Tunesday : Brown Eyed Girl

Brown Eyed Girl

Written and performed by Van Morrison

Hey, where did we go
Days when the rains came?
Down in the hollow
Playin' a new game

Laughin' and a-runnin', hey hey
Skippin' and a-jumpin'
In the misty mornin' fog
With our, our hearts a-thumpin'

And you, my brown eyed girl
You my brown eyed girl

And whatever happened
To Tuesday and so slow
Going down the old mine
With a transistor radio

Standin' in the sunlight laughin'
Hidin' behind a rainbow's wall
Slippin' and a-slidin'
All along the waterfall

With you, my brown eyed girl
You my brown eyed girl

Do you remember when
We used to sing?
Sha la la, la la, la la, la la, l-la te da
Just like that
Sha la la, la la, la la, la la, l-la te da
La te da

So hard to find my way
Now that I'm all on my own
I saw you just the other day
My, how you have grown

Cast my memory back there Lord
Sometimes I'm overcome thinkin' 'bout it
Hangin' out in the green grass
Behind the stadium
With you, my brown eyed girl
You my brown eyed girl

Do you remember when
We used to sing?
Sha la la, la la, la la, la la, l-la te da
(Lyin' in the green grass!)
Sha la la, la la, la la, la la, l-la te da
(Bit by bit by bit by bit by bit by bit)
Sha la la, la la, la la, la la, l-la te da
(Sha la la la la, la la la la, la te da, la te da, la te da, da da da)
Sha la la, la la, la la, la la, l-la te da

I remember my Mum telling me once that although I did have blue eyes when I was first born, they seemed very dark and she could kind of tell by looking at my irises sideways that they would eventually turn brown. And so it was with my own daughter Mallory - her eyes were this very dark blue that seemed to be camouflaging the brown behind them. Looking at her as a newborn, my mother-in-law said, "Such pretty blue eyes, they look just like David's." After having Kennedy, whose eyes are the same as her father's, I was eager to point out that maybe Mallory's would eventually be brown like mine. My mother-in-law squinted and considered and declared, "Nope. Just exactly like David's." Even so, I could still see the darker undertones behind the blue and was delighted (and vindicated) when the brown eventually came through - and that was only fair: Dave had his minime in Kennedy and now I had one of my own. Van Morrison's Brown Eyed Girl was released the same year that I was born, so it was there in the background of my life from the start and I always took it as my own special song; as a young girl I thought it would be so romantic for some handsome guy to sing it in my ear as we slow danced some day. That never happened (or at least, not to my romantic satisfaction) but this did become a theme song for me and Mallory - we would sing it together whenever it came on the oldies radio station, and we'd sing it to each other for no reason at all; Mallory belting out, "You're my brown eyed Mom" to me before we'd break into the sha la la's; and that's so much better, in the end, than some random guy claiming me for his own on the dance floor. As I anticipated last week, this Tunesday will be about Mallory's birth; the arrival of my brown eyed girl.

As I had mentioned last week, I picked an OB-GYN out of the yellow pages at random when I discovered I was pregnant - I didn't know anyone in town who could recommend a doctor to me, so after the first two doctors I called were too booked up to take me on, I was relieved to have been accepted by Dr Harvey. I didn't much care for him at our first appointment - he was old and had zero personality - but I felt stuck with him. For the most part, this was a routine pregnancy and I could ignore a flat bedside manner at our monthly checkups, but once something went wrong, I realised what a dud this doctor really was.

Strange, but exactly one day after a completely routine seven month checkup, I woke up in excruciating pain. My tummy was clenched up, my back was seized, and I could barely move. I called into Dr Harvey's office, and after describing my symptoms to the doctor himself, he noted that everything had been fine the day before - I was simply pregnant, and some aches and pain was to be expected. I knew that there was nothing normal about this, having been pregnant before, but there was nothing I could do about it. And the pain hung around - every day for a month, I woke up with my tummy and my back in spasms, and what I found worse of all, I couldn't force myself to eat anything; it was like my throat had been closed over and it was all I could do to force down a daily maternity vitamin - and this made me so worried for the little one growing inside me. I still had two-and-a-half-year-old Kennedy to take care of, and for a month, I'd spend my day putting video after video on the TV, rolling painfully off the couch to make her sandwiches and change her diaper, and spend the rest of my time suppressing tears and moans, shifting my body desperately for relief. 

Dave, of course, was working hard to build a career and couldn't stay home to take care of us, and when he asked my mother if she could take Kennedy for me, she said sure - and kept her for one night. I couldn't believe it when Ma showed up with Kennedy the next day, with my visiting Aunt Shirley in tow, and asked me if I wanted to go out for lunch with them. I couldn't even sit up - I have no idea how my mother didn't know how bad this was for me - so they left Kennedy with me and tootled off on their merry way. I was utterly alone - no friends I could call on, a husband who prioritised his job, and no family support - and I was not just worried about Kennedy's care and safety, but I was certain something awful must be happening to my unborn baby. One day, the pain grew and grew throughout the day, and I finally called Dave and begged him to come home from work. Dave came speeding home and insisted on taking me to the hospital - if my own doctor wasn't interested in my symptoms, we ought to get a second opinion.

We got to the Emerg, a doctor looked me over, and he was concerned enough to send me upstairs to the Maternity Clinic for a specialist opinion. My poor luck was that the "specialist" on duty that day was my own Dr Harvey, and he again determined that I was suffering the routine aches and pains of pregnancy. I again insisted that this was something worse - I pointed out that I couldn't even eat and he shrugged and responded that I didn't need to worry about that, "The baby will always eat first. So long as you have any fat stores at all, the baby will eat." I told him that the pain was keeping me from sleeping, that I couldn't even take care of my other child, and he said that there was a slim chance that I had kidney stones - but that since the only way to look for them was with an x-ray, and as I obviously didn't want my unborn baby exposed to dangerous levels of radiation, I would need to wait to investigate that possibility after she arrived. There was nothing he would do, and I was sent on my way.

Again strange, but the first day in a month that I woke up pain-free was the morning of my next routine checkup. As per his usual line of questioning, the first thing Dr Harvey asked me at the exam was, "So, how have things been going this month?" I looked at him slack-jawed and goggle-eyed, "You mean since I saw you at the hospital the other night?" He had to really jog his memory to place what I was talking about - he looked at his notes, where he had obviously not thought to add anything - and he just nodded and grunted and proceeded with his usual exam; no followup to my distress. He weighed me (I had lost something like fifteen pounds over the course of that month) and he measured my belly and asked me how big my last baby had been - and when I replied that she had been nine pounds thirteen ounces, he chuckled and said that this baby wouldn't be nearly that big. And since this was my eight month check up, he told me I could make another appointment in four weeks' time, but he assumed I would go into labour before then. I told Dr Harvey, yet again, that Kennedy had had to be induced, that that's why she had been so big, but he didn't think that would be the case this time. Turns out, he was wrong about everything.

Dave and I went to the nine month appointment, and that's when Dr Harvey scheduled an induction for the following week if I hadn't gone into labour by then. Dave wasn't happy about the date chosen because his boss had offered to let him come along to a job fair the day after that to sit in on some job interviews, and that made me unhappy because I couldn't believe that Dave thought that "opportunity" would be more important than helping me with his own newborn; he was planning to take his holidays when the baby arrived, but not if the timing wasn't convenient for him. My mother, on the other hand, was very happy because the induction date, May 13th, is her own birthday. Turns out, Mallory waited to be induced.

My parents took Kennedy for us the day before the appointment, so Dave and I woke up and went straight to the hospital. It was the middle of May, and incredibly, something like thirty degrees outside - the sun as hot and radiant as a beautiful midsummer's day. The birthing room was large and open with a wall of windows looking out onto the adjacent golf course, filled with comfy furniture throughout. I was put on a pitocin drip, and things proceeded much the same as they did when Kennedy was born. I don't remember anyone offering me an epidural, and although I had my mind open to the possibility, I think the first time anyone even used the word "epidural" was in the phrase, "You've progressed past the point when we could have given you an epidural." And that was fine, but as I said about Kennedy's birth, there's nothing heroic about taking the birthing pain when drugs have been developed to help a Mom through it; both times, I feel like pain blocking was never really offered to me. Dr Harvey showed up after things had progressed to the pushing stage, and I'll never forget the image of him during the birth - sitting on a stool between my legs, watching stoney-faced as I pushed and the nurses told me what to do, him hanging his head down and staring at his clasped hands between his knees in between my contractions; I don't remember if he said a word to me. The pains were intense, of course, but really, the worst part of childbirth is the loss of control; the feeling like something dangerous was happening to me, from within my own body, that I had no agency over. And again, as with Kennedy, the very worst moment came when Mallory was partways out and I was asked to pause in the pushing - I felt like an impaled fish, pinned helpless to the ground through my vagina, my mouth gaping for air, my whole body shuddering and quaking and rending asunder, and then whoosh - she was out and I experienced perfect relief; every muscle in my body trembling uncontrollably, but utterly pain free. 

We didn't know that we were having a girl until she was handed up to me, perfect and beautiful and everything we needed to complete our family. Dave and I took one look at her, and then looked at each other and said, "It's Mallory Kye."

Not long after I was cleaned and stitched, but still on that bed in the birthing room, my brother Ken showed up, his wife Lolo not far behind him in her own car. (It was weird but lovely for them to have come racing to the hospital as soon as they heard the baby had arrived; yet, they didn't realise at first that this was the birthing room and they both looked uncomfortable when they clued in.) Dave left with them to go home and shower and get his stuff while I was showered and tucked into my own room in the maternity ward. And that's where my Dad found me: he looked at the baby curled beside me and asked, "So this is Marley?" And I said, "It's Mallory, actually." And he said, "Good job" and left not long after.

Dave came back and slept in the unoccupied bed beside me (which the nurses sure didn't like), and just like he planned, he was gone early the next morning to watch Greg interview some potential new employees. I was unimpressed. And especially because the "treat" on the maternity ward involved the new Moms being able to self-serve the breakfast of their choice from a buffet in the hallway. I was sore, not exactly starving, and looking at my new and helpless baby, was not willing to leave her alone in the room while I shuffled out in search of food. I went hungry instead. Just after noon, my parents came and Mum got her first look at Mallory - and I got my first look at Kennedy, who had the bridge of her nose all skinned from apparently tripping down the front step in her excitement to come see the baby. Now that she was here, Kennedy refused to be impressed by her new baby sister. I was shocked when Mum and Dad soon left, leaving Kennedy at the hospital for me to take care of. Eventually, Dave came back, Kyler came by for a look at his new niece (and namesake), and then Dave's parents showed up; it got pretty cramped really fast and I just wanted to go home.

Because Mallory was over ten pounds when she was born (ten pounds, eight ounces; Dr Harvey had gotten nothing right), the hospital staff had to keep testing her for gestational diabetes; giving her a bottle of formula (which, as a breastfeeding mother, I had been conditioned to resent) and then taking her blood. They couldn't get any clear results over the twenty-four plus hours that we were there, and as Thursday slowly ticked away, I started asking when I was going to be allowed to go home - Dave and I joked that we were anxious to get home in time to watch the series finale of Seinfeld, and while that was a joke, it was no joke that I found this hospital room dirty and cramped, and with a shared washroom with the room on the other side (with no locking doors and a constant flushing of the toilet as though a nonstop stream of visitors on the other side was going in and out, so I had timidly demurred from using it all day), I just wanted out. Despite my impatience to go, a nurse explained that no one had ever told me I could leave that day, and then she started talking like there may not be a doctor who could discharge me for a couple of days because of the long weekend, and I lost it and insisted that I be allowed to go (or, I whined and pouted until they couldn't stand me anymore). So they let me go.

We didn't get to watch Seinfeld that night (but we did tape it; found it stupid when we did watch it), and Dave went in to work again the next day - leaving me to take care of Kennedy and Mallory and his parents, who  stayed over in our tiny townhouse; soon to be joined by his sister Rudy when the weekend arrived. Still, it was good to be home. Home with our finally complete little family - one blue-eyed girl for Dave, one (soon to be) brown-eyed girl for me - and we wouldn't have had it any other way.

Well, la tee da.

Postscript: It turned out that I had gallstones and some of them must have lodged in my bile ducts while I was pregnant. The first time I was sent for an ultrasound after a painful attack, the technician said that my gall bladder was "virtually full of stones" and he was surprised they hadn't given me trouble before. When I explained what happened to me when I was pregnant, and how my doctor suggested kidney stones as an explanation that could only be proved by a dangerous x-ray, this tech frowned and said, "Surely Dr Harvey would have known he could send you for an ultrasound - it would have been perfectly safe and the better investigative tool." What a terrible experience I had with this know-nothing quack; I feel lucky to have survived him.