I go out: Part II

The bench at the bus stop, New Westminster’s 22nd St. Station, on my way home. 12:00 pm. I am reading.

Woman of maybe 40-50 years of age wearing purple long sleeved shirt and what look to be black velvet pants sits next to me.

“Is it your first baby?”

I close my book.

“Yes.”

“When are you due?”

“3 days ago, actually.”

She peers up at me, takes off her sunglasses. I leave mine on.

“Aren’t they worried about getting it out?”

(Should ‘they’ be? Shouldn’t I be the worried one about “getting it out?” Nevermind.)

“No…actually, they’ll go to 2 weeks after your due date before taking any drastic measures.”

“Well! When I had MY son, I was 4 days overdue and the doctor said, ‘We’re taking it out!’ And he went and did a cesarean, just like that!”

“Really.”

“YES! And it was HORRIBLE. He gave me the epidural so I could hear everything and he was talking about his vacation that he was going on afterwards. And then after the surgery, I had all these stitches and I couldn’t walk down the stairs! I had to go down the stairs on my bum! And then the baby was crying but I couldn’t get to him! And then when he was 9 years old, it popped open!”

I raise my eyebrows.

“The scar! I was at the gym and doing sit ups because I was trying to lose weight because I gained 50 lbs during the pregnancy, I had borderline diabetes – that’s why my husband left, he said I was too fat and he was right, but that’s no reason to go cheat on your wife with a stripper! he’s a single father now and he deserves it, who has a baby with a stripper? – anyway my scar just popped open! What a nightmare. So I had to go back to the hospital, 9 years later and get sewn up again. Don’t get a cesarean. Whatever you do.”

“Um, well, I’m not planning one, but sometimes it’s the best way to go. For emergencies, and such…”

“YES but not for your doctor’s convenience. His name was Dr. Butt. And he was a BUTT. (laughs) Pardon my French.”

“Sure.”

Pause.
I open my book.

“Is it a boy or girl?”

I close my book.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to know?”

“Well, I do, but I can wait.”

“Does your husband want to know?”

“Not so badly.”

“You’re lucky to have a husband.”

“Yes, I am.”

“And you’re smart to have your baby so young.”

“Mmmm.”

“I had my son at 31. It was too old. Especially when he got to be a teenager; it was hard on me because I was alone and he was going down a bad path. And he needed a father but he didn’t have one. Just me. And by then I was 45 years old! I had enough things to take care of! No, I think 23 or 25 is the best time to have a baby.”

Pause.

“You’re, what, 25?”

“I’m 32.”

“Oh. Well. But you have a husband. So it won’t be so hard for you.”

I’ll spare you the details of her friend who is bi-polar (and her horrible doctor) and her other friend who was pushed onto the Skytrain tracks because despite the volume of her voice and the fact that everyone on the bus heard the whole story, I felt like I was on the other end of a confidential phone call.

That’s enough strangers now. Time to hole up in the house and watch some 90210.

Oh, the doctor’s appointment? Is that why you’re all still here? Well, I am slowly dilating and am quite effaced. The doc claims to have swept my membranes so we’ll see if that accomplishes anything. And if nothing happens, I’ll have some babby stress tests next week to make sure all is well in the big swimming pool. (I know I have enough amniotic fluid, because I swear I can hear it gurgling) But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.