D-Tour: Kiss Me I'm Cesarean
This is something I wrote several years ago, but was published by a local parenting magazine about a year ago. I recently received a couple unexpected and amusing emails related to this piece.
Kiss Me I'm Cesarean
When Susanne was 37 weeks, the doctors informed us that our baby was in the breech position. It was butt down rather than head down. We learned quickly that breech was a hideous word; a word not to wave around vociferously.
People constantly asked how Susanne was feeling. “Terrific. Outstanding. In pregnant splendor,” I would boast publicly. Then I would lower my voice to an unintelligible mutter as if consummating a drug deal. “Well, actually we found out that the baby is,
well... you see the baby is (whisper) breech. The next dirty word that follows breech is Cesarean, which of course is sequential if the baby refuses to turn to the proper position or “zero station” as they call it. Zero Station it turns out is not the name of an 80s new wave band that toured with Flock of Seagulls - just the fetus settling into its captain's chair for the big ride down the canal.
When Susanne was 37 weeks, the doctors informed us that our baby was in the breech position. It was butt down rather than head down. We learned quickly that breech was a hideous word; a word not to wave around vociferously.
People constantly asked how Susanne was feeling. “Terrific. Outstanding. In pregnant splendor,” I would boast publicly. Then I would lower my voice to an unintelligible mutter as if consummating a drug deal. “Well, actually we found out that the baby is,
well... you see the baby is (whisper) breech. The next dirty word that follows breech is Cesarean, which of course is sequential if the baby refuses to turn to the proper position or “zero station” as they call it. Zero Station it turns out is not the name of an 80s new wave band that toured with Flock of Seagulls - just the fetus settling into its captain's chair for the big ride down the canal. As a Cesarean candidate we felt as if we were our own subspecies – a fledgling race inferior to humans. Looking for support, we sought out other Cesareans, often collecting under moist, mossy stones or inside damp driftwood. At one of our last doctor appointments, the receptionist gazed mournfully at us as we signed in.
“You the Cesarean?”
“No!” I barked.
“We're the Hungarians.”
We all enjoyed a faux chuckle and then went down to the corner deli for some tuna sandwiches on Cesarean bread.
Once it was confirmed that the baby was indeed breech, we tried every measure possible to get our stubborn baby to engage in some gymnastics. I tried shining a flashlight on the lower section of Susanne’s belly. “Come to the light,” I begged. Nothing. Then the doctors attempted a very painful procedure called an external version in which the doctor dug her hands into Susanne's tender, swollen stomach, trying to turn the baby manually. It was very much like kneading pizza dough, only more painful and less flour. Needless to say, baby didn’t budge. Then we strung up my wife to a Catherine wheel and tinkered with some other medieval torture devices before driving some bamboo shoots under her fingernails just for the sake of it. When all else failed, I got down there and shouted “Dammit, you turn around this instant or march right up to your room!” In hindsight, I guess it didn’t make much sense, but I was frustrated and I figured it was good practice.
One day I was feeling a bit less optimistic about the baby turning and I fell into a lethargic depression, as I crashed spiritless on the couch. “Why won’t the baby turn? Why? Why? Why?” I demanded. Then I looked at myself, half of my body sucked under the cushions, just lying there like a fat, dead horse. Susanne tried all sorts of techniques to get me off of the couch and into the car, but I wouldn’t budge. That’s great, I thought. The baby has inherited my slothfulness. Super.
Undeterred, we have dedicated our lives to the fight against bigotry and injustices that Cesareans endure each and every day. We dream of a day when Cesareans and vaginal birth parents can live together in harmony. A day when the snickering and cruelty ends. A day when a Cesarean woman can perhaps vote or even get a job. We are a small yet determined race and we have made great strides in our communities. Just last week we launched our first dating service/support group called SCAR (Single Cesarean Astronauts for Romance). Sure, it's a miniscule demographic percentage-wise, but it's a start. Coming soon in January will be the Latin-Cesarean music awards on Fox Television hosted by dancer Ida Carlini, former lover of late mambo legend Tito Puente. Ida once had her nails done by a Cesarean.
As for us? We're making our way to Washington, D.C. this weekend for the Million Cesarean March. If you're in the area, come on by to say hello. We'll be the couple in the matching yellow T-shirts that say "KISS ME I'M CESAREAN."
“You the Cesarean?”
“No!” I barked.
“We're the Hungarians.”
We all enjoyed a faux chuckle and then went down to the corner deli for some tuna sandwiches on Cesarean bread.
Once it was confirmed that the baby was indeed breech, we tried every measure possible to get our stubborn baby to engage in some gymnastics. I tried shining a flashlight on the lower section of Susanne’s belly. “Come to the light,” I begged. Nothing. Then the doctors attempted a very painful procedure called an external version in which the doctor dug her hands into Susanne's tender, swollen stomach, trying to turn the baby manually. It was very much like kneading pizza dough, only more painful and less flour. Needless to say, baby didn’t budge. Then we strung up my wife to a Catherine wheel and tinkered with some other medieval torture devices before driving some bamboo shoots under her fingernails just for the sake of it. When all else failed, I got down there and shouted “Dammit, you turn around this instant or march right up to your room!” In hindsight, I guess it didn’t make much sense, but I was frustrated and I figured it was good practice.
One day I was feeling a bit less optimistic about the baby turning and I fell into a lethargic depression, as I crashed spiritless on the couch. “Why won’t the baby turn? Why? Why? Why?” I demanded. Then I looked at myself, half of my body sucked under the cushions, just lying there like a fat, dead horse. Susanne tried all sorts of techniques to get me off of the couch and into the car, but I wouldn’t budge. That’s great, I thought. The baby has inherited my slothfulness. Super.
Undeterred, we have dedicated our lives to the fight against bigotry and injustices that Cesareans endure each and every day. We dream of a day when Cesareans and vaginal birth parents can live together in harmony. A day when the snickering and cruelty ends. A day when a Cesarean woman can perhaps vote or even get a job. We are a small yet determined race and we have made great strides in our communities. Just last week we launched our first dating service/support group called SCAR (Single Cesarean Astronauts for Romance). Sure, it's a miniscule demographic percentage-wise, but it's a start. Coming soon in January will be the Latin-Cesarean music awards on Fox Television hosted by dancer Ida Carlini, former lover of late mambo legend Tito Puente. Ida once had her nails done by a Cesarean.
As for us? We're making our way to Washington, D.C. this weekend for the Million Cesarean March. If you're in the area, come on by to say hello. We'll be the couple in the matching yellow T-shirts that say "KISS ME I'M CESAREAN."
* And now for the emails, verbatim.
"Hi, My name is Ida Carlini and I don't remember ever hosting a Fox tv program..Where did you get that info? Please contact me to clear this up....Ida Carlini"
And a couple days later ...
"I AM IDA CARLINI AND READ THAT I WILL BE HOSTING A SHOW....I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO, WHAT OR WHY AND NEVER HEARD OF THIS OR GIVEN MY PERMISSION...CAN YOU PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHERE YOU GOT THIS INFORMATION..."
Oh, Ida. Sweet Ida. There's no Latin-Cesarean music awards on Fox TV. I'm so sorry.
"Hi, My name is Ida Carlini and I don't remember ever hosting a Fox tv program..Where did you get that info? Please contact me to clear this up....Ida Carlini"
And a couple days later ...
"I AM IDA CARLINI AND READ THAT I WILL BE HOSTING A SHOW....I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO, WHAT OR WHY AND NEVER HEARD OF THIS OR GIVEN MY PERMISSION...CAN YOU PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHERE YOU GOT THIS INFORMATION..."
Oh, Ida. Sweet Ida. There's no Latin-Cesarean music awards on Fox TV. I'm so sorry.
posted by Carey @ 12:46 PM
3 comments
3 Comments:
Is it odd that your dreams are more sane than your waking musings?
That's so hilarious I do not know what to say. I love "come to the light"...so good.
Usually when i see a post that is longer than 2 paragraphs i hesitate before reading them. But i do none the less. However your posts are addicting and flow really well. The frequency of your posts are just perfect...long enough to keep me in suspence but frequent enough not to lose interest.
The content is in a sense ceribrial but non complex in the same breath. Sort of like a ying and yang thing.
I think with your attitude and creativeness that Charlie is in good hands and will always be humble person, and that will help alot with dealing with his Diabetes in the future.
Keep it up Carey!
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