Weekends at Bellevue: Nine Years on the Night Shift at the Psych ER by Julie Holland

Author:Julie Holland [Holland, Julie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Medical, Health & Fitness, General
ISBN: 9780553906974
Google: 8bJjaw7cTsMC
Amazon: B002RLBKT0
Publisher: Bantam
Published: 2009-10-05T05:00:00+00:00

Having My Baby

Monday, May 15, 2000. I leave Bellevue to head to the Upper West Side for an appointment with my midwife; I am thirty-seven weeks pregnant, but the baby’s head has already dropped into position. I never thought I’d complain so much about having a head between my legs.

Later that same day, while reading a New Yorker in Mary’s waiting room, I have some cramps and my underwear becomes wet. I get very excited, believing this to signify the onset of labor. I leave Mary’s office before our hour is up, too excited to sit still. Jeremy is in Indianapolis on business, taking pictures of various tourist destinations in the city for an ad campaign. I call his hotel to let him know what’s going on. “I’ll check the flight schedule,” he promises.

For the rest of the day I feel only cramping that is irregular and mild. Still, I stop by the birthing center for a quick exam. The midwife on duty confirms that I have lost my mucous plug and warns me that there may not be much time between my water breaking and the delivery because the head is so low. She agrees that I’m in early labor but can’t say how soon I will deliver.

“My husband is away on business,” I say. “He’s shooting a baby elephant at a zoo tomorrow.”

“Shooting?” she asks.

“Photographing,” I explain.

The rhythm of our speech resonates with something in my psyche. Then, like a bomb exploding in my face, I have a flashback of the assault that happened years ago. “Feigning?” he asks. “Faking,” I explain. And then the fist.

I call Jeremy during the cab ride home and give him an update. He decides to fly back early the next morning, skipping the baby elephant. Once home, I follow the midwife’s advice for stalling labor and pour myself a couple of fingers of Bushmills. Lying in bed, I worry about all the things that can go wrong with my baby. Most pregnant woman fear birth defects; I fear schizophrenia. I know how fragile the brain is. My child will be fine until turning eighteen or so, and then everything will slowly unravel, and I’ll be powerless to stop it.

The next day, Tuesday, I cancel all my plans for the week, including my private practice patients on Friday. I put my friend Kate, a veteran of two home births, on standby in case Jeremy doesn’t make it home in time. I am all set to deliver. Only nothing really happens after that. Jeremy lands around noon and things have quieted down with my pelvis.

“Those contractions sound like classic Braxton-Hicks to me,” Joan tells me when I call her to check in. “You’re not in labor at all. It still could be weeks until you deliver.”

This is unacceptable to me. I ask her about ways to help speed labor along. “Listen, Julie, I’m not going to advise you on how to induce labor. You’re only thirty-eight weeks. The longer you can gestate, the better for the baby.

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