Made in Italy, (Part 2)

Having a baby in Italy is like going back in time to when our grandmothers had babies, or at least what I imagined it was like. Not that there are nurses in white caps running around with stacks of towels and boiling water, but hospitals are very institutional. You won't find your own private hospital room with nicely framed art work and big cozy chairs for waiting family members. You won't find your birth team made up of your spouse, parents, in-laws and cousins allowed in the delivery room to cheer you on. You will, though, get to share your hospital room, after delivery, with other women and get to experience a feeling like you're staying in a pajama-clad summer camp. You will leave all modesty at the door and more than likely also your husband.

Not all hospitals in Italy are the same. The first hospital where I delivered my first two babies was in the Veneto region of Italy. After the first birth, when I discovered that an epidural wasn't standard procedure and after a grueling 2 days of labor, I learned that at some Italian hospitals all one has to do in order to have a painless delivery is to fill out some paperwork ahead of time and meet with an anesthesiologist. Some hospitals charge you and some offer it for free. Some hospitals don't offer the procedure at all and I can't help but to imagine those women being offered a knife to bite down on. The one thing that is consistent in all of Italy, is the waiting! If you opt to have a private OBGYN for all of your prenatal visits then you can schedule an appointment, but there comes the time in all pregnancies when you reach the end of your third trimester and you must wait in line with all the other big-bellied mamas at the local hospital.

     My husband and I spent almost 3 weeks going back and forth to the hospital to monitor the baby's heart beat, have allergy tests and blood tests, as well as, meetings for the epidural and to donate the cord blood. At least this way I would be familiar with this new hospital as it had been 3 1/2 years since my last pregnancy and since then we had moved to the Puglia region in the south of Italy. However, the night we finally went to the hospital for the final hurrah, I was reluctant to go. I had gone to bed that night feeling more painful contractions than usual, but strangely fell asleep not thinking anything of it. Shortly after 2 am, I woke my husband and told him that maybe it was time to go, and I didn't start second guessing myself until we were in the car. I couldn't stop thinking about all those days we had waited for hour upon hour in hard plastic chairs in corridors and outside offices. I knew the procedure at this hospital was to call the spouse in to the delivery room at the actual moment of delivery only. This was news I was not thrilled about, but was resolved to deal with, mostly because this was my third travail and I was sure there would be no surprises. I had already anticipated my mate's long wait by packing him some snacks, water, and our kids' Nintendo DS. I really felt sorry that he would spend the night in a hallway while I would be hooked up to the pain-relieving drugs in a big bed.

Well, as unexpected as the pregnancy itself was, so was the rest of the night. By 2:15 we were at the hospital. We entered the building, not to the usual mob of comers and goers, but to complete emptiness. With my suitcase in hand, the odd early morning hour felt no stranger than it does when I arrive at an airport in the wee morning hours. We took the elevator to the 4th floor, which was nice considering that in the previous weeks I had been taking the stairs because the elevators were usually crowded with long lines waiting to get in. Arriving at our floor, I didn't expect to see anyone because I knew that the labor wing and the recovery wing of the Ostétrico floor were closed behind locked doors. I did, however, anticipate that if we knocked on the doors that I would be immediately whisked away to the awaiting doctors, and I even dared to hope that due to our middle of the night arrival, that someone would bend the rules and allow my husband to accompany me to whatever lie ahead. Well, we knocked... and knocked... and rang the bell... and knocked some more and then rang the bell some more, and finally, in the middle of a pretty strong contraction about 30 minutes later, a small, bed-headed man, dressed all in white, groggily and unenthusiastically opened the door and looked at us as if it was a surprise that someone might actually go into labor in the middle of the night. The whole thing felt very much like the part of the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy and her gang knocked on the door of the Emerald City and got turned away. Would I be asked to come back with a broomstick in hand? No, but my husband was sent away to go back down to the emergency room to obtain some admittance papers we should have gotten on our way in.  Again, I couldn't help feeling bad for my after hours ordeal, and now for inconveniencing this munchkin of a man whom we had obviously woken.

     I soon learned that my doorkeeper dwarf was named Giuseppe and he would be my personal assistant for the night. I tried to curb the awkwardness I felt about having a male nurse, but after all, this was Italy, and I had long learned that the etiquette for these things is enormously different than in America. Before long, another small statured and dozy person arrived, seemingly to have roused from a enchanted poppy field. Once more, I knew I had awoken her too. She must have been the ostétrica because she took charge giving lethargic commands.
     Now, before I go on, I must add, that as an American in Italy, I go almost everywhere with a giant disclaimer that is usually something like, "I'm sorry, I speak English." or something about speaking a little Italian. The fact is, I get along pretty well with the language, but it always helps to get a little linguistic sympathy if I can. And, of course, after my disclaimer I must answer a slew of questions about where I am from and why I am in Italy.  Now, if I only had the brain to respond through the searing pain of contractions. This night would be no different as I, a foreinger in a strange land, with the courage of the cowardly lion, pressed on in a hospital where no (or few) Americans had ever set foot.  The months of looking forward to the new baby and the weeks of biding time in waiting rooms was about to draw to a close. Our heart's desire was about to arrive. (To be continued)