PUSH! The Sequel
PUSH!
The Sequel is actually a
compilation of all the stories--37 more to be exact--that literally just didn’t fit into the first
book. The stories here are just as random and outrageous and amazing as are the
stories in the first book, exactly like birth actually is. Ma Doula won as a finalist in the 2016 Midwest Book Awards.
Shoshi
Another referral. Another homeless
lady. Another not-too-sure-what-just-hit-him father-to-be who is deciding if
this is something he can try to do or just another hit-and-run accident that he
could/should run from. Like right now. Another baby on the way. Drama, drama,
and more drama. Not an ideal way to start a family, but it appears to be more
and more common. At least here in Minnesota, and I suspect elsewhere, too.
How many young men
and women end up being adults by default only, thrown to destiny without a lot
of thought going into the process? Is this preordained? Is it all supposed to
be so random? My philosopher-self wonders about such things. Then they puzzle
how come life has become so complicated. I would wager they either grow up real
fast, give up the kid stuff and take responsibility, probably much like their
own parents did, or else they cling to the kid stuff, try to make a go of it in
spite of all the odds stacked against them, and fall further and further down
the rabbit hole with few resources on board to get them out of it and back on a
path that even resembles normal.
We meet and talk
about birth plans and housing options, where to get maternity clothes cheaply
or free, and her relationship with her parents and whether they can help out at
all. Baby will take a back seat in most of this. The priorities right now are
finding a safe place to stay that will allow her to bring her baby back to after
he or she is born, and after that, connecting with the services that will help
her find more permanent housing and childcare so that she can finish school.
The services are
all out there, but I have found that it takes an advanced degree in law to wade
through the system and the myriad hoops that are in place. I often wonder while
I attempt to help someone with the paperwork if there isn’t someone sitting at
a big oak desk somewhere at the top of some government building whose sole job
is to calculate how to make the process as intimidating as possible in order to
discourage the vast mass of humanity living below the poverty level from
accessing their services and overwhelming the system which has already
experienced their own budget cuts for the year. They have to keep a ceiling on
the hordes that might otherwise stampede the system should it prove not such an
obstacle course. A certain portion of those applying will give up frustrated
and rather join the ranks of the homeless than sift through the unintelligible
verbiage, submission deadlines, and required unobtainable accompanying
paperwork. Even I don’t have records
from my first job 45 years ago.
What I have seen
in the past decade only confirms my hunch: that the welfare system does not
make it easy to get help—on purpose. I bet they even have a pie chart with the
statistics on how many people give up at each step or point of application. Put
another wrench in the works come the next fiscal year and they can manage to
(barely) run the department with the same number of social workers as they had the
year before without having to cough up any more money. Won’t the governor love
them then? That is how we end up having families living in tents under the
Mendota Bridge in the middle of winter in St. Paul. With their baby. We brought
them to a Catholic Worker house where they stayed for a week before
disappearing again, determined to avoid child protection services at all costs.
Shoshi was born in
the Middle East and came to Minnesota as a child when her family immigrated.
She went through the public school system, and like many children of immigrant
parents, rejected the “old ways” of doing things and adopted the status quo of
their new country. In her case, Shoshi rejected all of the “old ways” en masse,
including her family’s religion and values. The proscribed women’s dress code
was the first thing to go once she reached high school, traded in for skinny
jeans and designer T-shirts. She liberated her hair next, throwing away the
entire drawer of color-coordinated hijab.
Dating was forbidden in the old country; instead parents arranged marriages for
their children with like-minded friends and relatives from their own strata in
society. What Shoshi couldn’t get away with out in the open, she found
alternative ways of accomplishing.
I have watched Shoshi’s
generation over the past twenty years as they assimilate in their new country.
Many have the attitude, “Now that we are in an educated country, we can throw
out the superstitions and make this a new time. All the things that were
forbidden before and are allowed here, well, we don’t see the Americans
suffering for doing these things.” And before long, drinking, birth control,
movies—the list is endless—all the forbidden fruits of this new land find a way
in and a whole culture feels it is being threatened. This occurs over and over
again with each culture around the world, every wave of new immigrants coming
in contact with a more modern, opposing culture that puts their very existence
at risk. My own Russian and German grandparents went to their graves shaking
their heads, watching their own children and then us grandchildren embracing a
world they would and could never understand. My wise old father once told me
before he died, “Just remember, you can’t live their lives for them” when my
own teenagers were writing their own declarations of independence.
And so, it was no
surprise that her parents disapproved when she brought home American
boyfriends. The lectures and warnings went unheeded. Like me, when I was her
age, I did what I wanted, ignoring my parents’ wisdom and threats alike. And
she became pregnant.
We met at the
shelter every week to hash out the list of needs and priorities. One by one we
ticked off items on the list and life
started having a pattern and not feeling completely random. We applied for
programs that could offer her housing, child care, and a high school diploma.
We hit the thrift stores on senior discount days (I am a senior) and found
enough items that could pass as maternity clothes. We collected used baby
clothes and even found time to enjoy a trip to the mall together.
Christmas was
quickly approaching, and several churches asked our group of doulas if they
couldn’t gift some of our moms this year. We wrote down their sizes and wishes
and submitted them anonymously. That was an interesting discussion.
Me: “Well, dearie, there is this
church that wants to buy gifts for some of our moms. Can you tell me anything
you’d like to ask for?”
Shoshi: “YES! What I want more than
anything in the whole world is a
Princess Tiana blanket for my baby girl.”
Did I hear her right? Is she 18
going on 12 or what? OK, I think I get this. She is still a teenager, and she
wants what all the other girls have, or something like that.
Me: “What is that?”
Shoshi: “Well, she is Disney’s
first Black princess and I just love her!”
Me: “OK. Do you need a crib or
maybe a snow suit for the baby? Or do you have a flannel nightie for yourself?”
Shoshi: “No, but I really want
anything with Princess Tiana on it.”
Me: “OK. I will see what I can do.”
I called all of
the fabric stores within a 50-mile radius and found out that the Disney
designer fabric is not even out online yet. I will have to call back in a week.
Which I did and found out that I could get it in a fleece for under $10. Now
Princess Tiana was on the top of my wish list too! Yikes!
The next order of
business was a belly cast. We scheduled it for the following week when I could
get the room to ourselves where we do them. She was tickled with the results.
It is one way of zeroing back in on baby, which is what this is supposed to be all about anyway. Between
our modern, materialistic society’s expectations for our babies to have all the
latest designer clothes, gear, and equipment and our unspoken wish to keep up
with the Jones’, we forget the most elementary, basic, amazing, truly awesome
fact that we have created a living baby! who most likely never existed before, and
will now soon grace the earth with its being on an unforeseen day and hour. It
will be the most important event at that moment in the entire cosmos. And yet
most of the world will slog on with their mundane consumerist lives, without
a thought.
When she was
barely at 34 weeks Shoshi called me one night after midnight. She was having
contractions. We met at the hospital and watched as the monitors confirmed our
worst fears: she was indeed going into preterm labor. Babies’ lungs are not
mature enough yet to survive without a respirator at 34 weeks, which often
cause adverse side effects. This was just too risky for our liking. We really
wanted to keep this baby in as long as possible. The doctors suggested some IV
medications which miraculously worked to slow the contractions. By morning they
were gone. This pattern was to repeat itself every two or three days until her
due date. The meds continued to postpone a premature birth until week 40. Then
we got no rushes or contractions. Week 41 was
approaching, and this baby was making no attempt whatsoever to be born. Neither
of us could believe it when the doctors scheduled an induction. For this baby?
We settled into a
birthing suite on the appointed day. We were excited that finally we were going
to meet her baby. I teased that she was going to be just as stubborn as her
mama. My own mother had once tried to curse me in a similar way: “I hope your
kids are just as obedient as you were!” (To tell the truth, they were… and
more!)
The OB tried one
medication after another over the next twelve hours. Nothing worked. No
contractions. We rested then for a few hours, me in a lounge chair and Shoshi
zonked out in bed. Six hours later she woke up to mild but regular rushes. Yay!
At one point Shoshi asked about pain meds and started on an IV medication. It
didn’t do anything at all. I
wasn’t surprised since the earlier doses also had not worked to induce labor
for her.
Then Shoshi’s
boyfriend, her baby’s father, arrived, followed by one of his home boys. I
realized immediately that Dad’s eyes were red, that he smelled of something
stronger than 7Up and headed right for the lounge chair without even asking her
how she was doing before flopping down in it and closing his eyes. The homie
sat in the only other chair in the room and commenced to nervously tap out a
percussion piece on the bedside table with both hands.
Ignoring them she
and I breathed, and walked up and down the halls, stopping during the rushes
and then walking some more. Finally, she wanted to go back to bed and rest a
bit. Homie had gone home by now and Daddy was sawing wood, passed out on the
futon in the corner where the nurse had brought it in during the night.
The nurse asked if
they could check her and shocked us by announcing that she was seven
centimeters! We were going places now. Shoshi again asked for more IV meds but
I explained that she seemed to be nearing the end of the first stage, possibly
near transition, and that they would hesitate to give her anything that might
make the baby sleepy, and we probably didn’t have time to get the meds and have
them wear off before her baby would come. The last thing you want is a sleepy
baby at birth, drugged so much that he might forget to breathe and need
resuscitating. She asked the nurse anyway, if she could have something—an
epidural, anything—but the nurse repeated what I had just told her. I told Shoshi
that I was confident she could do this and that the nurse was going to get the
anesthesiologist to discuss an epidural, but that if she continued to dilate
quickly she could be holding her baby very soon.
So, we breathed,
and tried groaning low cow-like sounds, tried the tub again, then the birth
ball, and before she could be checked again, started pushing. The nurse became
a bit panicky at this and called the doctor who I realized had been sound
asleep in the doctor’s lounge all night. She gowned up and sat down at the foot
of the bed on an exam stool and promptly closed her eyes. I took that as my cue
that I would be directing her breathing and pushing which we had pretty well
down pat by now. As the nurse tucked sterile sheets around and under her, Shoshi
asked the nurse to please try again and wake up lover boy who was still snoring
to beat the band in the corner of the room. She tried her best, calling his
name, yelling at him to wake up, even knocking his sneakers with her clogs
several times. We didn’t get even a glint of recognition from him. He was out
cold. I went over just to check he was breathing. He was.
Five minutes
later, Shoshi again asked me to try to wake him up. I knelt by the body on the
floor stretched out on the futon and pushing the dreadlocks out of the way,
called his name. Nothing. I alternatively patted his cheeks with both hands,
sort of like the old Laurel and Hardy films did it and got nothing. I patted
harder, slapping him by now, incredulous that even that didn’t wake him up.
Damn it, you! Wake up! Nothing. I gave up and went back to the head of the bed.
On the next push
her baby’s head was born (and the doctor opened her eyes in time to check for a
cord around the baby’s neck.) Shoshi reached out as the doctor passed her
beautiful big baby girl to her. The nurse brought over blankets to cover her
with. I was amazed and pointed out to Shoshi that her baby was already lifting
up her head and rooting.
Shoshi was crying
and kissing her baby, telling her how much she loved her, and then begging me
to try to wake up what’s-his-name again. I was giving him plenty of my own
names by now--Turkey, Looser, SOB--so I knelt down again by the futon and
slapped him a bit. I was afraid I’d get punched if I did it any harder, so I
stopped. I grabbed his shirt collar in both hands and hauled him up to a
sitting position. His cargo pants had migrated down to his knees while he
slept. I yelled in his ear, “Hey, dude! Wake UP! I want you to see your baby!”
That worked. He shook his head, blinking a few times, and I said, “You have to
see this amazing super Mama here” to which he replied as he stood up, towering
over me, “Oh, there really aren’t any super mamas, only super Papas!” (Gag!)
He walked over to
the bed and took his daughter as Shoshi handed her to him. He sheepishly smiled
at me and the nurse, gave back the baby to Shoshi, and headed for the door as
he hitched up his pants and took out a pack of cigarettes from his leather jacket
pocket. Then he was gone.
When I went back
to the hospital the next day they were busy packing up and getting ready to be
discharged. “Meat head” as I was now referring to him--to myself only, of
course--was hauling suitcases, knapsacks, and IT’S A GIRL! balloons out to Shoshi’s
car. She had driven herself to the hospital the day before. She handed me baby Ife
as she put her coat on. Dad came back to the room at that point. I thought to
myself, It’s either now or never. I had been awake most of the night
wondering what I could say to this guy. Could I say anything that might
possibly turn him around? What future would Shoshi and Ife have with him? Was
there any hope at all?
Well, I tried. I
was still holding baby who was snuggling into my shoulder. I loved this baby. I
love all of my babies. And I had fallen in love with Shoshi, too. I saw so many
similarities in her that I could see in myself at her age. I cleared my throat.
“Can I talk to you guys?” I
ventured.
“Sure” she said. He looked up.
“I am not your doula now. More like
a grandma, really. I love this baby, and I love Shoshi. I really care about
what happens now. I don’t want your baby growing up without a dad. I don’t want
her to have a totally absent father. You have one more chance. Are you
listening?”
I got a grunt from
him as he stood there, rather petrified, with his eyes wide open, wider than I
had ever seen them.
“Look,” I said. “You have one year
to turn this around, OK? No more dope… no more drinking. You need to clean up
your s&@#. You need to get a job. This is it. You have a family now. Do you
get it?” He nodded. This was not what he expected. I meant it, though. Every
word of it.
Stay tuned for more chapters from PUSH! The Sequel
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