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
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.
“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:
