It was March 11, 1998. I was due the following day. It was pretty cold outside, and I had an appointment with my OB, who said, Marisa, I don't think this baby will be coming tomorrow. He hasn't descended, you're not effaced. I had horrible heartburn, and was munching away on TUMS with calcium, and thought, All right. Oh well. I had already begun my maternity leave, so I just wandered around the city. I couldn't keep still. We had just moved, and I was unpacking boxes, and putting the books in the bookcases. I had a craving for steak. Steak and mashed potatoes. So I went to the butcher. My husband came home from work. I told him what the doctor said. He had already decided that he would take the following day off, which was fine with me. I wanted some chocolate ice cream.

We went to bed. At midnight, I woke up to use the bathroom. And behold, my water broke. Gushed, all over the bed, all over the floor. I was strangely detached (and remained that way for a large part of my labor). I woke my husband, who grumbled something and went back to sleep. I called my doctor, who told me to call again when the contractions (which were about 10 minutes apart) came every 4 or 5 minutes. I didn't go back to sleep. I sat in the living room in the dark. We are up on the 32nd floor, and from my windows I can see the lights of Manhattan, the necklace lights of the bridges, and glow of Yankee Stadium. I stayed awake and looked out the window, and waited for my son to be born. But the contractions, instead of getting closer together, got farther apart (was this supposed to happen? I swear, everything I learned in childbirth class gushed out of me with the water). The contractions got farther and farther apart, until they stopped, altogether (at about 5 a.m.) at which point I called my doctor again, who told me not to worry, and to call her back in about 2 hours.

I was pacing the floors. Fluid was still coming out of me and I was pacing, pacing. When I went to use the bathroom, I saw that the fluid was this strange brownish-green color. So I called the doctor again, at which point, she told me to come to the hospital. I woke my husband and told him to bring me.

The nurses hooked me up to a fetal monitor, and said, You're not having any contractions! I felt great, except for this brownish-greenish fluid that's still coming out of me. Apparently, Jude had a bowel movement, and the amniotic fluid was tinged by the Meconium. Apparently, also, it could be a sign of fetal distress. So I'm put on Pitocin at 9:00 a.m.. Then I didn't feel so great. I had a hard time concentrating on breathing through the cramps (I thought if I called them cramps instead of contractions, I would have an easier time of moving through them -- psyching myself that this was menstrual, and not birth related). I wasn't feeling well at all. I sh*t on myself and was mortified. Horrified. I wanted drugs. They gave me Demerol, which was ridiculous, because you can feel the burn of the drug as it enters the IV line, and then makes you instantly dopey, but does nothing for the pain. When that wore off, boy was I glad. Hours went by, literally. I got to the hospital at 7:00 a.m., and at this point it was only about 1 or 2 in the afternoon, and nothing. But I was succeeding at removing my essence from my body, so long as I wasn't bothered by anyone. DH was watching TV (apparently, he even went out to have a couple of beers -- I was clueless. I don't even remember him not being there). One of the nurses thought I would be more comfortable in a larger room, so off we're wheeled, dh following behind. And indeed, this room is bigger, and I'll be able to walk around, and sit in some very comfortable looking chairs. DH is happy too. The chairs in this room are far more comfortable than the one he had been sitting in.

But lo and behold, something had gone wrong. They couldn't find the baby's heartbeat. I don't believe I have ever saw a group of human beings mobilize so quickly and so efficiently. I was given an epidural, and pumped full of something that made me completely numb from the waist down. I thought two things. First, I thought at last! (no more pain), and so this is what it must be like to be paralyzed. I wasn't upset, I wasn't scared, the very efficient staff was all comforting me as though I were upset, or scared, as though I should be upset or scared. My husband looked at me with concern in his eyes as we literally ran into the operating room (I didn't run, but the doctor and nurse who were pushing me ran). And I remember just shrugging my shoulders. There was nothing to be done. So, we are in the OR, and dh has a funny scrub hat and smock on, and a doctor is running the edge of a piece of cardboard along my belly asking me whether I could feel it...my OB came in, and sweetheart that she is, took a look at me, gave my arm a squeeze, and then checked the machine (the fetal monitor), whose plugged had fell out in the move between the small birthing room to the larger birthing room. Once she plugged it in, there was my boy's heartbeat, strong, and just fast enough. So back we go, into the smaller birthing room again.

It's about 4 p.m.. I slept for a bit (with numb legs and numb abdomen, it was easy). It was easy until the drugs wore off, and I entered transition (almost simultaneously). HOLY CRAP! I couldn't believe the pain. DH decided to capture this Kodak moment (I don't remember him taking any pictures, but there they are). And so I pushed and pushed, and I was told to push and push, and I'm thinking to myself: boy, I really want to go home; why are they bothering me?; why are they looking at me?; why can't I just go home?; why didn't they do the C-section when they had the chance, and I was so nice and numb? I also thought, the next time a contraction comes on, I'm not going to tell them, and I'm not going to push. All the while I pushed and pushed. My doctor was saying something about a lip -- the lip of the cervix that she had to push over the baby's head. My hair got all knotted up, and I remembered, just then, that I forgot to bring a comb with me. I'm wheeled into the delivery room. DH is still taking pictures. I'm still pushing. And then, relief. Glorious relief. My son was born. But why isn't he crying? DH and OB are telling me He's fine, he's fine. What a Big Boy. But I can't hear him, and I can't see him. A pediatrician was standing by, and right in the room, he checked Jude, makes sure he's OK, and swaddled him, and gave him to DH (who whispers in his ear). At this point, the OB leaned with all her weight against my abdomen. What are you doing to me now? She swore it would only be a few minutes more, and then all would be well. She apologized for cutting me. I didn't even know she did that until she apologized. And then it's my turn. I'm so afraid I'm going to drop him. I'm so tired. I feel so weak. And I can't believe how absolutely perfect his little ear is. How it swirls, like a conch shell. How good he smells. How intently he seems to be looking at me. At that point, I could have named him Epiphany -- but he was Jude already, and beside, I had the epiphany, he was the conduit. His second gift to me.