May 11, 2008 - Birth Day

     The clear blue sky let the sunlight fill my private suite at the Portland Hospital.  My balcony was lined with bright red mums, which accented the skyline of the City of London.  Today was the day, May 11, 2008.  I was being induced with my first child, a girl we had already named Kaylia Zoe, or KZ for short.  People say never name the baby before you have it, but we made the mistake that every set of new parents can't help but do.  As soon as I knew she was a girl, I told my husband, "We are having a Kaylia!" 
     Considering my advanced maternal age, or AMA which was written all over my medical charts, the doctors did not want me going more than five days over my due date.  Whether KZ wanted it or not, today was going to be her birthday.  My doctor, who could have passed for an over 40 cover model, wore a form fitting white linen dress, with dark red drop earrings.  I actually looked cute, considering how uncomfortable I felt.  I read all the books on how to prepare for the delivery process.  My nails were perfectly manicured in the classic OPI Red.  My eyebrows shaped. My lashes tinted.  My hair the perfect color of red, with no greys allowed.  I planned to look fabulous for the afterbirth pictures. 
     After approximately 30 minutes into being induced, my husband became bored.
     "I'm going to run across the street for sandwiches," he said.
     Just as he started to leave, the baby monitor strapped to my stomach fell off.  The nurse immediately replaced the monitor.  Within seconds, alarms sounded.  Before I knew what was happening, the room was filled with doctors and nurses.
     "Get the oxygen." 
     "I can't get a vein.  Someone help me.  Her blood pressure is dropping." 
     I looked down to see a new nurse trying unsuccessfully to put an IV in my arm.  All I could think was that this is so going to hurt tomorrow.  I had no clue what was happening.  One minute I was laughing, enjoying the sunshine and view, and the next moment doctors were screaming.  I looked over at my husband, who had been pre-med at University of Chicago.  He was reading the monitors as I watched the blood drain from his face.  I knew then that something terrible was happening and I had no way to control it. 
     Almost as soon as it all started, everything was back to normal. 
     "What happened?", I asked.
     "The baby's heart stopped beating.  Your blood pressure was dropping, but we were able to get you both back." 
     "Back?  Were we going somewhere?"
     My perfectly manicured doctor was now wearing scrubs. 
     "If this happens again, we'll have to do an immediate c-section."
     Before she could finish her sentence, the alarms began to sound again. 
     "Operating theater, STAT!" 
     The nurse threw scrubs at my husband.      
     "Change as fast as you can." 
     The doctors were running me down the hallway.  As the lights passed overhead, I felt as if I was in an episode of ER, but George Clooney wasn't holding my hand.  I was 42.  This was my first baby.  She was planned and dreamed of for years, and now, this could be it, for us both.  I thought about my girlfriend who had delivered her still born daughter a few months earlier.  The silent tears ran down my face as I prayed that God would let us keep KZ. 
     Seventeen minutes later, my perfect doctor was covered in red blood, my blood.  I couldn't feel a thing.  The silence seemed to last an entirety, but then I heard KZ begin to cry. 

I was running late for my writing class the other day and decided to hop a cab.

"Where to?" the driver said.

"42nd and 5th," I said, then started to play with my iPhone.

"What's at 42nd and 5th?" he said.

Ugh, is this going to be one of those Chatty Cathys Cabbies.

"I'm going to a writing class at NYU," I said as I tried to go back to my iPhone.

"I write," he said.  "Each day after I end my shift I write down about the people who are in the cab.  I actually will write something about each person as soon as I can after they leave so I don't forget.  I got volumes.  I want to write a book, or do a stand up routine on it."

He went on to tell me some crazy stories, then how when a psychiatrist would get in the cab, he would ask them to diagnose the other people.  He looked to be in his fifties, white, and overweight.  I could see him on stage talking.  He was doing a great job talking to me, but of course, he wasn't looking at me. 

"The most important thing to do is to keep writing, everyday," he said.

Yes, the cab driver is right.  I need to follow his advice.  I've not been writing about all the crazy things that happen in New York City because I've been too busy living my life in New York City.  I have been writing a lot, but believe it or not, I don't post everything I write. 

Here's to my cabbie, where ever you are.  You have a great book, with great material.  I hope to read it one day, or to see you on the stage.

Keep writing.