Waiting Room

 

Waiting Room

I’m 24 and lying in a hospital bed in Houston, Missouri. It’s a cold winter evening, December 31, 1994, and the KC Chiefs fight to win a playoff game on the TV somewhere in the hospital. Everyone who is not currently with me is gathered around, watching the game, a distraction from their enthusiasm and nervousness. Everyone—all of my family, all of my husband’s family—are at the hospital, awaiting the birth of the first grandbaby. The soon-to-be grandparents (my mom and dad, his mom and dad) have all arrived to bear witness and celebrate this momentous occasion. On the family farm, my siblings, soon-to-be aunts and uncles, play Scrabble, Spades, and Bridge while waiting for the next morning when I will bring the newborn baby girl to join the family fun. Half a state away, soon-to-be great grandparents, aunts, and uncles pray and wait for the phone call to come. The first thing I

remember the nurse saying when I arrived at the hospital that evening after my water broke is that the baby has a full head of hair. Alone in labor, I am surrounded by family and prayers and love. The father of the child is in the room with me as is my mom. I have no qualm about the support, love, and place my baby will have in the extended families. Four and a half hours after I arrive at the hospital, I give birth to a beautiful, fairy-wood brown eyed daughter, Alexia Devin. Euphoric, her dad rushes into the waiting room, having missed the Chiefs beat the Raiders, and announces her much anticipated arrival to all of the family gathered together waiting. The next morning, we place this beloved December baby in a red Christmas stocking, the very one her dad had been put in after his birth, and take photos to commemorate her birth and her place in the generations of Rinehart, Cunningham, Crawford, Kellhofer, Johnson families.

 

    I’m 27 and lying in a hospital bed in Columbia, Missouri. It’s a hot summer day, July 2, 1998, and my parents are driving the curvy, hilly roads through the Ozark Mountains on the way to greet their next grandchild. After only one hour of labor, I feel a desire to push, but the nurses say to wait for the doctor. I can’t, I moan. I’m glad that my husband’s parents have arrived, and as I begin to push, he remains by my side while they accompany three- and a half-year Lexi on a grand tour of the hospital. Alone in the labor, I am still surrounded by family, prayers, and love. After only five minutes, I give birth to a beautiful, brown eyed firecracker daughter, Alaina Beth, and her dad rushes out to collect his parents and Lexi to meet the newest, much-loved daughter who brings sparkles of sunshine and joy into the family. The next day, I bake an apple pie for our journey to Kansas City to stay with his parents for Fourth of July weekend, and the next weekend, we travel to the family farm as the family (including great-grandparents) celebrates her birth and her place in the generations of Rinehart, Cunningham, Crawford, Kellhofer, Johnson families.

 

The girls grew up under the wings of the shadow of family and extended family and are rooted in love and prayers from all the generations before. As adolescents and teenagers, they went through their parent’s divorce as well as relocating 17 hours away from family, and as young women, have experienced other loss and grief and heartbreak as well as many blessings, opportunities, and extraordinary experiences. Whether they are 20 hours away, a whole country away or an hour away, they always know where they come from and the strong foundation of family and love they can always count on. 

I’m 50 and sitting alone in my home in Melbourne, Florida. It’s a fairly cool autumn evening, September 27, 2021, and I’m waiting for a text message from my youngest daughter who is lying in a local hospital. Alone in labor, her boyfriend is next to her, and I hope she knows how much love and how many prayers she has surrounding her right now. Because of too many losses, there are no great-grandparents on our side of this new family. Because of the pandemic, only one person is allowed in the room with her. Because of covid-19 and its variants, the hospital only allows visitors from 7am to 9pm, so there is no waiting at the hospital tonight to greet the newest family member. But a sister and niece plan to fly in to visit and help sometime soon. Lexi and I wait, only minutes away, to meet David James. No matter what, I will see him and welcome him into the family. But should I keep a distance? Should I not “take your unvaccinated self” near him, as some people have thrown at me in shame or scare-tactics during the past week? Whatever the answer, we will find a way to honor his birth and his place in the generations of Rinehart, Cunningham, Crawford, Kellhofer, Johnson, and Pearson families.

On September 28, 2021, I walk into the waiting room of Holmes Regional Medical Center’s Birthing Room and spy Lexi. She’s checked in and settled into the corner where she plans to wait for me to visit. Davey’s parents also arrive around the same time, but they elect to return later. I wish we could all greet the new baby together. I am the first visitor to see Alaina and DJ, and I’m so excited. I take the elevator up the stairs to the large, airconditioned waiting room where I check in with the security officer. Masks are required in the building, so of course everyone I see has them on, though no one, medical staff included, is wearing a surgical mask. He checks my ID and scans for weapons. Then, he asks me to stand close to the small camera and remove my mask. He snaps my photo, and I put my mask back on. Because of Covid-19 protocols, only one visitor is allowed in the room with the mother and newborn, and right now Davey, the dad, is there. I text my daughter that I’m ready, and she texts back that Davey is on his way. The security guard instructs me to return downstairs to the small, all-glass waiting room that is crowded and heated from the sun shining through the windows.

“Why,” I ask him, “it’ll only be a minute before we trade out.”

“Because of Covid,” he responds.

“I don’t understand,” I say, gesturing to the completely empty and large waiting area.

“You might expose the room to covid.”

I scoff, reminding him that I just removed my mask for the photo ID (as does every single visitor). “I’m not trying to argue, and I’ll do what you request,” I say. “I’m just trying to understand logically.” After all, you are standing in front of every single visitor when he/she removes the mask every time all day long, so you pose more of a risk combined. I walk towards the elevator, and he tags along.

“I don’t think you’re trying to argue. It’s just the hospital policy, and if I let you stay up here, I’ll lose my job.”

“I’m going down. I don’t want that. I just don’t understand how I am safer down in that overheated tiny space crowded in with all those other people than up here in the spacious, air-conditioned empty room.”

“I’ve been a security guard for all types of people and places, and I agree. I’ve never seen anything like this before, but it’s what I have to do.”

I smile and wave goodbye as the elevator door closes. I talk to Lexi for less than a minute before Davey arrives, wondering where I am and why Laina has to be left alone for even a few minutes. We give Davey a hug. “Thank you for being there for Laina last night,” I say as I grip the vase of flowers and giftbag that I have for Laina. I return to the fourth floor where the security guard is taking a photo of a maskless man. I wait over six feet away while he finishes and escorts him into the maternity suite. The guard again swipes me, looking for weapons, before finally allowing me to enter the sacred space and see my daughter and new grandson, my first grandbaby. When I find her room, two nurses are talking to her and checking her vitals. I wait in the doorway, unsure of the proper procedure. I wish so much that Lexi can come up at the same time, so that all three of us can be together for this momentous occasion, but only one visitor is permitted in the room at a time even though two or more medical personnel are authorized to crowd the room. Nothing makes sense!

They see me and beckon me in, and I am in awe as I glance at DJ all swaddled up in a blanket, lying in the crib. He has a hat on, and his face, while bruised around the mouth, is not scrunched up like many newborns, even with a natural delivery. I lightly brush my finger on his soft cheek. He’s adorable and precious, and I already love him so much. 

One nurse leaves while the other one hands Laina the feeding chart, instructing her to keep track of when the baby breastfeeds. After reviewing everything with Laina, the nurse says she’s going to chance waking up the baby and go ahead with his checkup now. I’m standing near the crib, and I watch as the nurse listens to his heartbeat. She bends over, placing the stethoscope on his chest, breathing directly towards his face. Even standing to the side and even through our  masks, I can smell her foul breath. How many patients have you been exposed to in the past day? Week? He’s defenseless and has no protective mask.

When she removes the blanket to check him, he stirs and cries briefly. I count his fingers and toes, and as I do, he grasps my finger, holding it with his tiny hand. My heart melts. She finishes her exam, swaddles the newborn again, lays him on Laina’s lap, and leaves the room.

Finally, I talk to my daughter and hear her birth story, her fears and pain, her wonder and joy, her power and strength. Connection, bonding, spending time together over the delight of her newborn son. I snap photos to commemorate the moment. Lexi Facetimes me, and for a few moments, the three of us pause, coming together the only way we can on this special day under the pandemic protocols.

I take my turn holding the cherished newborn, though at 7 pounds and 11 ounces he’s tiny and light. I return him to his mama, and we continue our conversation. Forty-five minutes after I arrive, he gives a cry, and Alaina instantly begins to breastfeed him. I’m so proud of her and of the amazing mother that she already, instinctually, is.

When I am finally back down in the tiny, hot, overcrowded waiting room, Lexi takes her turn to greet him and visit her sister. I head back home because Davey is bringing food for Laina soon, so after Lexi, he will spend the rest of the day in the room with mama and baby. The dad is the one visitor allowed in the room anytime, as long as no other visitors are there. Though after nine that evening, my daughter will Facetime with me to tell me that she and DJ will be spending the night alone in the hospital since Davey has to return home to take care of their dogs. Lexi or I will stay with you, I suggest, but alas only the father is allowed in the hospital after nine. Also, even if we watch the dogs for him, there’s no place in the tiny room for him to sleep except an uncomfortable chair next to the hospital bed and crib, crammed in the back corner of the room. No new mother should have to stay in the hospital alone. What an isolated, dystopian society in which to give birth. 

But I hold onto those few moments in the hospital when the three of us were together to celebrate DJ and his birth, welcoming him to the world and to his place in the generations of Rinehart, Cunningham, Crawford, Kellhofer, Johnson, and Pearson families.

One month photo gallery:

March Birthdays, Take Two

Dear UD,

Today, I have no words.

Today, you would have been 62.

Today, a year ago, we celebrated your 61^st birthday all weekend at your place, another family celebration filled with kids playing ball outside (and Little and Aiden jumping cliff to cliff, flying over open space), dogs romping around (except poor O. B. who shadowed your every move, sitting between your feet at every chance), and cousins/siblings/aunts/uncles all playing various games of Scrabble, Bridge, and the new Dragon Joust card game that you created. And you, cooking, grilling, making special meals for all of us even though you were the honored birthday boy. 

Sonny, Mom, and I stayed up until midnight on the night before, playing Bridge with you to ring in the first moments of your birthday. We saluted your birthday, and you jumped to Three No Trump, like always, winning the rubber.

We sang Happy Birthday (something you did for every single one of us on every birthday through a phone call), ate cake, and watched you open presents. Last year, mostly, you received cards, as you requested, where we told you how much you meant to us.

Did you know then, somewhere hidden inside, that it was your last birthday?

Did you know, in a way that we did not until after, how deeply you impacted our lives on so many levels? How very much we loved you? How special you were?

Even as we brought you presents, you gifted us with everything you had, with everything you were. 

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. ~Hamlet (1.5.167-8)

Today, a song comes on the radio, and the lyrics slay me. No longer are you “only one call away.” No longer are you “there to save the day.” No longer can your siblings or 17 nieces and nephews or 30 plus great-nieces and nephews call to share news, get advice, wish you Happy Birthday.

Today, we vote in the primaries, trying to pick the best of the worst, without a viable option. I imagine what you would say and wish we could talk about it.

I’ve heard some people laugh at the idea of Trump, saying he wouldn’t have the power to do anything if elected. I’ve heard others say that Trump is a refreshing choice, someone to bring new life to the political hypocrisy and depravity of this corporation-run government. Both of those are furthest from the truth. This election year has been a debacle of Hunger Game/Nazi proportions. Will we not learn from history or from futuristic literature? George Santayana said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” but World War II wasn’t that long ago. Surely we haven’t forgotten it already or forgotten where racism, prejudice, and blindly following dictators who use repeated common fallacies in reasoning leads?!

I would remind you of the stories I have read, of Fahrenheit 451, “Harrison Bergeron,” The Handmaid’s Tale, The Giver series, the Unwind series, and ask how people cannot see the parallels. How they cannot see our country sliding headfirst into a dystopia.

I have tried to stay out of the political debates this year, but Trump scares me. He should scare all of us. Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor, winner of Nobel Peace Prize in 1986, and author of Night, wrote, “We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”

You always wanted to see the best in people, in our country, in our world. I wonder what you would say now, after all of the headlines and horrors of the past year. After the past week when our first amendment right to peaceful protest has been under attack. In the words of Elie Wiesel, “There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.”

 

So, today, I speak up and cast my vote. 

And, today, I’ve heard from various family members who are all thinking of you, honoring you, missing you.

Mom is planting a flower garden with roots and bulbs of perennials such as lilies, irises, wildflowers, and bleeding hearts. Every spring when they shoot up and bloom, she will think of you.

Others will watch a musical or Hitchcock classic or Shakespeare play, and some will reach out to a sibling or cousin and cherish the mundane fact of having a phone conversation with a loved one.

Still others will cook a meal that they learned in your kitchen while most of us will play a board or card game.

Whatever we do, we remember you.

Today is your special day. We love you, Uncle David. Happy birthday!

Love,

Rach