THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, November 26, 1995 TAG: 9511220075
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: HE SAID, SHE SAID
SOURCE: KERRY DOUGHERTY & DAVE ADDIS
LENGTH: Medium: 96 lines
DAVE SAYS:
I was thinking of you the other day, Kerry, during the death-dirge leg of a lengthy flight back home, stuffed into 2.5 cubic feet of ugly little window-seat space that I was renting from a big airline at the rate of about $250 an hour.
Just behind me, a gregarious young woman had settled in next to an older couple. Before we'd gotten our half-cup of flat Coke and 12 grams of fried peanuts, she launched into a long, gory monologue aimed at her elderly seat-mates, who sat mute, captive and horrified, if my occasional glances over my shoulder were accurate.
The woman, who was Raleigh-bound, spoke in a piercing, nasal Piedmont twang, one of those voices you could still hear if you set the phone down and walked clear 'cross the living room. It was a voice that could crack a bank vault and peel the layer of silver from every single dime stashed inside.
And for a full hour and a half she gave a dramatic, fluid-by-fluid account of the birthing of her two children, both of whom had arrived far ahead of nature's normal schedule.
Incapable of escape, the elderly couple, I, and everybody else for eight rows in each direction were treated to the private details of when, where and how her water had broken. We learned how various tubes had been attached, in and out of which orifices, and what viscous liquids had been pumped through them to keep mom and her ``little miracles,'' as she called them, healthy.
Just as we reached the part where she'd been flayed open for an emergency Caesarean, the crew delivered fresh ham sandwiches and little packets of mayo to my row. My seatmates and I looked over our shoulders, looked at the snacks, and decided to just chew on our napkins until the plane set down in Charlotte.
Now I like kids, Kerry, and have one of my own. And I'm as thankful as the next good citizen for the wonders of medicine and the dedicated people who can pull off a healthy birth at six months' gestation.
But can you, as a two-time mommy, explain to me why a woman would believe that total strangers on a flight would be spellbound by her opening up her intimate anatomy - verbally, at least - for all the world to share? Or am I just a dinosaur from an age when these details were best discussed in private, if at all?
KERRY SAYS:
Well, Dave, it pains me to say so, but I agree with you.
You are absolutely right. No one should be sharing her revolting birth and delivery details with the general public.
I have always considered those 50-odd agonizing hours I spent in labor with my two children to be painful, personal memories - especially the part where Steve was so busy dictating letters to his secretary on a cellular phone while I was breathing and screaming that he almost missed the actual birth of our first child.
This is horrifying, but it is not a joke. Trust me.
Then there was the moment Steve made all the pain go away - without an anesthetic.
This happened after about 26 hours in labor with my first baby. By this time nearly every person in the hospital had had a peek at my nether regions and that natural numbness had set in where you actually stop caring about who's lifting the sheet. I swear an orderly came in and raised the sheet with his mop handle.
Of course, I hadn't eaten anything but chipped ice for more than 30 hours, so I may have been delirious.
When delivery was near, Steve was asked to quickly change into surgical scrubs. But no, my husband was too embarrassed to strip to his skivvies in front of the labor room nurses. Mr. Modesty had to go hunting for a men's room - on the maternity floor.
I howled with laughter and couldn't stop as he left the room clutching the scrubs. The nurses exchanged worried looks and scowled at me.
No sir, you won't catch me boring people with my labor and delivery details.
But you know what bothers me even more than details about breech births, inconveniently broken water, epidurals that didn't take and umbilical cords that were tougher to saw through than steel-belted radials?
It's bores who believe that because you're con nino they have a right to touch your stomach and ask embarrassing personal questions.
In fact, if I had been feeling particularly litigious while I was pregnant, I might have sent several of our co-workers to the unemployment lines on EEOC violations.
There was one reporter, who had an annoying habit of rubbing my stomach at every opportunity.
``Is the baby moving?'' he'd inquire, putting his hands on my abdomen.
That was bad enough, but when my first child was overdue I actually had co-workers asking me - let's see, how do I word this delicately - how things were progressing, if you get my drift.
Like, they wanted to know centimeters.
They said they were worried about the office pool.
Fortunately, my sunny disposition prevailed and my little miracles arrived without major problems.
And I decided not to sue . . . or to ever mention my ordeal again. by CNB