[2021-02-27] Thirty years
Thirty years ago today, I gave birth to my son, Shane.
Nine months earlier, Chris and I had been surprised to learn that I was pregnant. We had been dating for only six months. And while Chris had moved in with me about a month into our relationship, we had never discussed marriage, let alone having a child together. But we knew that we were committed to each other and to doing what was needed to make our family work.
I was sick for the next three months. I threw up every day, to the point that, on Canada Day 1990, I had to go to the emergency department at the Civic Hospital because I was dehydrated. After waiting for about four hours, I was finally able to see a doctor, who said, "Yeah, you're mildly dehydrated." I wanted to say to him, "Are you kidding me?" I felt so awful: the night before, I had dreamt that I was chugging lemonade out of a jug. The doctor ordered a shot of Gravol and an intravenous to replenish my fluids.
As I started to feel better, a nurse brought me soup. I asked her whether my boyfriend could come see me. "Oh no," she replied. "Only family is allowed."
So, when a different nurse walked by, I stopped her and said, "Could my husband come see me?"
"Yes, of course," she replied with a smile, and—armed with my description of Chris—went off to find him in the waiting area.
Chris later told me that when the nurse said to him, "Your wife can see you now," he almost blurted out, "My wife?" But he caught himself in time and said, "Oh, thank you."
For the next few months, I experienced morning sickness, though not to the point that I had to return to the hospital emergency. It was all I could do to refrain from throwing up on the 10-minute bus ride from my apartment to the office and back home again. Many times, I vomited as soon as I got off the bus: on the grass beside the sidewalk, in planters. No one ever asked me whether I was OK. They all just kept their distance. I understood. I was loud. One time, Chris and I were in Quebec City, after having visited his parents in Saguenay. I asked him to pull over. As I jumped out of the car, we could hear a raucous party on the other side of the fence. When I threw up, the party went dead quiet. To this day, we laugh when we recall that story.
Once I got past the morning sickness, my pregnancy was normal and uneventful. On February 27, 1991, at 6:00 a.m., my water broke. Chris and I headed to the Civic Hospital soon after. I declined an epidural because I didn't like the idea of having a needle inserted into my spine, which was my impression of the procedure. About 14 hours into labour, I did question my decision to refuse the epidural, but by then it was too late, or so said the nurse. So Shane was born, without pain relief, at 10:30 p.m. Less than two years later, I would repeat the process when my daughter, Melanie, was born, though I walked during labour and gave birth after six hours, once again without an epidural.
When Shane was six months old, Chris and I decided that he would become Shane's daytime caregiver while I worked traditional hours at the office. Chris took care of Shane during the day, then worked part-time in the evenings and on weekends—first outside the home and, later, in the home with his own business. Stay-at-home dads were uncommon in the early 1990s, but the arrangement suited our family and created stability in our home life that I always appreciated.
When I look back on the situation I faced three decades ago, I imagine that the uncertainty was daunting. I was young (23), pregnant and unmarried. But I was confident that I could face anything that would come my way, and I did, along with my loving husband. It would take us 30 years from the day I lied to the nurse about my "husband" to the day I could use the term legally. In fairness, Chris was my common-law husband; I just left off the "common-law" part all those years.
Fast forward 30 years. COVID has our nuclear family—still together after all these years—housebound for months. I am diagnosed with ovarian cancer, as much a surprise as it was to learn that I was pregnant. I finally marry Chris. I have surgery for ovarian cancer and, ironically, have an epidural (there is no choice and it's fine). I have six rounds of chemotherapy, which make me ill, though—thankfully—not as sick as when I was pregnant.
There are unmistakable parallels between my life in 1990-1991 and my life in 2020-2021. In both cases, I received news that I wasn't expecting, faced uncertainty with courage, and ultimately emerged a better person. The constant was love and the knowledge that, no matter what should happen, I would be OK.
Happy birthday Shane. Chris, Melanie and I are blessed to have you in our lives.
