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6.14 x 9.21 paperback |
ISBN: 9781432733964 |
$14.95 |
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Genre: |
FAMILY & RELATIONSHIPS / Alternative Family |
Publication: |
Dec 19, 2008 |
Pages: |
139 |
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The Donovan family has been spinning good yarns for generations; only now, for the first time, these accounts have been collected and put to paper. In other words, this is a collection of the Donovan family stories. Just like all stories that have been passed down from generation to generation, it is sometimes difficult to separate fact from fiction. That, of course, is half the fun. These accounts are designed to spur the reader to tell his or her own stories. The Donovan family narratives are both personal and universal. They are brimming with laughter and tears, just like life. So pull up a chair and enter the world of the Donovans. Their lives are so very much like your own.
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Mother’s Day
In spite of man’s inhumanity to man, we are born into this world to hope. We know what an awful, terrible place this world can be yet for some inexplicable reason we work hard to make sure that it all keeps rolling.
We were expecting our first baby. Because the women’s liberation movement had worked hard to make us men more sensitive, I did the Lamaze training bit while standing by my wife’s side, a rock of stability and courage. “Natural childbirth is the way to go,” all of our friends assured us. All Jeannette had to do was hypnotize herself with those bizarre Lamaze methods and the birth would be as easy as a walk in Grant Park.
We dutifully read all the books our instructor gave us to read. Jeannette learned how to say, “Ah, hee! Ah, hee! Ah, hee!” while rubbing her stomach in some mystical, powerful manner. I, as her coach, was supposed to “Ah hee” right along with her. This Ah-hee mantra has magical powers. It prevents wifely pain, but more importantly it prevents the aforementioned wife from screaming at her beloved husband, “This hurts, you spawn of all that is evil. It’s all your fault!!”
I was ready, willing, and disabled. Yet women who knew better than I kept asking me if I was nervous about attending the live birth. Women generally believe that if men could get pregnant then there would be no babies. They think men can’t handle pain or gore. What do they mean when they say we can’t handle pain? This simply is not true!! Men have been known to play in Super Bowls with broken legs.
Though I have never played football with a broken leg, I truthfully told one and all that I wasn’t nervous at all.
“But it’s kind of gory and icky, Mark. Are you sure this won’t bother you? Some men pass out.” Again, note the condescending attitude toward men. I still am outraged!
“Not me, my lady-type friend,” I responded. “I saw The Exorcist and I didn’t get sick. And from what I can tell from the Lamaze movies we’ve watched, what goes on in the birthing room seems pretty similar, with very similar language being used.”
But I could tell that my inquisitors wanted me to be nervous about something so I, being an accommodating guy, had to tell them the truth about what was really bothering me. So I confessed. “Here’s the thing,” I said, “I’m nervous about the idea of my wife being half naked in front of all those strangers in the hospital with me just standing there, doing nothing. I mean what kind of man would allow that to go on in his presence? It just ain’t natural.”
But now my female inquisitors took on a totally different tone. “Oh, no, that won’t bother you. You will be so caught up in the wonderful moment that you will hardly notice.”
“Make up your mind. Wonderful moment or hideous experience?” So I asked, “Let me get this straight. My wife will be laying there, on a gurney, with a bunch of strangers around, and her business will be exposed for all to see. Now, you’re telling me I won’t notice that? Well, kind lady, I think you’re wrong.”
And boy were they ever wrong. The public exposure of my wife’s nether parts at the hospital was far worse than even I had imagined. The first guy in the hospital room, after my wife went into labor, claimed to be a doctor. Well, listen to this pile of crapola he tried to hand me. “I’m here to check how dilated your wife is.”
Dilated? Oh, oh, I remembered what that meant from Lamaze class. Decency as well as shame prevents me from telling you what he did next. This guy just walks into a room, claims he is a doctor, and then he commences groping my wife.
And here is the pathetic part. I allowed it to go on. Dr. Feelgood was having his way with my wife unhindered and unharmed.
“In the name of all that is good and holy, man. What do you think you are doing?” That’s what I wanted to say, what I should have said.
Instead I muttered something like, “How does she look, Doc?” I can’t believe I said something that stupid! How does she look? She looks naked.
It didn’t matter what I said by then because it was too late. Every clown in the hospital decided to march into the room. Come one, come all! See the naked wife of Mark Donovan. Witness his humiliation. Here come the doctors, the nurses, the custodians, and the gift-shop lady. Here comes some homeless guy from the mission down the street. It was like some decadent, perverted parade, and I was the drum major.
Yikes! Jeannette didn’t even notice, and she is the most modest person I know. It dawned on me then how hard childbirth must really be. I believe the Pope himself could have walked into the room and Jeannette wouldn’t have cared. She was Ah-heeing to beat the band. “Ah, hee! Ah, hee! Ah, hee!” God bless her. This really must be a miracle, I decided. Maybe I should be paying attention to the right things, the important things. I finally got over myself, and beheld the miracle before me.
It turned out to be a difficult birth. Our son Drew’s heartbeat stopped shortly before his birth and everyone was worried, scared is more accurate. Medical personnel with serious faces went about their business. They were obviously nervous, and so, finally, was I, at least about the right things.
Forceps were used. As usual, Bill Cosby had it right; forceps do look like salad spoons. Out Drew came; some strange purple-blue, beautiful, beautiful creature that nobody was sure was going to live. But then it came. That cry, that beautiful cry. A miracle, an honest to God miracle. Life with all its tears and laughter lay before my son and his parents.
It was 1:30 a.m. And it was Sunday, May 9, 1982: Mother’s Day. “Happy Mother’s Day,” I whispered to Jeannette. She said something, but I couldn’t hear her because she was crying.
Well, anyway, Good old Doctor Pervert turned into my hero that day. He helped bring our first son into the world. God bless him. Oh, and Jeannette did a pretty good job herself. But what would I expect; she’s always been my hero.
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About Mark Donovan
Mark Donovan is a teacher, a husband and the father of five. He fancies himself an expert on the family because he has one. He is available for presentations encouraging others to tell their family stories. For information visit: http://www.facebook.com/inbox/readmessage.php?t=1193041663860#/pages/Carol-Stream-IL/Family-Stories-Mark-Donovan/122941895189?ref=ts
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