Free The GI Bride by Iris Jones Simantel Page B

breasts, and when he heard someone coming, he covered me and left. I was sure he had
touched me inappropriately he might have been housekeeping staff even but I was in too
much pain to think any more of it. When I mentioned it to Bob, he told me I was
crazy.
    When I was taken into the delivery room, Dr
Crown hadn’t arrived, so they gave me some kind of gas to slow things down. I
could hear myself singing, apparently quite loudly, between contractions, and the nurses
imploring me to be quiet. My doctor had asked them to slow thecontractions because he didn’t want to miss the big event, and he did not. I
later learned that he had been concerned about the birth because of the size of the baby
and my apparently immature pelvic measurement. It was a difficult delivery and I was
sure I was going to die. What a relief it was, at last, to hear one of the nurses
announce, ‘You have a healthy baby boy.’
    ‘You call that ox a baby!’ was
Dr Crown’s response.
    Phew! I’d done it. I had a son and he
was perfect … If only my family was with me to share my joy and if only I felt less
lonely …
    Bob sent Mum and Dad a telegram announcing
the birth of our baby and we received one back, congratulating us and telling us they
were overjoyed. Later, when Mum heard that I’d had an episiotomy, she was
horrified. Apparently, they were only performed in England when the life of the mother
or baby was in danger. In some small way, I was pleased to hear that my mum was worried
about me, but it made me miss her more than ever.
    That dear Dr Crown: several months later, we
realized we had never received a bill from him, and when I called his office to ask
about it, I was told there was nothing to pay. I was reduced to tears by his
kindness.
    Bob was ecstatic that we had produced a boy;
he cried as he thanked me for giving him a son. However, we did not give in to family
pressure to name him Robert Henry Irvine III. Bob was a ‘junior’ but we
thought that was as far as it should go. We named our son Wayne Robert: Wayne because it
was an all-American name and Robert after his daddy, his paternal grandfather and my
younger brother. They’d just have to get used to our break with tradition.
    Foolishly, I was anxious to leave the hospital
and get home to take care of the baby myself. I was still uncomfortable after the
episiotomy, and shuffled along like an old woman. My friend Joan Morris lectured when
she visited me in the hospital: ‘Don’t be in such a hurry! It’ll be
the last rest you have for years, believe me.’
    Later I wished I’d listened to her.
She was so right, and why wouldn’t she be? She had recently given birth to her
fourth child.
    We left the comfort of the hospital three
days after Wayne’s birth, and then another nightmare began. I tried desperately to
nurse him but it just didn’t work. My breasts and nipples were extremely painful
and he was not getting enough to eat. Consequently we were both crying a lot. In fact,
the baby was screaming blue murder. By now, Bob was at his wit’s end, frustrated
because he didn’t know what to do for either of us and short-tempered from lack of
sleep.
    ‘Maybe your mom could come over to
help,’ I suggested.
    ‘I hinted about it last time I talked
to her but she didn’t offer. I don’t think she can get away from Dad and
Roberta or she thinks they can’t manage without her,’ he said.
    I kept my mouth shut. I was sure she
didn’t care enough, but that was nothing new to me.
    I felt inadequate as a mother. Each day I
wished my mother was with me, to give advice and support. She and I had never been
close, but I knew that now she would have taken care of the baby and me, without
hesitation.
    The next blow to my confidence came when the
baby’spaediatrician told me I must stop trying to breastfeed
Wayne and give him a bottle. I followed his orders but was terribly disappointed at my
perceived failure. However, Wayne was at last a happy baby and we all began to get