This is from an article I thought I was writing for a local magazine, but it turned out they actually wanted me to write a different article, so here you guys go:
When I tell people I gave birth to my son in Dalian, the comment I hear most often is, “Wow! You’re brave.” If the speaker is a woman, particularly an expat, there’s usually enough fear coloring her voice, that you can deduce an unspoken addition: “I would never do that.”
In truth, I wouldn’t describe myself as brave so much as romantic. In my mind, having my child in China, not only ensured him perhaps the most exotic birth certificate an American can lay claim to, but also connected me symbolically to countless numbers of women who’ve given birth in my own country without the support of family or even strong comprehension of the native language. Oh yeah, and giving birth in China is amazingly cheap, a definite plus for a young couple that enjoys blowing money on traveling rather than more practical things like state-of-the-art medical advice.
I arrived at Dalian Maternity Hospital (Insert Chinese name here) around fourteen hours after my first labor pains began, husband and translator in tow–or more accurately, towing me. As I’d had the good manners to wait until normal operating hours, I had to go through the usual outpatient procedure first before I could be admitted. This involved paying 4 RMB for the privilege to see a doctor, adding my hospital booklet to a stack of other booklets, getting weighed, having my blood pressure taken, waiting in these ridiculous plastic chairs that were surely invented specifically to torture pregnant women, and finally, talking to a doctor who spent more time chitchatting with my translator and flippantly flipping through my stack of test results from previous appointments than actually asking me questions.
Admittance order in hand, my husband Christian, and my translator Dorothy ran off to the in-patient cashier to make the required 3000 RMB deposit for a floor assignment. During previous visits to the hospital, I’d been quite impressed with the beautiful, clean, up-to-date fourth floor with its proper hospital beds and hallway that smelled reassuringly of cleaning products. However, on this particular day, every pregnant woman and her second cousin was apparently in labor, so I was relegated to the much grungier sixth floor ward with its crmubling paint and moldy ceiling tiles.
Upon arriving on the floor, there were more monetary issues to be discussed. I was offered the option to purchase my own set of Hello Kitty pajamas, a pack of blankets for the baby, and the placenta. I declined the latter and proceed to quiz poor Dorothy as to what type of person would want a placenta while we waited for a room placement.
The first room I was placed in was shocking to say the least. There were four rickety beds for four laboring women but only three closets to store their things. The only bathroom, a Chinese-style set up, was down the hall. Most appalling, though was the stuffy heat. That alone led me to burst into tears. Twice.
Enter Dr. Yi. With her snazzy punk-rock haircut and easy demeanor, she was perhaps the least doctorly doctor I’ve met in China–and after nine months of hospital appointments, I’ve met a lot of doctors. She was to be my doctor and quickly made herself my favorite doctor when she snagged me a slightly more expensive–though still uncomfortable–bed in a cooler two-patient room (with attached bathroom!) at the quieter end of the Maternity ward where I would only be subject to the curious eyes of one laboring roommate and her entire extended family.
The rest of the day rolled along fairly uneventfully, well, aside from the contractions. It turns out labor’s not exactly the crazily hectic event portrayed in most movies. There was plenty of time to ponder over the mold-encrusted wall of my room, to watch my laboring roommate’s family stuff pounds of chocolate down the poor woman’s throat, and to investigate why even the pillows were ridiculously hard. For lunch, Christian, Dorothy, and I escaped to a nearby KFC, and I passed some more time walking up and down stairs.
Dr. Yi occasionally poked her head in to make sure everything was progressing as it should. She even had her English-speaking husband call to check up on us after her shift had ended for the evening. That would have made for beyond excellent bedside manner in any country.
Around eight that evening, it was time to move my “party” to one of the delivery rooms where my tearful screams wouldn’t scare the other patients. Delivery rooms at Maternity are all private, and you’re allowed one support person in of your choosing. In my case, the choice came between Christian and Dorothy. In my case, husband trumps translator so Christian won out, but we had Dorothy waiting just outside the door in case we needed her to clarify something.
My time in the delivery room was one long painful blur. Eventually, the medical staff decided I was in enough pain that they offered me drugs–first an IV, then an epidural. Of course, I had no clue what they were offering except that it would stop the pain, and Christian, who’s Chinese is even more limited than mine, was asked to sign for the mystery procedure that he could only hope wasn’t a C-section. It didn’t help anyone’s nerves when he was ushered out of the room so a man could shove a needle in my spine, but he was allowed back in immediately afterward.
About an hour after the epidural was inserted, Nico. all gray and alien, was born. The nurses held him up like a prize and announced, “You have a son,” before spiriting him away to a back room and selling me a silver coin to commemorate the experience.
After the baby’s health was determined to be okay, I was rewarded for all my efforts by being trapped beneath a big heavy blanket to protect me from some magical wind as I was wheeled back to my room. This was perhaps the point when things became far too Chinese for my comfort. I was yelled at for drinking room temperature water because it was deemed too cold and I had a rather vicious fight with the floor’s night nurse over my right to not feed my child formula which led to her giving me dirty looks all night long.
By the following morning, my continued formula refusals were becoming a point of contention with multiple staff members until Dr. Yi finally arrived and saved the day by putting everyone under orders to leave me alone. She then delivered the second piece of news I was hoping for: I’d be discharged the following day. For all the flack American hospitals get for their short post-partum hospital stays, I’d been wanting to hear those words from the point I was admitted. But then, I absolutely detest hospitals.
Ultimately, I didn’t have a bad Chinese birth experience. It’s not something I want to repeat anytime soon, but that’s not the hospital’s fault. Pushing a turkey out a doughnut hole really does hurt. A lot.