Another Molly Moment

By Paul Roberts

“You’re supposed to be in pain.”

Yeah. Pitocin is supposed to do that to you. But it wasn’t, at least in my wife’s case. And apparently, when it comes to giving birth, nobody really knows what is going to happen until it’s all said and done, until the cord is cut, until the ship has sailed, until the fat lady sings...oops. Scratch that last part.

So when the doctor popped his head in the room, saw my wife and I smiling while the labor-inducing drug was being pumped into her system for the 3rd straight day and the sixth straight hour, he wasn’t all that pleased. And in spite of our smiles, neither were we. After all, 9 months is a long time to wait. The doctor said any more waiting could be dangerous, for both mother and child (my wife, my child), which had brought us to this decision: caesarean section (insert ominous music here).

It was probably a good thing that I didn’t really understand what that was going to entail until after signing off on the procedure. Had I been aware how serious the surgeon was when he told  me “Once we make the incision, we’ll have to work quickly. It may appear as if we are being a little rough,” I may not have agreed so readily to have my wife and our first born be bound for all time to Shakespeare’s Macduff. But the doctor told us in this case it was timely, not untimely, so I went along for the ride.

That meant scrubbing up, both sartorially and hygienically, and following the nurses and the surgeon into the bright lights of the operating room. Instead of a Marcus Welby episode, or something from Dr. Frankenstein’s dungeon, it reminded me of a windowless high school science classroom: white cinder block walls, tile floor, and lots of unfamiliar, sterile equipment that I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch. What didn’t remind me of a high school science classroom was the sight of my wife lying unconscious on a table, a breathing tube inserted into her mouth (nose? both?). A small rectangle of material screened her lower half from my view, rigged up in table tennis net fashion; ironically, the nurse had stationed me at what would later become my traditional spot at the head of the table. Now, 25 years later I can wonder if that convention came about because of this positioning of the husband during labor; but back then, I wondered only if I was going to need something from that breathing tube myself.

If the host of Family Feud were to ask the question “Name a word or a phrase a surgeon would use during surgery,” I believe the number one answer on the board would be “suction.“  I’m not sure if our surgeon actually said that, but some moments after I became aware that an incision had been made and the surgical team was working feverishly to extricate my first born from her mother’s womb, I lost my focus on my wife’s well-being when “suction” began to be more than just good surgical vocabulary. The translucent tubing leading from the far side of the table, its origin concealed by the rectangular screening, suddenly began to function as an elongated straw, red fluid curlicuing its way round and round, up and down, flowing quickly, silently on its way past the nurse, over my wife’s head, heading inexorably to the five gallon plastic bucket at my feet, filling it with gentle, crimson splashes like a punch fountain at a wedding reception. I felt riveted to the spot, unable to shift my gaze away from that swiftly filling container. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. I looked up in time to see the doctor gently handing off a tiny red package to the nurse, a package that suddenly had flailing appendages and a fine set of lungs. The nurse’s eyes spoke clearly from behind her surgical mask, calling “Follow me.” I did. We moved back into an adjoining room where the nurse laid that loud little package into a modern metal manger where she wiped away some of the remnants of the birth and vernix and then wrapped her in some swaddling clothes. With expert care she lifted that package and placed it in my trembling hands.

“Here’s your daughter.”

“Her name is Molly J.,” I replied.  

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Powerful emotions create vivid memories.  Share with me a vivid memory based on a powerful emotion from your past.

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