Birth: As Painful as a Stubbed Toe? Not!

I did something Monday I had not done in many a year—I stubbed my shoeless left foot toes real hard against the wooden leg of a couch. Man did it hurt. 

After I recovered from the dry mouth that accompanied the pain, I thought back about 35 and a half years ago to the time our friends Eleanor and Dennis had their first born a few months before Gilda delivered Dan. We had planned a natural childbirth a la the Lamaze method, as drug free as possible. 

Eleanor, on the other hand, had no interest in experiencing even the slightest bit of pain. When she arrived at the hospital she was hooked up to an IV to receive scopolamine to put her into a “twilight sleep” during labor. Scopolamine has since been banned from the delivery room. For good reason. It can induce hallucinations. Eleanor acted out a scene from the darkest of comedies about childbirth. She cursed her husband for putting her in such a painful situation. In her altered mind state she punched her obstetrician in the face or stomach (Gilda and I can’t agree on the location).

When Dennis tried to comfort her and gain some insight into how much pain she was in, he offered the following comparison: “Is it as painful as when you stub a toe?”

Eleanor might not have been fully aware of her surroundings, but she was conscious enough to react violently to Dennis’ suggestion. 

A few months later it was our turn to head to the hospital. Dan was a slow mover through the birth canal. Hour after hour dragged by, with few contractions. Reluctantly, very reluctantly, Gilda agreed to the administration of some pitocin to induce more frequent contractions. 

The pitocin was marginally helpful as the labor extended for more than a dozen hours. With Dennis’ experience as a guide, I did not venture to ask the degree of pain Gilda was in. I’m sure it exceeded the pain threshold of a stubbed toe.

Father's Day (plus one) Edition

Did you get one of those kitchy SodaStream carbonated water makers for Father’s Day? 

I didn’t. Not that I was pining for one, despite my friend Lloyd’s rave review (actually, I think Lloyd would give anything from Israel a rave review, but that’s between him and the maker). Anyway, hearing all those recent ads for SodaStream evoked memories of Brooklyn in the early 1950s.

Back then, during my pre-school days, vendors stopping by our attached row house on Avenue W were a big deal. The truck of the knife and scissors sharpener would clang its way through the neighborhood about once a month. Every two weeks or so the blue-uniformed man from Brighton Laundry arrived with clean, starched sheets, pillow cases and tablecloths wrapped in a blue paper package. Before heading back to his truck he’d tie our soiled linens in a bundle and throw it over his shoulder.  

No visitor was more welcomed to our home than the seltzer man, with six or more bottles in a wooden crate leveraged on a shoulder. Clear glass bottles, or blue glass, green glass, even the occasional red glass bottle. Inside, vacuum-packed carbonated water, with a nickel-colored metal push lever at the top to discharge soda water for wine spritzers (a standard Friday night libation), scotch and sodas and home-made egg creams made with U-Bet chocolate syrup and milk (for the uninformed, an egg cream has no egg content). 

Whether true or not, I always thought his name was Mr. Seltzer. My brother says it was Chesler, which to a toddler could easily be construed as Seltzer. Anyway, Mr. Seltzer/Chesler was a wiry man, usually unshaven, with a bent to his frame no doubt a condition from always toting heavy cases of seltzer on his shoulders. He was a genial man, usually stopping to gossip a little with my mother.

Perhaps in an economy mood, or because of something he saw on one of his trips to Israel, my father in the late 1950s or early 1960s decided to buy a re-usable water carbonator. The cylinder had a metallic outer layer, with a space at the top for a carbon dioxide canister that was screwed into the dispenser. It was a novelty he showed off a few times to friends. By the time he lost interest in it, Mr. Seltzer/Chesler had retired. From then on we bought bottled seltzer. 

Gilda sent along a link to a story about birth photography in the delivery room (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/06/17/us/now-in-the-delivery-room-forceps-camera-action.html?_r=1). As she pointed out, we were 30 years ahead of the curve.

When Dan was born 33 years ago we were too dazzled to give much thought to taking pictures. We had gone through Lamaze classes for natural childbirth, but were really unprepared for secondary preoccupations. Three years later, however, when Ellie arrived, we were pros and ready for action. I took some great shots of Ellie’s first moments outside the womb. They’re not for the squeamish to see, but they did capture the thrill. 

For those who didn’t get Father’s Day cards, or received some mushy, sentimental card, here are two I opened. The first paid tribute to my nightly sound machine: “It’s Father’s Day. Time to ponder that immortal, philosophical question ... If a dad falls asleep in the woods, does he drive all the woodland creatures insane with his snoring?”

Gilda gave me this card: Happy Father’s Day, Honey! Today belongs to you. No, really. 364 days are plenty for me.”