In It
A couple of months ago, when Andrew and I began doing perineal massage to prepare me for what we thought would be a natural birth, we thought we’d taken our marriage to a new level. You don’t just break out the vegetable oil and uncomfortable downward pressure with anyone; it seemed like a step toward a new kind of marital intimacy.
Little did we know.
There were a lot of things I could never have imagined about labor, and one of those is the variety of compromising and, in any other circumstance, embarrassing positions Andrew would see me in. Perineal massage pales in comparison to seeing me leak bloody water all over the floor and any other available surface after I had my water broken. It pales in comparison to escorting me and my IV pole into the bathroom—and helping me situate myself and my hospital gown on the toilet. It pales in comparison to sitting with me while I was on the toilet, kneeling in front of me and squeezing my hips through a contraction. It definitely pales in comparison to taking a rare bathroom break himself and having to urinate around the measuring cup device with which the nurses were collecting my own urine. And it goes without saying that once a husband sees a catheter being inserted into his wife, and watches as bag after bag of urine is removed, well—if we weren’t married before, we are married now.
It didn’t stop with labor. Andrew witnessed me walking gingerly from the hospital bed to the bathroom wearing hospital-issued, industrial-sized underwear lined several times over with industrial-sized maxipads. He saw me sit in the hospital bed for three straight days with nothing covering my painfully engorged breasts, not even pretending that modesty was important as nurses and doctors and the birth certificate guy came in and out. And he saw those engorged breasts, so enormous that the tops of them nearly reached my chin. (They’re better now.)
Somehow none of it mattered, though. Andrew never flinched, and, just as importantly, I knew he wouldn’t, that he’d be right there no matter what. I can’t imagine having gone through this with anyone else (and hopefully that’s what every wife thinks about her husband after such an experience; but I know how lucky I am). Several years ago, just before I left New York for Barcelona to move in with Andrew, I had one very brief moment of what on earth am I doing? We were eating sushi at the time, and Andrew just shrugged. My furniture had been sold; my job had been quit; my apartment lease had been broken. “Well, you’re in it now,” he said. We go back to that phrase all the time—being in it. But I don’t think either of us knew what it meant until last week.
Little did we know.
There were a lot of things I could never have imagined about labor, and one of those is the variety of compromising and, in any other circumstance, embarrassing positions Andrew would see me in. Perineal massage pales in comparison to seeing me leak bloody water all over the floor and any other available surface after I had my water broken. It pales in comparison to escorting me and my IV pole into the bathroom—and helping me situate myself and my hospital gown on the toilet. It pales in comparison to sitting with me while I was on the toilet, kneeling in front of me and squeezing my hips through a contraction. It definitely pales in comparison to taking a rare bathroom break himself and having to urinate around the measuring cup device with which the nurses were collecting my own urine. And it goes without saying that once a husband sees a catheter being inserted into his wife, and watches as bag after bag of urine is removed, well—if we weren’t married before, we are married now.
It didn’t stop with labor. Andrew witnessed me walking gingerly from the hospital bed to the bathroom wearing hospital-issued, industrial-sized underwear lined several times over with industrial-sized maxipads. He saw me sit in the hospital bed for three straight days with nothing covering my painfully engorged breasts, not even pretending that modesty was important as nurses and doctors and the birth certificate guy came in and out. And he saw those engorged breasts, so enormous that the tops of them nearly reached my chin. (They’re better now.)
Somehow none of it mattered, though. Andrew never flinched, and, just as importantly, I knew he wouldn’t, that he’d be right there no matter what. I can’t imagine having gone through this with anyone else (and hopefully that’s what every wife thinks about her husband after such an experience; but I know how lucky I am). Several years ago, just before I left New York for Barcelona to move in with Andrew, I had one very brief moment of what on earth am I doing? We were eating sushi at the time, and Andrew just shrugged. My furniture had been sold; my job had been quit; my apartment lease had been broken. “Well, you’re in it now,” he said. We go back to that phrase all the time—being in it. But I don’t think either of us knew what it meant until last week.
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