[Ann Emerg Med. 2010;10;55:215.]
I stuff my white coat pockets with Saltines and ginger candy to forestall “evening sickness” on night shifts, hiding dry heaves with a discreet hand over my mouth. Nurses giggle as I audibly retch during an intubation. And I shelf a pregnancy book after it starts with, “Get eight hours of sleep each night, stay off your feet, eat frequently, and avoid stressful situations.” My husband (Jimmy, a surgical resident) worries about my I's and O's at work, while secretaries force hydration with ginger ale. Security guards become increasingly watchful as I examine agitated patients.
I end up on the wrong end of cold sonogram gel, stirrups, and gowns that “open in the back.” Thumbing through waiting room magazines, I wonder how they've escaped the notice of infection control. And I hold my breath in the seconds before the Doppler finds the whoosh of the baby's heartbeat, realizing how long that pause must seem to patients.
My belly grows. The staff teases me about the “screaming” buttons on my white coat, and the gradual transition into my husband's scrub size. I stop wearing shoes with laces and find myself dreading the scale in the doctor's office. My OB starts saying “You can stop gaining weight anytime now.” I avoid the temptation to check in with the baby by ultrasonography at work, too superstitious about discovering something awful midshift. I finally learn the locations of the bathrooms. Patients notice.
“When are you due? Is this your first? Boy or girl?”
“My husband and I decided not to find out.”
I discover “foolproof” methods for prenatal sex determination sans ultrasonography. A chain-smoking, middle-aged construction worker presents for a back injury. Discharge papers in hand, he recalls that his Greek mother could always predict the sex of a baby. “She would have the mom hold a feather behind her head and drop it. If it landed on its tip, it would be a boy, the point or head of the family. If it landed on its side, it would be a girl, the soft, loving part of the family. She was never wrong.”
An octogenarian dangles a necklace over my belly, making her prediction based on the direction of spin. Questions about reflux, cravings, and the baby's pulse rate become the norm. Other patients tug at my coat, assessing my silhouette. “You're carrying this baby high—it's got to be a boy. I'm never wrong.” My favorite: “You've gained a lot of weight in your face; it's a girl. I'm sure of it.” At home, I quiz an online Magic Eight Ball that decidedly states we will have a daughter. More hospital diagnostics should rival the sensitivity of the ancient Internet Chinese sex predictor, renowned for its uncanny accuracy; it promises a son.
Hands are placed on my belly as prayers are murmured in Spanish, Yiddish, and Creole. Handshakes are punctuated by “God bless you and your baby.” Old men stand and offer their chairs to me, while smiling strangers retrieve all of my dropped papers. Housekeepers scold me for carrying too many charts, and even the crankiest consultants take a moment to ask after the baby. Increasingly dyspneic as the pregnancy progresses, I find residents asking after my ability to breathe. The baby and I are immersed in goodwill.
Hallway conversations sprout about possible names, the Zodiac, and why I'm still working. The inevitable delivery stories start with “9-and-a-half pound baby,” “40-hour labor,” and “the epidural that never came,” but end with “your whole life is going to change,” and “it goes so fast.”
It grows harder to talk to patients about miscarriages or deliver bad news with the visible evidence of my happiness between us. With primip naiveté, I remain convinced that I cannot get any bigger. In my seventh month, we are called to the basement of the ED parking garage, where a delivery is in progress. I waddle down to a car, finding a crying woman in the front seat holding her squalling newborn. The diaphoretic father stands by, speechless, then overjoyed, when we assure him that both are well. I suggest to Jimmy that we avoid any combination of delivery and motor vehicle, given the overall poor prognosis for the upholstery.
We make an awe-inspiring trip to Babies R Us and leave dazed and confused. I find a new level of common ground in the hospital, as experienced parents (often medical students) share their survival secrets on topics from child care to car seats. Other attendings offer support, advice, and hand-me-down gear. We receive outrageous amounts of yellow and green baby clothing and paint the nursery late into the night. We wait.
The baby comes early, reportedly a common occurrence among EM docs. The OB attending hands my husband the scissors, saying “this is the easiest operation you'll do in a while.” Jimmy leans over, cuts the cord, and whispers, “It's a boy.”
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