After Birth (10 page)

What are you supposed to do when they get like this?
I ask her.

They don’t pull that shit with me
, she says, icy glint in her eye. Then she turns to the kids, lined up in there.
Do you?
Stares them down hard in those stained car seats. They look straight ahead like cadets, lifetimes of stress disorders ahead.

Eight thirty in the morning. Paul and the baby are already downstairs, already finished with breakfast, me as yet unable to get out of bed.

Phone rings. Mina.

Did I wake you? Sorry.

No. What’s up?

Bad night. Bad day, then bad night, now
. . .
just
. . .
bad.

The light outside’s wintry and gray, all shadows, and when I finally manage to get up and over there it’s exactly like that inside, too. Heavy. A downshift in key. Like the forest floor. Dark and still and mossy, faintly humming with intensity, scant bits of light filtering through a canopy of high trees. Like no temple that has yet been built. (
Daniel Libeskind is on it
, Crispin would say.) Mugs of tea gone cold are everywhere.

They’ve been to the pediatrician, and it seems that baby Zev is not gaining weight. He is, in fact, losing weight. The pediatrician is no help.

He was all, “So long as he’s peeing, we won’t worry. Give him some formula if you’re worried. Do you have a new insurance card?”

But she’s nursing him constantly and her nipples are bloody and shredded, there’s a giant lump in the lefty, and twenty minutes ago she changed a wet diaper and it was pink. Which means he’s dehydrated.

My tits are killing me and he’s starving to death and I’m so fucking tired and I am freaking the fuck out. Can you tell? I am freaking the fuck out.
And the fucking midwife doesn’t return calls.

Are you kidding me? Aren’t they supposed to, like, make you placenta soup and sing your praises to the goddesses? Bang a drum or something?

No drum.

It is pretty clear that Zev is failing, in the parlance of infants, to thrive. He looks shriveled, more so even than a couple days ago. Miniature knotted brow. When you’re that small, some ounces are a big deal.

She paces and pats, paces and pats. He’ll settle for a second or two, but then he’s screaming again. That furious impotent infant scream.

It’s been like this all night. Okay, okay, shhh. I keep hearing that line? From “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”? Shhhh, okay. “I saw a newborn babe with wild wolves all around it,” you know? Okay, shhhhhh. “I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it . . .”

You can’t mistake a new mother holding a baby this way, swaying, bouncing on the soles of her feet, babbling like a brook, for anything else. She is speaking in tongues. The baby calms briefly and wails again.

“I saw a newborn babe with wild wolves all around it,”
she sings softly, emphasis on “wild wolves” the way Dylan does it in this one exquisite slow live bootleg someone gave me once, gravelly voice sliding up and down that line.

And apparently there’s something hilarious about all of it, because now she’s giggling.

Listen I’m trying pretty hard not to go nuts here and I know it’s not really your problem like at all but I haven’t slept very much in like a long time it feels like and I really don’t know what the fuck to do, I mean the doctor’s like “he’s fine!” but he’s not fine, you fucking cocksucker. Obviously he’s not fine! Doctor says “give him some formula if you’re concerned.” But I’m not giving him fucking formula, fucking prick! He nursed for nine hours yesterday. I kept track. I was sitting in that chair for nine fucking hours, on and off! Nine hours! I had no idea my nipples could hurt this much! And I used to enjoy light S
&
M! When he latches I can feel it in my eyeballs! Everyone keeps telling me to give the kid a bottle. Give the kid a bottle, give the kid a bottle! I am not giving this fucking kid a fucking bottle! I just birthed him in a fucking bathtub! I am not giving him fucking powder poison cow sugar processed fucking gross Nestlé Africa atrocity sludge! I’m sorry! This is my baby! I am not giving him a bottle! Fuck you very much!

She’s trembling the way you do when you’ve forgotten how to breathe and it hasn’t yet dawned on you that you’re not breathing.

Baby lets out a wail like the seed of all suffering, and I’m starting to feel a little stressed out myself. That is a seriously hungry baby. My confidence in this matter fills me with a sudden immense pride. That is one hungry-ass baby.

Okay. Let’s take a deep breath
. I demonstrate: in, out, make her meet my eyes.
I completely, completely get it and it’s going to be okay. Have you eaten anything?

I don’t know. Not really. I’m not hungry. I’m not fucking giving him formula, you know? I’m not. Pay attention to what they tell you to forget!

Okay
, I say.
Okay.

Please stop saying that.

Okay. Sorry.

That’s Muriel Rukeyser. “Pay attention to what they tell you to forget.” You know her?

I think so.

She’s great.

Okay.

She tries to nurse again. Breast implants were originally modeled on nursing ones, interestingly enough.

Maybe slide your arm under him a little more, wait, here. Like this. Yeah. So you bring him kind of more straight on. There. Is that better?

It’s hideously not better.

I know. It really hurts in the beginning.

I mean, is that, like, it? “It hurts in the beginning”? It’s just excruciating, the end? It’s supposed to be excruciating? Because it would be nice if I had known anything whatsoever about this before ten fucking days ago, you know?
She picks up her phone, throws it down again.
Fucking MIA celebrity midwife bitchrag from hell
. Zev is working hard as he can on her, really concentrating, but it’s not working. He’s frustrated and she’s in agony.

First things first. The pantry. Jerry’s fancy Italian dried pasta. Slice and serve an apple while the water boils. Cover the noodles with butter, salt, pepper, grated parmesan, set it down before her. Then I move in right up close, adjust pillows, fold my legs under me, and wait.

Shhh
, she sniffles unconvincingly, scarfing the apple.
Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. Okay? It’s gonna be okay. Okay? Okay. Okay
.

The word
okay
like a dog treat your consciousness lobs over into the snarling storm of your subconscious. Okay, okay, okay. It’s gonna be okay. Okay? Okay? Okay, okay.

But he’s wailing again, so hard I can feel it in my own tits again.

Right: my tits.

Obviously: my tits.

My girls. My pups.

Listen
, I say.
Can I have him?

She’s confused, but I hold my arms out and nod slowly until she understands. I move so our thighs touch, and take him.

Hello, human seashell. Not Walker. A different baby, new squashed tangle for a face. Tiny gums gleaming as he wails.

Mina goes to town on the pasta.

I lay Zev out on my legs, red-faced and furious, while I liberate my right one.

She’s so busy inhaling that pasta, she doesn’t register. I look to her for some kind of okay. She stops eating.

You don’t have AIDS or anything, do you?
People are forever saying dumb things at profound moments; it’s the human condition.

No.

She goes back to inhaling the pasta. It’s like she’s never had pasta.

He’s not choosy; he’s goddamn hungry. Not the best latch, indeed. Ouch. But there’s time, he can learn. Plenty of time, nothing but. He pulls off for a second, the abundance a surprise, and right away he’s searching for me again, mouth ajar, panting. Opens wide. Gulp, gulp. Relaxes into me, eyes closed. The whole room goes all melty. Problem solved. All peaceful and blossomy, like after a good first kiss. Unfold. Bask. I remember this. I can do this. Nothing for her to do but watch.

So yeah, I got cut, but thankfully we got the boob thing right. They wheeled the baby to me in one of those plastic bins. An obstetrical nurse from the NICU followed, her name tag an island in an expanse of bosom.
DONNA KENDRICK, RN
.

Now listen, honey pie. Here’s the deal. Might be tough going in the beginning, but you’ll get the hang. And little man here will get the hang, won’t you, love bug, and soon you’ll be off to the races together. Nothing so easy once you get the hang. You just had a rough start, you guys, but that’s over now. Okay? All right. So this is gonna be great. Let’s give it a whirl, lemme see what you got. Okay, no, see, you want to bring him straight on, just straight on, give him a good angle so he can do his part. Now does that hurt? Good. It shouldn’t hurt. If it hurts, that’s a bad latch. A bad latch is no good. A bad latch is bad. So many people, they got a bad latch and they throw up their hands, say it’s impossible. They give up. We don’t want that. Nothing’s so simple once you got the hang. I got four boys, I come up to here on them now. Okay, let’s give him another minute like this and then try him out on the other side. Hurts? No. Good. Today you just want to get the gist. This is practice time for you and him; milk’s gonna really hit tomorrow, so if you get today right, you’ll be off to the races. You just got a look like something hurts. Something hurt? Don’t be shy. Right, right, so the trick is we want his lower lip sort of folded open wide as can be, like that, yeah, you see? Yeah, you got it, little man. We’re just gonna keep on making sure you get it right, you guys, and by tomorrow you’ll be all set, really good to go. Just takes a little practice, a little patience. Okay, let’s switch him. Little practice, little patience. Here we go, okay, round two, hey, look at you guys! Perfect. That’s good. Good, good. By the time you go home you’re gonna be experts. That’s what we want. Good. Then you’ll be able to enjoy each other. You’re going to enjoy each other, you and him, believe me, I swear. You just got a look like you don’t believe me. It’s a rough road, the C. Not how it’s supposed to go. Between you and me these assholes like to know how it’s gonna go, so they make it go how they know. Sell it to you like they saved the goddamn day. Aw, honey, ’course you don’t feel so good after that. Trust me, this is just the start. You got a great little boy. It’s all uphill from here. Or downhill. You know what I mean. I got four boys, I mentioned. All of ’em got boys of their own now. I got eight grandboys! I can’t do nothin’ but boys. And will you look at this beautiful boy you got! I know a lot about boys. Still hurting? Yeah, it’s not always so comfortable right away. What’s his name? Walker, huh? I like that. I like that a lot. That’s a fine name. Well, you guys are looking just great. This looks all right. Feeling all right? It’s gonna take a little getting used to. No doubt. For you and him, both. Practice, patience. No rush. You just take it easy, he’ll do this thing, and you’re gonna get to know each other just great, believe me.

It was like having Oprah at my bedside. My gratitude was quasi religious.
This
I could do. I could do this. I could right things this way. Bring on the oxytocin flood! Where else would I have learned? Who was going to teach me? What would have become of us on a different ward, instead of darling Donna, one of those demented can’t-be-bothered formula-happy bitches? And me in my sorry stitched-up shock?

She came back before we were discharged, gave me her number.

I don’t usually do this, but give me a shout if you need a little cheerleading, will ya? Been doing this a long time, now, so lay it on me, whatever problems you got. First few months apt to be a little rough, nothing to get too worked up about, just gotta get through. After that it’s gravy. Fourth trimester, they call it; think of it like he’s just not really ready to be on the outside yet. Nothing so easy once you get the hang, though. Nothing like a little boy. Nothing in the world like the way a little boy loves his mama. You the queen now, little mama
.

His latch is shallow
, I explain to Mina.
So you’re engorged, which discourages your supply.

My mother is sitting on the arm of the couch, listening intently.

Listen to the expert
, she says.

And meanwhile it’s painful, so you can’t relax, which also stems the flow. Which means he’s not getting what he needs to get stronger with the latch. So, vicious cycle.

Lookie-look at the La Leche League captain
, my mother says.
You got yourselves a regular consciousness raising here
.
How vintage feminist of you.

Zev’s asleep, my milk still dribbling down his cheek.

He was hungry
, I say, and Mina does the laugh-while-crying.

You think?

People like to pretend that small children and animals aren’t sentient, so as to more easily perpetrate horrible crimes against them. It’s easier that way, to isolate them or let them scream or eat them or ignore them or hit them or violate them, chain them to a bed. Pretend that what looks like relief or gratitude or love or calm or fear or outrage or pain is just a reflex, nothing more.

They sure do fill your arms up, these creatures. So good at being held. Then guilt washes ashore and I want Walker. I miss
my
baby, who’s in some other room, in some other woman’s arms.

Mina takes Zev back and I have no one. Which, you know, right, of course.

It was my friend Jess who gave me that Dylan bootleg, I recall. The newborn babe with wild wolves all around it. The highway of diamonds with nobody on it.

Mina wraps Zev up on her chest so her arms are free, then leans forward over the coffee table and eats a second helping of pasta with her free hand. Balances the bowl precariously on a knee, and scarfs it.