I only have a vague recollection of my delivery and birth. I remember a lot of screaming, the loudest appeared to be my own. I remember the horrid color of institutional mint green on the walls. I remember the vague image of panic mixed with relief on my mother’s face and the faceless nurses and doctors who haphazardly assisted my mom in the delivery. These people remained faceless to me for the next five days I spent in ICU isolated from my mother. All of that was a bit of a blur only to be fleshed out by the same delivery story retold by my mother each year on September 21st, in person at first but then by phone call every year until I had heard it 40 times or more. But I don’t know how reliable those stories were.
The big fuss revolved around my planned entry into William Beaumont Hospital. I wanted something different, something daring. A big splash. A grand entrance reminiscent of the way Kramer entered Jerry’s apartment. Something with the dramatic or with some panache.
The vast majority of deliveries (at least vaginally) occur in a head-first manner with the baby’s face pointed down towards his or her mom’s rear. Fewer still came out backwards, or feet first, like a slide into home plate. But rare was the delivery like mine. I came out doubled over with my butt the first thing that the world would use to identify me. It was my big message to the world, and to me, it said, “Get to know me.”
To be sure it was dramatic. What I failed to take into consideration with this very direct message was what it would do to the poor woman who had been carrying me around inside of her. I nearly killed her, and myself, in the process. Think of those huge circles covered in paper in which an entire football team broke through as they entered the field of play. It destroyed the paper and left it in tatters. I think that may be a very apt image for what I put my mother through; the exception being there was no roaring crowd and bouncing cheerleaders.
Shortly after we were introduced, my mother and I were separated for the aforementioned five days of isolation. Our fevers got dangerously high and there were other complications for each of us. Those were five lonely days. Even though my dad pressed his face against the glass from time to time, I was mostly bored and rethinking my daring entrance.
As would be the case, until my prefrontal cortex was fully formed (more on that later), I rarely considered the consequences of my stunts. I only had eyes for the immediate glory and to be damned anything else.
This persisted for much longer than it would appear to be reasonable, but spoiler alert, it not only diminished it completely reversed itself. At the time of this writing, I have had sufficient time to consider how and when that happened, and that is what I would like to share with you in a future post.