Ten-Finger Exercises

39 years ago

Thirty-nine years ago tonight, in Sasebo, Japan, on the other side of the international date where it was still December 3, I was lying in bed in an OB ward. There were a couple of other women there, but no one really talked to each other. I don't remember about that. Maybe they didn't speak English.

I had come to Sasebo, to the closest military hospital, for my nine month check-up. My baby was due on Christmas, but since my first child had been born seven weeks early, the doctor decided to keep me there. I had been having some contractions, and we lived three hours away at a small Japanese Air Force base, Itazuke.

I think we came prepared for me to stay, as was the custom for wives who might deliver soon; some stayed for several weeks. I don't remember for sure. I know the next day I had my velvet robe, the one my mother had bought me when my first child was born, but my husband may have brought it back down with him when he came back the next day. He had an exam to study for that night and had returned home.

It's strange to me that I don't remember more of that day and night, as important as they were to me. But isn't that the way it is? We are fortunate to not remember the feeling of the labor pains, but it's always felt unfair to not be able to hang onto more of the other memories.

It wasn't easy to sleep, in the strange place with voices of women crying out in pain in the background. I do remember that. And the heartburn that no amount of Mylanta would dispel.

The doctor was planning to go on leave, and so he decided to break my water and have the birth at a more convenient time. I doubt if they would do that today in civilian hospitals, but it was all right at the time.

I remember being alone in the labor room, and feeling afraid. I'd heard about Lamaze, but not enough to even remember the name, just that it was something about a kind of breathing that relieved the pain. I asked the nurse if there wasn't some special breathing that would help, but she said it was way too late for me to learn that and left me alone. More screaming in the background.

My first child had been born at a time and place, Georgia in 1967, when doctors must not have believed in giving a lot of options. Or maybe it was because my water broke at seven months and there weren't many choices. They used scopolomine, and I don't remember anything, just the bruises on my arms the next morning from the restraining straps.

By this second pregnancy I'd read about caudal blocks and other kinds of treatments to relieve the pain, but once again I don't remember any discussion with the doctor about what he was planning to do.

The nurse probably came back and checked on me from time to time. I remember being very hot and wanting to get out of the scratchy blue gown that was choking me. The nurse scolded me gently, pulled it back into place and tied it at my neck again. I asked her when I should start to push. She said I'd know, and left again. Shortly after, I shouted out to her wherever she was that I had to push, and after a few minutes she came back.

As I remember it, they rushed my gurney down the hall to the delivery room. The doctor said he didn't have enough time to give me any anesthetic except a local while he did an episiotomy. I heard the nurse tell me the baby was crowning. There was no mirror for me to watch anything, and I was very disappointed by that. Sometime afterwards I must have asked about the baby, and the nurse said, "We haven't come to the part you're interested in yet." I didn't know what she meant at first, and then I was angry. Yes, I'd wanted a girl, but the gender certainly wasn't the only thing I was interested in.

I don't think they put the baby on my tummy while they cut the cord, like they did in the movies. I think I'd be able to remember that, as wonderful as it would be. I think they just took her away and told me I'd see her later.

I was back in the ward when my husband, Hank, arrived. He'd stopped somewhere to buy roses. He sat with me, and brought extra blankets when I couldn't get warm. Finally we got to go see her, and she was beautiful. Her eyes were very round and big, and she had a short fluff of light blond hair. Her name was Lenore. It was my grandmother's name, and also a line from one of my favorite poems, "the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore."

Hank had to go back to base that night, and I don't remember much about the next couple of days. I hadn't been able to nurse my son because he was too small and sucked too weakly.
I worked to make it happen with this baby. Feeding time was the only time I got to spend with her, and the rest of the time was lonely. I don't remember any nurses being friendly or trying to help, which at least happened back in Georgia. Only a corpsman kept showing up when the babies were brought out for nursing, and it felt very voyeuristic. Maybe he wasn't, but I was unsure of myself, awkward and embarrassed, and I wanted privacy.

We called my parents and Hank's mother that day, and all were excited to have a granddaughter. Later we saw the newspaper clipping from the Greensville, GA paper that said Lt. Weyman English of Union Point, GA, and his wife had a baby girl, born on December 5, 1969. The international date change had fooled them too.

Several days later, Hank and Hap came to take us home in our big, black Nissan Cedric, an impressive car that looked like a Checker cab. Hap rode in the front with his dad, hanging over the seat much of the way to look at the baby. Lenore and I sat in the back like royalty, and she slept peacefully in my lap. We stopped along the way for some supper, and I expected that people in the restaurant or the waitresses would ooh and ahh over the baby as they had her blond haired toddler brother. I found out later that the custom was not to have a baby that young out at all, and they were being polite to stay away and keep from looking.

When we got home and her dad took her from my arms as I got out of the car, he kissed her on the head. "This is the first time I've kissed her," he said. He was very tender.

The next day or so was my birthday, and I couldn't have felt happier. While others were busy decorating their homes for Christmas, I made a wreath of pink ribbon for our front door, with the message: "Our Joy is Now Complete."