One Good Egg: An Illustrated Memoir (40 page)

We said good-bye to Nurse Linda—her shift was ending—and there was a sudden rush to get us over to the postpartum unit. Some other delusional laboring mother must have wanted our tub.

Lorene held Aurora while I showered in our new room. I double-padded the supersize mesh underpants in my self-care kit and pulled my sweatpants up and over. “It makes a nice package,” I said to Lorene, grabbing my crotch as I entered the room, and I heard my dad’s laugh. He had Aurora nestled in his arms, sitting in a chair at the end of the bed.

“She’s quite a package,” he said, gazing down at her. “I couldn’t wait. I booked my flight for this morning and I talked to Jonathan after I landed. He had me take a cab to the hospital.”

Steve and Bruce were the next to arrive. Bruce stood back while Steve held his daughter. Then Bruce cradled Aurora while Steve peered at her out of the same fog of disbelief. Just about three years ago, he had handed someone some jars and now, here she was!

My mother appeared with a boxful of pastries. My sister Robin and Aurora’s “brother” David rounded out the day’s visitors. Visiting hours ended at 8:00, and everyone was gone well before then. At a few minutes before nine, Lorene looked up and said, “Look who is . . . ”

Dr. Finn, my neurosurgeon, stood in the doorway, his surgical mask hanging under his chin. “I hear congratulations are in order,” he said. Lorene handed Aurora over; Dr. Finn smiled at her and then snatched off her cap to inspect her skull. “Perfect, just perfect. C-section?”

“No! 100% natural, awake baby delivery!” He’d bought Aurora a bunny from the hospital gift shop. I had to catch myself or I’d start believing he was worth it, the brain surgery, I mean.

Lorene stretched out on the fold-out chair-bed by my bed. “It wasn’t even twenty-four hours ago,” she said. I looked at the clock. When I turned back, she handed me a small box. “For the amazing mother of our beautiful daughter.”

“You’re the most amazing partner,” I said. (Not so original, but consider the sleep deprivation and perineal trauma.)

She laughed. “Meredith and I both said you could’ve had her in the middle of the woods, saying, ‘EEEEEEE’ against some tree.”

I shook my head and pulled Lorene to me with my baby-free arm. “I was way too scared to do this alone.”

That first night, we were awakened for various checks and tests. Lorene would go with Aurora and report back. With each “pass” (and intervening nap), my confidence mounted.

“Her ears are perfect!” Lorene announced as she rolled Aurora into the room. Her ears
weren’t
perfect; it was plain to see that one looked like a rooster’s comb, but a nurse had assured us that ears are made of cartilage and it would continue to fill in over the next few weeks.

“She was an amazing partner, too,” I said. Aurora’s heartbeat was rock-steady every time they’d strapped a fetal monitor onto me, and she nursed two of her first three hours on the planet. She was still in the size dregs, but we were never interested in becoming percentile parents.

I went downstairs to get us good coffee on Saturday morning and got back to the room just as they were broadcasting the nursing-bathing-class reminder. Lorene grabbed Aurora, I held on to the coffees, and we headed back to the elevator beyond the front desk. “Hold up—let’s see some ID, please!” I looked behind the desk to see who had said it.

“We’re just going to the nursing-bathing class downstairs,” I said, pushing the “down” button.

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Your baby is not allowed off this floor until you go home. You shouldn’t even be in the hall without one of those carts. And whichever one of you is going, you’re going to need some ID to get back on the floor.”

I’d made it back onto the floor with nothing but sugar packets in my pockets when I’d gone to get coffee. Lorene preempted any further conversation. “Let’s take her back to the room. I’ll stay, you get your ID and go to class.” So I breast-fed and bathed a pretend baby
like taking a bicycling class without a bicycle
while Lorene watched our real baby. And when I got back to the room, I breast-fed our real baby while an underemployed lactation consultant bestowed the La Leche League seal of approval upon us (me, my breasts, and my baby).

The Red Sox parade shut out all visitors until late afternoon. We watched the parade coverage and napped. I wrote. We had our meals brought up from downstairs; we could’ve been staying in a hotel staffed by nurses.

Dr. Middleton handled our discharge the next morning in a surprisingly perfunctory manner. I felt compelled to draw it out. I asked her a question about baby care; she gave me the not-my-department “ask your pediatrician” answer and was gone.