Well, as it turns out- it's totally true. It was for us, anyway.
|Oh, so much truth.|
Here's the story.
We had been going to the only free standing Birthing Center in Brooklyn. I hate hospitals, and I really wanted to birth Lucien away from one, in a place where they let you go home four hours after the baby is born (they do!). As you know, there always has to be a back up plan for these things, in case of emergency. We had discussed-in exhausting detail- what would happen in that case. There was a very good hospital, with a great maternity ward, about 3 miles away from our Birthing Center. If anything went wrong, it would be a 10 minute car ride away. Great.
Now, let me re-iterate that this birthing center was in Brooklyn. All of our prenatal visits were in Brooklyn. All of our ultrasounds were at another hospital in Brooklyn. So, when things went awry, at the last prenatal visit, my mother and I hopped in a cab to the back up hospital, that was yes- in Brooklyn.
We had agreed that my mother wouldn't come until the baby was born. But the baby was over a week late, and she was getting anxious. So she flew out. Since she was here, I decided to give my husband a break from the last prenatal appointment, and Mom came with me instead. Of course, it's perfect that things would go awry at that appointment- because my mother handles stress so well- and could really be my rock. Totally kidding. She does not handle these things well at all.
Back to the story. Things take a bad turn at the appointment, when Lucien's heart rate drops dramatically, and we have to head to the hospital. We opt for a cab instead of an ambulance, because my midwife gives me a choice- and ambulances totally freak me out. Cab arrives. Our driver is almost as old as God. He is actually old enough to possibly be God, which should be comforting to me- but it's not. My mother starts swearing at God. A sto dialo! (Which basically translates to 'go to hell' in Greek) My daughter is having a baby! Hurry up! Shit, can you hear me? Why are you driving so fucking slow? This is coming out of my seventy five year old mother's mouth. My pregnant serenity is vanishing by the second.
We finally get to the hospital. We walk into the emergency admitting for labor and delivery, and my mother storms into the admitting office (where other people in emergency situations are, mind you) and starts screaming Somebody help my daughter! You'd think I was riddled with gunshots. They shoo her out of the office, we wait our turn, and I am admitted.
I'm finally in a room and I figure this would be a good time to call my husband. I call. It goes straight to voicemail. Again. And again. And now I am getting annoyed. So I call my sister and ask her to please get him on the phone and give him the directions to get to the hospital. She does. Tenth Avenue between 48th and 49th. She manages to contact him and delivers the message. I feel a little bit of relief. My mother is in the hall now, praying her ass off. I am alone in the admitting room, waiting for my husband.
My phone rings. It's my husband.
Husband: Hey. Are you okay? Where is this hospital? I'm here. I don't see it.
Me: What do you mean, you don't see it? It's a giant hospital. Kinda hard to miss.
H: I just passed the Javits Center. Is it by there?
M: What the fuck are you talking about? The Javits center? In Manhattan? You're in Manhattan? WHY ARE YOU IN MANHATTAN?
H: Your sister said Tenth Aven-
M: Tenth Avenue in Brooklyn. BROOKLYN. Where we live. Where we have been going to the doctor for the past nine months. Why the hell are you in the city?
H: I thought-
M: Stop talking. Just get here.
H: I don't have any money.
M: WHAT? What do you mean you don't have any money?
H: I didn't bring my wallet. And my metro card is empty. I'm going to start walking now.
M: You're going to start walking? To deep Brooklyn? From Midtown? Are you serious?
H: I'll be there as soon as I can.
So, just to recap; My mother is freaking out. My husband is walking to Brooklyn, from Midtown Manhattan. And my phone starts ringing again. It's my new asshole landlord. He's just bought the building, and he's trying to raise our rent by NINE HUNDRED DOLLARS. I let it go to voicemail. For some odd reason, since I am clearly not stressed out enough, I listen to it.
Maria, it's your landlord. You're not returning our calls. We're sending an eviction letter. Certified mail. You can't ignore this one like you did the last. Please advise.
This next point has nothing to do with my story, but whoever was the first person to string together the words please and advise, is the world's biggest douche.
Phone rings again. It's my landlord again. Of course I don't answer it. It rings, again. And again.
I call my sister, because she fixes things.
Me: Hi. My husband is in Manhattan. Mom is crying and praying. And my landlord is calling me- a lot. Will you please call him now and tell him that I am going to stab him in the face, repeatedly, until he is dead- if he doesn't stop calling me, while I'm in the hospital, TRYING TO GIVE BIRTH TO THIS DAMN BABY?
Sister: Yes. Yes, I will.
And she does. And threatens him in other ways that my mind can't even fathom. We should have been a mob family. And my husband finally arrives. That relaxes my Mom a little, and she stops praying. And although everything gets even crazier and crazier after that... about an hour later I give birth to the most beautiful baby boy to ever be born. He's covered in shit, but I'll save that for another blog.
Yes, men lose their minds. But so does everyone else.