April 17, 1977 was a lovely, warm, early spring day in New
York City.
On that day, in
St. Vincent’sHospital in Greenwich Village, at the age of 22, I became a mother for the
first time.
I had been very excited about having this little
person.
It was uncommon in those days to
find out the gender ahead of time, so we did not know if we would be welcoming
Anna or Ryan.
Even as recently as 1977,
in a supposedly modern hospital, we had to jump through hoops for my husband to
be with me through labor and in the delivery room.
Not only did we have to attend classes, we
had to get special signed permission from our obstetrician.
(I also had to get special dispensation to
not have my arms strapped to the side of the delivery table in leather straps,
something I was horrified to see on the L & D tour with the Lamaze class).
My doctor’s name was Hardart and he was
indeed the son of the
Horn and Hardart automat fortune.
A legendary devout Roman Catholic, he was the go-to GYN for nuns.
There were always at least two in the waiting
room.
He also refused to dispense birth
control.
I took care of that myself, so
that was not an issue for me, I went to him because he had a good reputation in
our family.
The baby was due April 1 but made no appearance. The ensuing 17 days were incredibly
long. My grandmother, mother and aunt
called me every single day, as if I would not have let them know if I had had
the baby. My aunt, a nurse, worked at
St. Vincent’s at the time. If she did
not get me at home, she would call the L & D floor looking for me. By the time I actually did get there the
reaction was “Mrs. Cooper!! We’ve been
waiting for you!”
Ever the obedient pupil, I followed to the letter the
instructions to eat lightly as my due date approached, so I would “avoid going
into labor with a full stomach.” It was
promised whatever I ate would reappear if I over did it. So for three weeks I ate nothing but broth,
crackers and jello. By April 16 I looked
at Dennis and said “F this, I am starving!!”
We went to our local Italian place where I had ravioli, garlic bread and
stuffed clams. I went into labor at one
in the morning. (And for future
reference I noted it all stayed put, thank you very much.)
Giddy with excitement and relief, we raced to the hospital
at practically the first contraction.
Way, way too early. Labor and delivery units operated under strict and Draconian protocols. Once you got to the hospital, you were confined to bed and not allowed to walk
or do anything to keep your labor manageable, except the Lamaze breathing. Patterned breathing can be effective, but it
does have its limits if you have no other tools to use. We got there around three a.m., having no clue it would be 13 more very long hours of labor.
Around noon I did opt for one shot of Demerol, the only
medication I ever took in any of my four labors.
It did nothing but put me to sleep in between
contractions.
I would wake up in
extraordinary pain and then conk out again.
At one point I gazed over, half asleep, to see Dennis sitting in the
bedside chair, engrossed in the Daily News (the
Son of Sam killer had struck again
during the night). I could have cheerfully choked him at that moment.
It still makes me laugh to vividly remember
thinking I would give anything to be sitting in that chair reading the paper.
Once the baby was close to birth, there was a mad flurry of (pointless)
activity as I was whisked to the delivery room.
I won’t even comment on the medieval absurdity of this treatment. But for me, the bottom line at that moment
was, I was about to have my baby.
He was actually held up by his feet in the stereotyped way
you see in the movies. His little body was sort of flat, all soft angles, and
his skin was a translucent pale greenish color.
Then, as I watched, all the angles puffed out and he pinked up from head
to toe as he took his first breath and let out a cry.
He was simply lovely.
 |
| One of my favorite pictures of us, his first day of kindergarten. |
And he stayed lovely.
He rarely cried and had a sweet, solemn demeanor that took in
everything.
You could practically see
the wheels turning as he observed things.
He had an adorable chuckle when something tickled his fancy.
It was such fun to watch him develop and grow
into a little person.
Trust me, he was not perfect. But he grew into a boy and then a man I was
so proud of in so many ways. We had some
very rough times after his dad died. But
as adults, we seemed to have found a common ground. He was completely independent and
self-sufficient, but as I became more financially comfortable, I was thrilled
to able to help him a little more. He
traveled a lot and always sent a postcard or brought back a thoughtful token,
like wool from New Zealand where he and his wife went on their honeymoon. And little resin tea bag rest with a kiwi on
it. When I first got sick he said to me
that if I got worse, I would never have to worry about where I would live, I would
always have a place with him and his wife.
We went to museum exhibitions together and talked about
movies and books and politics. He asked
me to hold the Bible for him as he was sworn in as an attorney. He and his wife, who I love dearly, bought a charming
home and we had a fun family Easter brunch there the first year they were in
the house. They welcomed me to their
lake house, where her family has vacationed for a century. I was thrilled for them as they began their
life together.
In May of 2010 he had some time off for the first time in
probably a decade. He had worked his way
through college and law school and then went straight to work, with no
break. He invited me up to the house to
have lunch with him. He made a fantastic
salad. I gave him his birthday presents
and belated wedding presents, two little oil paintings that reminded me of
their place in the Adirondacks. We had
such a nice afternoon.
He has never voluntarily spoken to me since that day.
I do not know what happened.
I do not know what I did to upset him or hurt him. I have agonized over that day, and others,
trying to remember what we talked about, what I might have done, but I cannot
think of anything. I have teased him,
tried to cajole him, and finally wept and begged him to tell me what I had done
and how could I fix it. But he has only
said it is about him and this is something he needed to do.
I have cried more, prayed more, tortured myself more over
this than any bad thing that has happened to me in my entire life. When he had his own little boy last year I
thought, now he will know, now he will understand, and he will come back. But he didn’t.
When he was born, my family descended on St. Vincent’s like
a joyful cloud. My grandparents, my
parents, my aunts. Time has taken a
painful toll. My beloved grandparents
are gone now, as are Dennis and my mother.
Even the hospital doesn’t exist anymore, it went bankrupt and closed in
2010 after serving New York City for 161
years. The aunt I was so close to, my
mother’s youngest sister, the one who called me every day those last three
weeks, no longer speaks to me, as we vehemently disagreed over the care my
mother received in her last months. My
own nuclear family is fractured by sadness and reproach. And I don’t even know how it happened.
Another of my mother’s sisters used to send my grandmother
flowers on her own birthday, to say thank you for having given birth to
her. I want to send Ryan virtual flowers,
a virtual botanic garden, to thank him for making me a mother. Despite everything, being a mother is the
best thing I have ever been, it is the job I have been happiest at, ever.
As multiple sclerosis progresses, I recognize how numbered
my days are. I do not have decades
left. I will hope against hope that
whatever occurred that caused him such distress can be reconciled and resolved.
We are missing so much. As hard as it is for me, it is equally hard to think of him suffering. He will always be my precious boy, no matter
what.
In My Life, the song he picked for us to dance to at his wedding.
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