lined up the mugs and opened three Tupperware containers of cookies: frosted sugar cookies in the shape of candy canes, gingerbread men, and chocolate cookies with melted Andes mints in the center. Lucy made the same three kinds of cookies every year and every year my family would have a serious discussion over which cookie was the best.

Lucy brought over the pot of coffee and poured some into two mugs, then scooted the cookies over to me. I took a sugar cookie. She took an Andes mint one.

“I love your dress,” she said. She held her mug close.

“Thank you.” I loved that she loved it. Lucy dressed impeccably.

“It’s made well,” she said, then took a sip of coffee. “Do you want to know how I know?”

I nodded. I wanted to know anything Lucy wanted to tell me.

“Because the pattern matches on either side of the hem.” She pointed to my side, where the hem was, and I looked down studying the argyle pattern on either side where the dress had been sewn. I’d never noticed that before.

***

Your thumb feels numb from rubbing the hem of your husband’s shirt, but you keep rubbing as you rehearse what you’ll say to the doctor while you wait: I need to be induced, death in the family, must be at funeral in Grand Rapids. Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad.

Your name is called. Stand up. Walk down the hall to the examination room. Sit on the examination table and roll up your sleeve. While the nurse takes your blood pressure, you remember the time Lucy first held your eldest. It was your daughter’s first Christmas. She was two months old. The drive from Washington DC to Grand Rapids was horrendous and you and your husband vowed never to do this again. “They can come to us,” the two of you exclaimed over the baby’s screaming and the slushy snow that hit the windshield. You thought the screaming would never stop, but you got to Lucy’s and she took the baby and did you think the baby smiled in Lucy’s arms? No, that couldn’t have happened. It seemed to you though, that your daughter was saying, “This is what I wanted. To meet Lucy.”

And the next year you did it again; came for Christmas. The baby was walking and following Lucy everywhere. “Woocey! Woocey!” she called and Lucy would scoop her up and twirl her around.

The nurse tells you your blood pressure is high. “Everything OK?” she asks.

Nod your head yes, because you are afraid to open your mouth. If you open your mouth you’ll cry.

“The doctor will be with you shortly.”

Focus on what you need to say while you wait.

***

When I was two, my first full phrase was, “Don’t talk to me, don’t even look at me.” I would say it with my arm outstretched and my hand up in a gesture that meant people were not to get any closer. I guess I did it because I’m shy, though I wasn’t so shy as to make it clear I wanted people to stay away from me. But I never said this to Lucy. Besides my mom and my dad, she was the only one who I’d let pick me up, or talk to me. This is because Lucy captivated me. I don’t know why at two years old this was so, but as I got older I started naming things about Lucy I loved: she was cool, chic, she had a great loud laugh, and a beautiful voice.

When I was in grade school, my mom kept my hair short. So short, people often asked if I was a boy or a girl. My mom thought short hair was hip and bold. She was probably right, but I craved pigtails and braids with matching ribbons. That is, until Lucy got a short haircut.

Her haircut made its appearance when she and my cousin Tara came to Chicago for a trip to the Museum of Science and Industry and a Bulls’ game. Wherever we went that day, Lucy got looks. I was young, but old enough to know when people thought somebody was beautiful. Walking alongside her, I tried to mimic how Lucy walked, how she held herself. I tried to imagine being beautiful like her.

It was in the coal mine exhibit, where you get in an elevator that simulates going into a mine, that I caught a reflection of myself. I didn’t look anything like Lucy and probably never would. I started fidgeting; tugging at my t-shirt and trying to smooth the cowlicks in my hair. The elevator jerked, plunging lower into the museum. The dossier began to talk to us. Lucy leaned over to me and whispered, “Never grow out your hair. You look fabulous.”

That evening, after Lucy and my cousin left, I wrote Lucy a letter. I told her how much I looked up to her; how much I wanted to be like her. I told her I loved that we had the same haircut and hoped it made me look like her. I re-read the letter and lost my nerve. I threw it in the trash.

A few days later, the letter was on my mom’s dresser. I’m sure my mom was trying to salvage it because she thought it was sweet and wanted to let Lucy know, but I read it again and winced at the mushy sentiments. This time, I tore it in two and brought it to the garbage bins behind our garage. I hated that I couldn’t come up with the words to express how I felt about Lucy.

***

The doctor walks in; your favorite one in the practice. Her shoes are the color of peaches, so bright against her lab coat, and they click loudly on the tile. They are the first thing that make you happy this morning. She asks how you are doing, and you say fine. You lie back and she examines you, making small talk as she checks the baby. You stare at the ceiling wondering what it was you were supposed to say. Were you really going to ask her to induce you? As though you are at Burger King placing an order?

“Everything looks great,” she says and you can hear her pull the gloves off and roll towards the garbage. “Probably will be another week or so,” she says and the lid on the trash smacks shut. You flinch.

When she extends her hand to help you up she asks if you have any questions. The paper crinkles beneath you and you are winded and a little dizzy when you say, “No.” You put your hand on your stomach because the baby kicked.

“It was good to see you,” you say.

Drive home.

Nothing left to do but wait. Decide to make some meals for after the baby comes. Things that can freeze and that you write “425 for 45 min.” on cute Tupperware with masking tape and a Sharpie pen, then neatly stack in your freezer. You hate those sorts of meals.

***

Lucy made Tara and I vests one year. Mine was a purple puffer vest with a rainbow patch on the upper left side. It smelled of down and the material was shiny. Tara’s was pink and tied together with white ribbon. We wore them in the fall for apple picking, or when we had races down Lucy’s driveway on our hippity hops; and the fall leaves looked like sprinkles on an ice-cream cone.

When Tara and I went through a major Strawberry Shortcake phase Lucy made a huge play mat with houses, shops, grass, mountains, and a stream that ran through the village. We played for hours on it; the possibilities of story lines for Strawberry and her crew were endless. Lucy left out a place for Purple Pie Man because she knew I was afraid of him.

Lucy owned a copy shop about twenty minutes from where I went to college. At first, people came in for postage, laminating, and shipping packages. But Lucy decorated her store with photos of her children, nieces and nephews. We were on calendars, Christmas cards, even coffee mugs. Soon, customers asked if she’d show them how to create those projects with their photos. Lucy became the go-to for just about any DIY project in Rockford, Michigan.

Lucy helped me design and print my wedding invitations. I came over one afternoon and we sat in the backroom of the store, listening to James Taylor and stamping two intertwined wedding rings on the front of each invitation.

The stamp went right above the verse in the Bible where Ruth tells Naomi that she’s going wherever Naomi goes. When I picked it, I didn’t realize she was talking to her mother-in-law. I thought it was a promise to her husband. I confessed this to Lucy and then said, “I don’t think I could ever say that to Jesse’s mom.”

Lucy laughed. “Nope,” she said as she stamped, “I don’t think I could say it to my mother-in-law, either.” She stacked the invitations, placing a sheet of parchment paper in between each so the ink wouldn’t bleed. She turned towards me, an arm bent and resting on her hip. “What was Ruth thinking?”

Later that afternoon, a woman came in with a package to ship. She talked to Lucy like they were friends, which wasn’t surprising. I stayed in the back, but could tell from the tone this woman was going through some troubles. Lucy came back with the package and put it on the weigh station. She prepared it to be shipped, saying nothing, just patiently fitting the tape alongside the sides of the box so it sealed. She smoothed the tape, and peeled the postage sticker off to place on the box.

She returned to the table we were working at. “That poor woman,” she said.

I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want to pry. Also, sometimes the women on my mom’s side of the family just needed to say a thing and not have anyone respond. In fact, sometimes if you did respond, you would get the silent treatment or an earful and you never knew which it’d be, but you’d be sorry either way. So I said nothing, and continued stamping.

“She’s having a hard time paying her bills,” Lucy continued. “Her husband lost his job and they have three girls in college.” Lucy shook her head and sighed.

She didn’t say any more about it, but Lucy made a care package for the lady. She filled it with baked goods and candles and gift cards for grocery shopping, Target, even the local hair salon and Nordstrom’s. She dropped it off at her home with no card. She didn’t want the woman to know it was her.

This was over fifteen years ago, and I still don’t think I could say Ruth 1:16 to my mother-in-law. But I could say it to Lucy.

***

The wake is over and so is the funeral, and you are standing in your kitchen in a puddle of water. Your refrigerator has broken. It’s 80 degrees in November in Washington DC, you’re nine months pregnant, Aunt Lucy is dead, and all the meals you made and froze are slowly rotting. You realize you don’t know the first thing about buying a refrigerator. Do you get those at Target?

Your belly tightens. There’s no pain, but you know what’s happening. Touch your belly and wait for the pain. Call your husband. Tell him you need a new fridge and that you had your first contraction.

In the middle of the night you feel the dull pain paired with the tightening. This is useful pain, you think, and you are thankful for it. It serves a purpose and you are not afraid of this pain because it will go away. But when will the pain of Lucy’s absence go away? What purpose does that serve?

The stronger the contractions get the angrier you get. You wanted to be at the funeral. You needed to be there. You are so angry you think you could have this baby at home, but you wake your husband up to tell him what’s going on.

“Time to go,” you say.

At the hospital, the contractions stop, but the nurses have you dress in a gown, hook you up to a heart monitor, and tell you to walk around the birthing ward to see if they start up again. They don’t.

“You’ll have to go home,” a nurse tells you.

“Please don’t make me go home,” you beg. “Can you give me Pitocin? I had it with my last baby, and she came right away.” You almost laugh at how easy it is to ask to be induced. Now. Ten days later.

The nurses laugh. They think you won’t be able to handle Pitocin. They think you’re weak because you’re crying, and before this you were smiling and polite with your “yes, pleases” and “no, thank you’s.”

***

Lucy was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in August and died two months later. For a while though, she fought. She looked into chemo, and even heard about a procedure in Europe that she was thinking about trying. But one afternoon, she was sitting in her hospital room, alone, after the doctor told her neither of these things would likely work. That day, she decided to go home and have hospice take care of her.

This was maybe three weeks before she died, and she wrote about her decision to go home on a website the hospital set up for patients so they could keep in touch with friends and family; like a blog. I checked it everyday.

In the entry where she said she was going home, she wrote something about the sun coming into her room and feeling God’s presence. She said that was all she needed. It’s not all you need, I thought. You need to stay here. God needs to make you better. I don’t want Him to shine through your window. I want Him to fight because you can’t do it. Because if He doesn’t, you will die and I don’t want you to die.

During this time, my baby, Harper, was not in the position babies are supposed to be in when they get closer to being born. Her head was supposed to be down; her butt and legs near my ribs. Harper was wrapped around me like a tire.

The doctors said that they could induce me, and turn the baby but it was risky. The umbilical cord could get wrapped around the baby’s neck. If we went this route, they’d induce me at night, turn the baby (a procedure that sounded awful), and keep me in the hospital overnight to monitor the baby’s heart. If it dropped, I’d have an emergency C-section.

The other option was to not turn the baby and schedule a C-section a few days before the due date to make sure I didn’t go into labor. I didn’t like this option too much either, but Harper was in such a strange position and the doctors said it was very unlikely she would turn.

I scheduled the surgery and tried to read up on what to expect with this sort of birth, but I got bored and read InStyle magazine instead. I think I was reading an article on how to make your hair look like you’d just been to the beach when it felt like I was being pushed on a merry-go-round. The entire room spun and I had to hold on to either side of the chair I was sitting on because I thought I was falling. Harper moved.

I didn’t know that at the time. I found out the next day at my doctor’s appointment when he asked why in the world I was scheduled for a C-section. “I can feel the head,” he said. “The baby is right where it needs to be.”

My mom’s side of the family, a bunch of loud Greeks who find out everything about everyone, even when one of you is across the country, sent me congratulation messages. “See?” Lucy emailed me. “Miracles happen.” She was about a week from dying.

During Lucy’s last days, my parents, brother, cousins, and my aunt and uncle all came to be with her. Jesse and I talked about going but what if I went into labor in the car or on the plane? We were nervous about taking the chance and decided not to go. Instead, I sat down to write an email to Lucy—a goodbye letter. I wanted to handwrite it, but I wasn’t sure it would get there in time. As it was, Lucy was in and out of consciousness, and my mom would most likely need to read what I wrote to her.

I wanted to tell Lucy she was my favorite aunt. I wanted to say that I wanted to be just like her; that she was beautiful and stylish, and I loved her cooking and how she decorated her home. I wanted to tell her that I loved that she blasted Jim Croche but also Mozart in her home. I wanted to tell her she was the most exquisite, intriguing person I’ve known.

But I didn’t. It all felt trite. So instead, I told her I would watch over Tara, not that Tara needed it, but I said it anyway. I said I loved her. And then I told her thank you for standing in the kitchen and showing me what a good hem is. The email was maybe three lines. I sent it and spent the next three days in bed with a fever.

***

You can’t believe you are standing in a tissue-like piece of fabric that doesn’t close in a hospital at 4 a.m. with nurses laughing at you. You rip the heart monitor off and throw it at the wall. “I’m not going home!” you scream.

“Bring her to triage,” one nurse says, standing up and taking you by the elbow.

Minutes later, you’re in a birthing room, Pitocin dripping into your veins.

Between contractions you hold on to your husband’s hand and look out the window. The sun is starting to lighten the black sky. You can see the outlines of the trees. They’ll show their color soon. Pain. Close your eyes and ride it out. When it’s over, ask for an epidural.

The epidural makes you sleepy, and you doze on and off for a while.

***

I have nightmares pretty frequently. Lucy knew about this because she heard me once in the middle of the night gasping for air. She came into Tara’s room to get me, and held my hand as she led me out of the room so we wouldn’t wake Tara.

“I used to have nightmares, too,” she told me. We were sitting on her couch in her living room.

“Grandma used to say, ‘Sweet dreams, Lucy,’ and I’d say, ‘No dreams! No dreams!’” We laughed quietly and she put her arm around me. “Do you know the song about the angels?” she asked. I nodded. My mom and dad sang it to me.

“I’m going to sing it to you and then you go back to bed with the angels, OK?” I nodded again.

When at night I go to sleep,
Fourteen angels watch do keep.
Two my head are guarding:
Two my feet are guiding:
Two are on my right hand;
Two are on my left hand;
Two who warmly cover;
Two who o'er me hover;
Two to whom 'tis given
To guide my steps to Heaven.

***

The doctor comes in, checks you, and tells you you’re ready. She turns to put a mask, new gloves, and booties on. A crowd of nurses steps up, two at your feet, one at your side and your husband at your other. A nurse brings your knee close to your shoulder and your husband follows her example. Your baby moves between contractions, and you love your child for the silent communication the two of you are having: “Here we go, Mama. I’m ready.”

“Push,” the doctor tells you.

You breathe in and push.

“1-2-3-4,” the nurse at the end counts slowly and steadily, and you keep eye contact with her. “5-6-7-8.” Stop. Drop your head back on the pillow.

“Push.”

Two pushes, and the baby is born. A girl. She is placed on your chest and you say hello. You think she looks at you as though she’s seen you before.

The nurses clean your daughter, and the doctor takes care of you. Your husband walks back and forth between the two of you. They swaddle the baby up and put a pink and blue striped hat on her head. They give her back to you.

Babies are coming fast and furious this morning. Two were born before your daughter, and now, the nurses and the doctor leave to help the other moms. Your husband has left too, just for a few minutes to call family and tell them the baby was born.

While you are alone with your daughter, you hear another woman in the hallway. You can tell she’s going through the big contractions, the kind the books call “transitional” because they prepare you to deliver. They’re the most painful, the most terrifying, and they give you the most strength. This is the pain that says life is on its way.

You can hear the doctor tell the woman it’s too late for an epidural; she’s too far along. “NO!” she wails. “NO!” she says it louder. Her pleading brings tears to your eyes. Even though you’re just listening to it, you don’t think you can take any more pain.

“Please,” she screams and you bring your baby close.

“Make it go fast,” you whisper in her ear. You hear the wheels of the gurney squeak as she is moved into the birthing room. You know the nurses are positioning themselves around the woman, “Be with her,” you whisper again in your baby’s ear. Your baby is so calm, sleeping and breathing deeply.

You look outside. The sun is so bright now, and the leaves seem to sparkle. You begin to rock your baby, side to side, kissing her cheeks and nose, and the motion soothes you, steadies you as you listen to the woman scream in pain and you think, When will it end? When will it end? When will it end?

Callie Feyen lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan with her husband, Jesse, and their two daughters, Hadley and Harper. She's written two books: Twirl: My Life in Stories, Writing, & Clothes, and The Teacher Diaries: Romeo and Juliet, both published by TS Poetry Press, and she has essays in Coffee + Crumbs' Magic of Motherhood book. Callie holds an MFA in creative writing from Seattle Pacific University.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.