On April 11, 1982, Easter Sunday, I was twenty-four years old and had chickenpox. And I was about to deliver my first child.
For a week, I complained to my doctor about a rash. He replied, “The baby is settling. Do not worry,” or, “Just put some lotion on. It must be dry skin.” I was naive, pregnant, unaware, and truly wanted to believe it was nothing. And then my water broke.
We arrived at the local hospital and I told a few doctors about my rash. Each physician dismissed my concern. Finally, an astute nurse (probably an experienced mother) said that my rash looked like chickenpox. My mind went into overdrive, racing with anxious thoughts. How could this be? I was in labor, and I was twenty-four years old. Didn’t I already have all the childhood diseases?
Welcome to Motherhood
The nurse called in other doctors to confirm the suspected diagnosis. At this point, nobody was sure, so they ordered a biopsy of my rash to verify that I indeed had chickenpox. I clearly remember labor pain and a scalpel removing apox happening simultaneously. Welcome to motherhood.
Once the chickenpox diagnosis was confirmed, the local hospital had trouble dealing with the ridiculous news. My husband, Mitch, had the misfortune of a new resident telling him that it was unlikely the baby and I would survive the birth and delivery. Yes, he actually said that. Perhaps in the late 1970s and early ’80s, medical schools didn’t include the class on talking to patients and families. Maybe the resident was so overwhelmed with chickenpox, labor, and a frantic mom-to-be that he just blurted out what he was thinking rather than considering what he should say. I wonder if he is still in medicine and recalls this incident from Easter Sunday in 1982.
I hope you all had a great day!
Thank you!!!!!!!