A season of biology

On the day that our surrogate, someone we love very much, went into labor, we went to the hospital to wait. When we were not in the room with her, the nurses put us in a small room in the emergency room for pregnant people — the OBED. The room had a bed, chair, muted television, and bathroom. We could have changed the channel or adjusted the volume, but we didn’t. We were in that room for most of 14 hours and for the duration, watched cartoons and Bob Ross and local news, all on silent, without captions. 

We thought about reading, but we couldn’t. We thought about taking out our computers, but we couldn’t. I have never been so hungry. On the way to the hospital, I picked up a cajun chicken biscuit from Bojangles and an extra ‘Cheddar Bo’ for a mid-morning snack. For lunch, I ordered Shake Shack delivery. By mid-afternoon, I was eating a massive ham sub that the nursing staff offered to me. For dinner: an Italian Sub from Jersey Mikes. By the time we left that room, the trash can was filled with dozens of graham cracker wrappers from the snack station down the hall in what they called “coach’s corner.” 

David and I quipped that we had been reduced to biology. Food, bathroom, food, bathroom, food, bathroom. Eyes glazed at the television. Hours ticking by. Charging our phones. Sanitzing our hands. 

A stone's throw away, someone I love very much was suffering to give birth to someone else I love. 

That night, she was still in labor, and they moved us to a different room to sleep, which we barely did. Our intestines churned, and our hearts pounded. Our lungs continued to breathe. We were nothing but bodies waiting. 

It was the next day, a Saturday, that we met Frankie. That is a story I will tell another time. 

Now, his body and its functions have joined our bodies. Now, our whole family is pure biology — burps and poops and drool. The washer beeping. Pizza boxes piling up. A constant conversation about the most pressing needs of everyone in this house. She needs to get outside. I need to sleep. He needs to eat. Where is his hat? Did you record that last poop? 

Introducing this miraculous little mammal. Frances Jean Slice Yourdon.

We adore him. 

I’ll be back with more in March, when my brain returns.