MY FAMOUS “COOKIE”

Southern Hills Hospital… Again? You’ve got to be kidding me!  It was the second year in a row doing what my husband and I apparently do best, have babies.  As you already know, this was a huge surprise and shock to me, and to my husband as well. To this day, he still looks at me suspiciously and will  jokingly tell me we need to go on Maury and prove that he is the father by taking a DNA test in front of millions of viewers. Yeah right, like my ass needs to go on that damn show with those ho’s who firmly and without a doubt proclaim,  “I am 160% sure that HE is the father of my child, they got the same nose and forehead, Maury”. Give  me  a break! The kid is only 3 weeks old and babies change so much in the first few months of life.  That’s the type of female that has a smorgasbord of men, that honestly doesn’t  know which man is the freakin’ father but will take her best stab at it, only to have to run off the stage in shame in front of God and everybody when Maury reveals the truth: That although she was adamant that that was the father of her child, the DNA test proved otherwise and now she’ll have to try and contact one of the other 70 some-odd men in order to try and compare his likeness to her bastard child.

Definitely, not me. My husband will one day realize that I’m not that type of woman, that he just has potent “stuff” and he doesn't know the meaning of shooting blanks.
Back to the story at hand….
I had decided to return to the same hospital since I had such a memorable experience the previous year. I figured most of the nurses that cared for me would remember me, since I gave them all nicknames and kept them in stitches during my stay; The Ruth is on Fire, Cindy Lou Who and Liz Handlin' Her Biz, just to name a few.
Once we checked in and got situated in the Labor & Delivery room, I was prepared for the laundry list of questions the staff asks, being a human pin cushion as they try to take blood from my miniscule, almost non-existent veins and whatever else they wanted to do to me before slicing me like a damn Butterball turkey on Thanksgiving morning. Since my husband and I again decided to keep the gender of the baby a surprise, I wore the same tube socks as last year. They were knee high socks: one with pink and yellow stripes for a girl and the other with blue and gray stripes for a boy.  I swore up and down this was going to be another boy, so I wore the blue and gray tube socks. I tried to see if Nurse Liz had remembered me from last year, but I think she just said yes to make me feel better and to shut me up. I understood, I mean, she sees thousands of pregnant chicks, how the hell would she remember a little quirky black girl like me?
Once it was time to get the show on the road, I was rolled to the Operating Room with my husband by my side, video camera in hand. Of course, he had to wait outside so the anesthesiologist could jab an enormous, spine numbing needle in my back in order to collect his $8,000. Whatever, as long as I couldn’t feel a damn thing during surgery or have any long term side effects, it was fine by me. Immediately before my legs felt as though they were encased in cement, the delivery crew helped lay me down so they could get down to business.
Now mind you, I am flat on my back, staring at the overhead light and listening to the nurses and whoever else was in the room ramble on about who slept with who. Yup, just like Grey’s Anatomy!  There were at least six to seven people in the room, not including my husband, he was still outside waiting for preparation to be complete. Now, I know these people were just doing their jobs, but laying there not being able to see what the hell is going on is a little nerve wracking. They pulled my backless gown up to my boobs so they could sterilize my belly, they shaved my nether region, and then they proceeded to contort my legs so my knees were pointed outward. In this position, I could have clapped my feet as though they were hands or flippers on a trained seal. So I’m sure you can imagine that I was not very comfortable and my only thought was, “ I wish they would cover me up because I am butt-ass naked in front of these perfect strangers and they probably don’t know my name, but they sure as hell know my “cookie” inside and out!” But hey, they see “cookies” all day, every day, so it’s no big deal to them.
They had me in that awkward position in order to shove that freakin’ catheter up my “cookie”.  Although I couldn’t feel anything from the waist down, I was rather uncomfortable. You would be too if these people saw your stuff and knew it better than you did and making sure you wiped well beforehand, weighed heavily on your mind. But I think I was the only one in the room concerned with my business being out there, that was until Nurse Liz Handling Her Biz excitedly said in Dolby Digital, “ I remember you now!'” You have no idea the surge of panic I felt at that moment in time. Here I am, my cookie hanging out for all the world to see like it was some sort of free exhibit at a museum, and she just happens to remember me now?! Oh my God! She didn’t remember my nice toothy smile and chipmunk cheeks, the thing that she recognized was my effing cookie! I was absolutely mortified and humiliated if you will. Every sweat gland in my body erupted like the damn fountains at the Bellagio. All I wanted to do at that moment, was to shut my listless legs and yell for my husband to come roll me away, the baby could come another day and at another hospital.
I’m sure she sensed my alarm because she very quickly added, “I remember you from your tube socks!” Sweet Jesus! I’m sure glad she cleared that up, not only for me, but for the other staff in the room that may have been thinking the same harebrained thought that had crossed my mind.
Once my husband was allowed in the room, I felt more at ease. He was the only person in the room that could recognize me by my cookie alone and that’s not mortifying, it’s quite flattering! He’s my husband, not a damn stranger!!