narrative
Keaton Dooley
Intro to Creative Writing
Dr. Pickard
30 November 2015
Just Because
When I was ten years old, my mother had her fourth child at the age of 32. You may think that a typical response from a child would be, “Yay! I get a new little brother/sister!” However, assuming that of me would leave you deeply mistaken. I was the middle child, between a brother two years older than me and a sister two years younger than me. This new child would remove my beloved and coveted position as the middle child. I was never treated to any extreme. Just right.
I still remember when she told us. After my Tuesday night dance class, I was watching My Horse Flicka, which we had rented from Blockbuster because my sister Claire is a horse lover. My mother came inside with groceries, unloaded the groceries, and then disappeared for a little while. “Can ya’ll pause the movie for a few minutes?” Even though it was in question form, it was a polite command, and we obeyed. All three of us children gathered around the table. “Alright, I have something to tell ya’ll… I’m pregnant.” My brother Chandler and I did not hesitate. We immediately began to hysterically cry. We were always the more cynical children of the three. Even at the ages of ten and twelve, we were scared of change.
Claire, on the other hand, jumped and screamed, “I’m not going to be the baby of the family anymore! I get to be a big sister now!” She didn’t understand just how much this baby would steal away our time with our mother.
My mother has always preferred natural remedies as opposed to running to doctors for everything. When we would get sick, she would give us herbs, vitamins, and homeopaths, sending us to bed with Vicks on our chest and feet. So it was no surprise when my mother decided to opt for a homebirth with a certified midwife instead of a hospital birth. After a lot of research and recommendations, she choose Emmy Trammel from Ponchatoula as her midwife. I always enjoyed tagging along to my mother’s checkups with Emmy because of the gummy bears and toys Emmy supplied us with.
People always loved to give our family their words of wisdom. “You’re going to bleed to death during childbirth,” my mom’s OB/GYN had warned. “Your family is so weird, and the baby will probably die,” said the kids at school. However, with Emmy, my mother’s twenty-four hour labor for my sister Genevieve was a success.
A little over a year later, we held our annual Labor Day party with both sides of our family. There was a lot of hearsay within our family that my Aunt Mindy was pregnant. While everyone else was outside, my mother gathered the three of us around the kitchen table. “I need to tell ya’ll something.”
“We already know Aunt Mindy is pregnant,” I stated confidentially with my copious amounts of eleven-year-old wisdom. Chandler and Claire nodded and muttered words of agreeance and pride.
“Yes, but did you know I was pregnant?”
Needless to say, my brother and I cried out of rage again. Claire continued her streak of happiness, becoming more and more superior in the sibling realm. After the anger passed though, I thought about it. I loved my sister Genevieve as if she were my own, even though I was a young child. Maybe this one would be the same.
The visits to Emmy resumed. I listened more at these visits though. The baby was posterior, meaning the back of the baby’s head touches the mother’s spine instead of the front part of its head, resulting in a longer, more strenuous labor. However, the baby could flip on its own before or during labor. Regardless, my mother had a lot of confidence in Emmy because Genevieve was posterior too, and Emmy was able to get her to flip in the correct position during the labor.
Although my mother had a sonogram, the sex of the baby remained unknown because my mother liked surprises. I always referred to the baby as a boy, hoping that the word reference could cause the gender, rather than a pairing of an X or Y chromosome. As the pregnancy progressed, my mother’s stomach became shaped like a fat torpedo. Any time we went in public, she was marred with comments. Two of her favorites were, “Oh my! You look like you’re about to burst!” and, “Goodness! Are you giving birth to twins?” After she went over her due date by two weeks though, the comments became highly accurate and didn’t cease. Even my dad made jokes. Timing was never his strong suit. The baby, however, decided those extra two weeks were enough.
My mom’s contractions started during early morning on May 22nd, 2010. Since I already had experience with homebirths, I wasn’t concerned too much. I watched her as she scrambled eggs and scrubbed pots through her contractions. When one would come, she would pause briefly, like she was deep in thought, and then continue her task. She called my Aunt Anna, who was also nine months pregnant but wanted to help my father watch us children throughout labor. Her midwife was Emmy too. She arrived about two hours later, sporting a blue shirt that exclaimed, “It’s a boy!” in bold white letters. She also had called my dad’s mom, who insisted on being there for some unknown reason. My mom allowed it for my father’s sake. She arrived a little later than my aunt. My mom’s parents came over and picked up Chandler and Genevieve, since Chandler was too bored with birth and Genevieve was too young to understand.
Emmy and her assistant Heidi arrived later that night around 9:55. Within an hour of their arrival, my mom had already reached six centimeters, which indicted she was already halfway through dilating. We ordered pizza, and everyone sat around the table and chatted, while my mom went upstairs to her bedroom. Another hour passed, and she was just a little over six centimeters. I fell asleep to the sounds of deep groans of pain around 2 AM. When I awoke in the morning, I went to my parent’s bedroom. I found everyone sitting on the floor, my mom eating a small bowl of cottage cheese and apples. She was still a little over six centimeters, her labor stalled. The baby hadn’t flipped yet.
By 5 PM, there was still no progress, so my mother and Emmy jointly made the decision to transport to a hospital since my mom was undergoing a lot of pain. It took my mom 15 minutes to hobble down the stairs, only to reach the bottom and decide to stay. She reclined on the couch while Heidi worked on getting the baby to flip, which it did within an hour. My mom journeyed up the stairs and was ready to push. After fourty-five minutes, my baby sister was delivered. Finally.
But there was no sound coming from her. I watched as Emmy raised the baby to the bed. Its entire body was blue and her purple, its wet arms, legs, and head hanging limp from its body. A stillness seemed to settle over the room, as if I were perceiving the world in slow motion. Then, everything seemed jumbled. Emmy moved swiftly, without hesitation or panic. She put the stethoscope to her heart and said, “There’s no heartbeat. Call the paramedics.”
My dad called EMS, and my nanna went to the end of our driveway to flag them down. My sister Claire and I started to cry, and Emmy commanded to my aunt, “Get them out!” She brought us to my parent’s bathroom, and we all collapsed on the cool tile floor, all sobbing. She huddled us beneath her arms, protecting us from the grief that was trying to choke us. Millions of fragmented thoughts flashed in my mind. I would never see my brother babble. I would never see my brother learn to crawl. I would never be able to hold him in my arms and cuddle him and protect him from this wicked world. And he… He would never get to meet his siblings. He would never go to school. He would never get a scraped knee that mom would kiss and make better. He would never get to live this confusing mass of events we call life.
But then, I heard a loud shriek.
Emmy shouted, “She’s breathing! I have a heartbeat!”
“Oh god, everything is going to be ok!” my aunt reassured us. We hurried back to my parent’s room to discover my baby sister, full of color and life, laying on my mom’s chest. I guess my hoping hadn’t altered the gender of the child. That was ok though. My mom laughed in disbelief, “It’s a girl? I thought I already had enough of those.”
Within ten minutes, I looked into the yard to see that the EMS and volunteer fire department arrived, who I had guess didn’t understand that my mom gave birth to a child, not a vicious fire. The paramedics carried a gurney halfway up the stairs until Emmy popped around the corner and said, “I don’t think Melisha is planning on going to the hospital.” Then she called to my parent’s bedroom, “Are you, Melisha?” My mom confirmed she was correct. After returning the gurney, they did a series of checkups on my new sister, only to discover that she was perfectly healthy.
The volunteer fireman and woman entered into the room. “Whoa, whoa,” my mom said to the man, “you’re going to have to leave. Too weird.” Apparently, she taught his daughter dance. The world couldn’t have been smaller at this point.
He wasn’t the only outsider involved though. My pothead neighbor had made a Facebook post, which stated, “Melisha Dooley, age 28, died during home childbirth. Such a good neighbor. Rest in peace.” My mother couldn’t even be offended, flattered that she looked younger than her actual age.
Shortly after the paramedics and fire department left, we received phone calls from various family members. Apparently, while my nanna was waiting on EMS, she called my dad’s brother, telling him that the baby had died. Of course, as with most families, especially the Dooley family, word spread like a wild fire. “Jamie, is the baby ok?” my aunt on my father’s side had called and asked my father. I know she was concerned, but she also loved to be the one to know everything first, the one that everyone came to as a main source of gossip.
During these various calls, my grandparents arrived with Chandler, Genevieve, and a huge pot of gumbo. Throughout all of the chaos, I hadn’t realized until then that I hadn’t eaten all day. “Keaton. Please bring me a bowl of gumbo and a piece of pizza,” my mother requested with wide eyes. After nearly thirty-five hours of labor, I figured she deserved it.
In the meantime, Emmy performed standard procedures, such as weighing and measuring the baby. She was ten pounds even and twenty-two inches long. “The reason she had such a rough time during delivery was because she had shoulder dystocia. Basically, the shoulders get stuck.” She didn’t have to tell us this though. We had a cousin who had shoulder dystocia during birth, and she suffered severe nerve damage, causing her arm to remain permanently immobile for the rest of her life.
“Also,” she continued, “the baby did have a heartbeat. With all the commotion, I thought that I was mistakenly hearing my own. But it was certainly hers. It was very weak, but it was still there.” My mother filled Claire and me in on what had happened after we were rushed from the room during the commotion. Emmy utilized an infant resuscitation bag to revive my sister to full consciousness. In total, my sister was only unconscious for thirty seconds. It had seemed like thirty minutes as we had sat on the tile floor. My mother, though, said that she never believed for a second that my sister was dead, not knowing whether or not to account it to motherly denial or motherly instinct. I think it was motherly instinct.
Emmy also told us that this was the most traumatic birth that she had ever encountered throughout her thirty-six year career. Oddly, that was comforting.
The next day, Emmy came for her first checkup on the baby and my mother, after which she asked a few questions, including, “What are you going to name her?” We had countless suggestions from family: Emma (cute), Myrtle (gag), Peggy (“really, grandma?” ). But none seemed befitting. By the third checkup, though, my mom had decided upon a name. Fiona Rose. She had named her after one of her favorite musicians from the 90’s, when I was born. I thought it was beautiful.
However, that never stopped anyone from making a “funny joke.”
“So, what are you going to name your next kid… Shrek?” To this day, it’s truly marvelous how so many people can make the same mindless joke over and over. People never cease to amaze me. Now, when people ask me her name, I beat them to the punch line, which ends with downcast eyes in disappointment, while mine raise victoriously.
Now, Fiona is five years old. Her skin is creamy, and her hair spills over her shoulders in milk-chocolate waves. Her eyes are a piercing blue, like the ocean on a pure day when you can see clearly to the sandy bottom.
I am proud to say that I got to witness her babbling as a baby. I am proud to say that I got to watch her learn how to crawl. And nothing fulfills me as much as getting to hold her and cuddle her and protect her from this wicked world. I’m thrilled that she got to meet and form unforsaken relationships with each of us, her loving siblings, and I’m thrilled that she is in kindergarten, showing her depth and brilliance already. Most of all, I’m thrilled that she will always have our wonderful mother to be there to kiss her scraped knees, no matter how old she may grow.
***
When I arrive home for Thanksgiving break, my siblings encircle me like vultures. “Keaton! Keaton! I’m eight now!” Genevieve announces with much pride.
My youngest sibling, whom my mother named Grayson, not Shrek, runs to me, raps his dainty arms around my legs, and follows suit by saying, “Teaton! I’m freeee now!” He turned three at the beginning of the month.
Fiona jumps into my arms, and I don’t even have to wait for her remark. She squeals through her gapped teeth, “Keaton! I had the measthles!” I laugh. I watch her as she plays on our back patio, riding her “scoother.” Genevieve and Grayson join her.
I realize that my whole life, I’ve dreaded and feared change. But, as I watch them, I also realize that these children, right here, being the very definition of change in my life, mean everything to me. I think of their innocent faces smiling, just because they love swinging, just because they discover a new bug, just because they are happy to be in the same room as me. And I realize that maybe life isn’t full of sadness and disappointment. After all, this confusing mass of events we call life gave them to me.
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I love how intense this sentence is. It really sets the pace for the rest of the story. I was on the edge of my seat reading this.
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General Document Comments 0
I really like this emotional rollercoaster of an essay. It was very witty and well-written, and also sad and almost (almost) made me tear up. I also like how at the end you wrap it up with a moral lesson about life. This was really good! Kudos 2 you.
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This is a really nice story. I like how your mom is into natural stuff and wants a home birth cause I also make everything that I use and want to have a home birth when I grow up and get married and decide to have children.
All in all this is a very nice story. It flows well. It’s easy to read. You have a very simplistic style of writing that works well. I would say that your writing is like a cousin to Jenna’s. Does that make sense? It’s really good :)
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