“I’m a gynecologist.”

It was the fifth of July, 2008.  The month before Rembot was born.

Jack’s birthday was the day before, and I was about 35 weeks pregnant.  We live 2,498 feet from the beach.  (Ask me how I know.  Just your average home insurance debacle.)  Our town does fireworks on the beach on the Saturday closest to Independence Day.

Chris (our awesome photojournalist friend who took the pictures in this post) came over and we all decided that we’d eat dinner walk down to the beach and watch the fireworks.  While we ate dinner, Chris said to me, “Roo, I would love to photograph a birth.  I would love to photograph Rembot’s birth.”

I froze with my fork in mid-air and weighed the options.  Amazing photographs documenting what would be, up to that point, the most life-changing day of my existence.  Photographs, um, that would have to be taken while I was giving birth.

“Ummm,” I chewed.  Swallowed.  “Could you even handle that?  Watching someone give birth?”

“Yes.”  And I believed him.  Chris is a total professional.  He spent weeks with the KKK, photographing them and writing their (totally cray-cray) story.  He photographed a woman’s complete journey through breast cancer.  Hmmm.  And he was already slated to take some maternity pictures.

Photograph by Christopher Capozziello

Photograph by Christopher Capozziello

After dinner, Chris, Jack, and I started walking to the beach.  It was hot and humid.  I wore maternity jeans, a tank top, and sandals.  All of the residents on our road and neighboring roads headed down to the beach as well.  The quiet “beach street” was getting crowded.  It was dark, and people were drinking.

The three of us started walking single file.  Jack led the way, I followed, and Chris was behind me.

My foot hit a divot in the road.

I flew.

I yelped, landed, and broke my fall with my hands and right knee, then rolled to my side.

Melee followed.  Chris screamed like a tiny child.  Passersby gasped at the sight of a pregnant girl face down in the dirt.  Jack turned around and sprinted towards me.

I was still on the ground, a bit disoriented.  Chris was kneeling over me, completely hysterical.

“ROO!  Are you okay?  ARE YOU OKAY?”
“I’m – ”
(Chris realized he had one hand on my shoulder, and one hand on… um… we call it a “tushy” at our house.)
“OH MY GOSH.  I’M SO SORRY!  I WAS TOUCHING YOUR BUTT AND I DIDN’T MEAN IT.  JACK, I DIDN’T MEAN IT.”
(Commence Chris screaming like a tiny child.)

I sat up and told Jack I didn’t hit my stomach, but to call my midwife to see if we should do anything.  My hands and right knee were bleeding and I was a little out of it.  I had taken the digger right in front of someone’s house.  The owner offered an adirondack chair on the front lawn while Jack spoke to the doctor.

I sat in the chair, trying to catch my breath and put pressure on the cut on my knee.  Jack was on the phone.  Chris frantically paced back and forth, crazy-man muttering to himself.

A man approached me.

“Is everything okay here?”
“Well, I’m fine.  I fell, but I’m 35 weeks pregnant and -”
“You FELL?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m a doctor.”  He put his hand on my shoulder.
“You are?”
“Yes, I’m a gynecologist.”
(Drunk friend from afar pipes in.)
“NO, HE’S NOT!!!!”

…

Yeah.

1)  Rembot’s fine.
2)  My hands and knee were covered in band-aids for a solid week.
3)  Chris hyperventilated the rest of the night
3b) and came to the hospital after Rembot was born.  :)