… Jack Bauer, in light of the past six or so weeks.
First, birth: I had several instances of premature contractions, leading to hospitalizations where they poked and prodded in the most personal places. When my water broke anyway at home, I uttered a very profound and kong “frak” (except it wasn’t the word “frak.”) Hardcore, we-mean-business contractions kicked in 20 minutes later; took a long car service ride to the hospital (he had to use GPS to go to the upper west side and took sixth ave until I politely suggested the WEst Side Highway, unless he wanted a back seat birth). Hospital: yay, my scheduled c-section was being bumped up to ASAP. Boo: There was a line for the OR. The night nurse asked me to breathe, to which I sad “No, why don’t you breathe.” (Yes! I am nine!) They shut my door, because I bellowed “owwwwwww” as loudly as possible for the duration of each contraction.
Babies born, preemie and teeny, stayed in NICU for a spell, cared for by Phillipino nurses who had done this for thirty years. They reminded me of gardeners. You could see them, head bent over each intubator, working. I could stick with that prettier image, except for their exceptional guilt-tripping skills. “Where have you been, Mommy?” was the greeting I got every time with stink-eye and crossed arms. “Dude, sorry, been puking from the anesthesia after my operation.” “Sorry, I just moved an hour away and am not supposed to be out of bed but am here every day.” Did not melt them one iota.
Babies come home. Dad’s dementia kicks in high gear. So not ready for homecoming, but eventually, we get through with my parents and the Korean Tooth Fairy’s help. Month goes by. Wonder Twin Boy turns blue, necessitating a trip to the ER, where he receives a spinal tap, catheter, urine test, blood text, EKG, etc. etc., turns out fine after a few days in the PICU, confirmed by several tests that came back negative. In short, he had a cold. Most frightening moment? When he did not respond to initial poking on the exam table and had to be put on oxygen. When the intern apologized about the spinal tap causing tears, I was like, “S’okay, you’re supposed to cry if you get a spinal tap.” I’d be more worried if he just lay there like those first moments on the exam table.
Finally, when things go more to normal-crazy, I went to the doctor for a clogged milk duct issue and was unexpectedly stabbed in the boob with an 18-gauge needle (Whatever that is. Did not care to look.) for testing, I thought, OH MY GOD, I AM JACK BAUER. Thank you.