Cleo

Rebirth

Love, for cats and people, can be painful.

A mother cat is rightfully called a Queen. Personally, I think it would be great if pregnant women were also called Queens. If the gay community protested too much we might possibly accept Baroness, Duchess or Fairy Princess. Anything instead of those glamour-sapping medical terms Gravida, Multigravida and the dreaded Geriatric Multigravida.

Cats arrange to have four or five babies in one hit. If humans did the same the number of months a woman spends gazing into a toilet bowl would be dramatically reduced. She’d have to buy only one set of hideous maternity clothes in her entire life. Children’s clothes would be bought in bulk. Deals could be made with baby gear manufacturers and schools. (Five educations for the price of four?)

Restlessness is a surefire sign that a female cat is going into labor. It’s the same with humans. I’d been wrong to assume the Battle of the Bassinet was responsible for my moonlight escapade with the hand mower. I should have realized it was primal instinct telling my body to rev up for a big one.

“Hello? Is that the hospital? Look, I think I might be going into labor. Contractions? Well, they’re not all that strong—maybe five minutes apart…What do you mean try and get some sleep? How can I go to sleep when I’m having a baby?…You want me to calm down and take a pill? Are you joking? So what if your beds are all full? I’ll give birth in the broom closet.”

“Who does that stupid nurse think she is, turning me away from the hospital like that?”

“Here’s the pill,” Steve said. “Try and get a good night’s sleep.”

“I think we should call Ginny. She’ll know what to do.”

“I did. The babysitter answered. They’re at some rock music awards.”

“Rock music awards?”

“It’s okay. They’ll finish around midnight. Ginny will meet us at the hospital, if we end up going there. Try and get some sleep.”

“What time is it?”

“Haven’t you gone to sleep yet? It’s ten-thirty.”

“These contractions started seven hours ago. I think we should go to the hospital.”

“They don’t want you.”

“They’re hardly going to turn us away if we arrive on their doorstep, are they?”

As we pulled into the hospital parking lot I immediately wanted to go home again. Hospitals creep me out, especially when you’re not entirely welcome. Even this one, with its “homely” new birthing unit, could’ve doubled as a set for a Frankenstein movie. As if I didn’t notice the gleam of the machinery, the holes in the wall expecting tubes and wires to be plugged into them, the nasty implements lurking under green surgical cloth. Frankly, I’d have preferred a cardboard box.

My birthing machinery was proving inefficient. I took a bath, breathed and paced. I crouched like an animal, knelt like a peasant woman from the Amazon and would’ve willingly hung upside down from one of the bad-taste paintings on the wall if it might’ve got things going. None of it worked. Even though the contractions were increasingly uncomfortable they refused to get businesslike.

The doctor arrived around midnight and went to sleep in the next room. I was boring everyone, including me. I wanted to burst through the hospital doors and run away into the night.

Even though I was planning a natural birth with no pain-killers, I developed an attachment to a mask that exuded sickly smelling nitrous oxide. Why it’s called laughing gas I’ll never know. Nothing remotely funny happened, except everyone started talking in Donald Duck voices. They were only doing that to annoy me. Whenever they tried to pry the mask away from me, I clamped it over my face and refused to let go.

The doctor appeared and said she was going to rupture the membranes around the baby’s head. Baby? Was there a baby involved in all this pain? Suddenly a shimmering white cat glided into the room and stood over me, gazing at me with beautiful glittering eyes. Except it wasn’t a cat, it was Ginny!

“You’re making great progress,” she purred in my ear. “We can see the head. The baby has a fine crop of black hair. You can give a push with the next contraction.”

“That’s it,” said Ginny. “One more push…”

Just as well there was a spectacular waterfall to look at. A comet of diamonds, it arced toward the ceiling and landed somewhere beyond my right knee.

A loud cry filled the air. Miniature crimson legs and dainty feet were intertwined with red and purple rope thick enough to tie Steve’s ferry to the wharf. Umbilical cord. Tiny hands curled like pink camellias. A face wise as a guru, fresh as dawn, peered curiously around the room from under a cap of dark hair. Never had I seen anyone look so confident they were in the right place. The baby. Our baby! A tidal wave of love surged out of me and enveloped the child.

“She’s absolutely perfect,” Ginny said, lowering her into my arms. “What are you going to call her?”

A girl was the last thing I’d planned for. My longing for a daughter had been so deep I’d been too scared to admit it to anyone, especially to myself. This child’s femaleness was a statement she had no intention of being a replica of Sam. Staring up into my face with shortsighted intensity she exuded such strong individuality I wasn’t tempted to mention Samantha, even as a middle name.

“Lydia,” I said. “After my father’s mother. I never met her, but everyone says she was a strong woman.”

“Lydia, little one,” said Ginny tenderly. “May you journey lightly through life’s rain showers.” As she delivered her impromptu blessing I noticed for the first time how Ginny’s eyes gleamed with unspoken wisdom, like Cleo’s.