She looks Chinese

I know it’s none of your business, and you’d rather be eating avocado, cursing Jayden for the lockdown or sanitizing your vegetables, but I’m interrupting your Tuesday to tell you that I’m seriously contemplating not getting another baby. I’m only telling you this because … I actually don’t know why I’m telling you this. But it’s about a Kisii.

As it is, I don’t understand how God thought it was wise to let me have kids. I mean, me, who’s always in-over-my head and can barely control my cravings for licking the sufuria that made fried meat, me who still misses patco, goodygoody and dextrosol, me who hasn’t figured out what I want to be when I grow up and who hates adulting – has children. Two! There’s a God in heaven.

The world is overpopulated, there’s a virus roaming the earth like the devil looking for someone to devour, we have debt we will never be able to finish, and the ozone layer is thinning – yet I brought two humans into this world. God is still working his miracles.

I do not have an economic or even environmental reason why I will not get another baby. My excuse is very simple. It’s a Kisii man. Specifically, the Kisii man who was my anesthesiologist when I delivered my second baby.

My first baby was an emergency CS; she was in distress and didn’t have a heartbeat when going to the theater. It was all quiet in my womb, and everyone was super scared we had lost her. So there was no time to waste. They knocked me out and got her out before I could say, “ouch!”. She came out blue and gasping for air, but she made it.

The second one, I was prepared. I now knew I have cervical dystocia; I don’t get labor pains. Yeah, I know; I’m among the lucky few. So I planned with the gynecologist and booked a date for delivery. A couple of weeks before I went in for CS, my water broke. I had been sitting in the salon the whole day, attaching darling braids in twists to my head. I joked to the hairdresser, who was sent by the evil powers themselves to deplete my hairline, that if she continues pulling my hair like that, she will induce early labor.

I went back home, sat on the bed to catch a breather, and then felt all warm and wet. Sometimes I think the baby pinched the membranes out of frustration of sitting down the whole day. She must have been tired; those braids had taken longer than the Israelites journey from Egypt!

I called my excellent Maasai gynecologist, who asked me to check into the hospital asap. We took a taxi, and I leaked all over the poor man’s Toyota Fielder; it must have needed a deep wash afterward. I didn’t ask.

I checked into the hospital, and as soon as I was assigned a bed, I slept. Women were screaming bloody murder in the labor ward; I was feeling nothing. The fluids kept pouring – no pain, no contraction. The doctor came in the morning with his team, and they prepped me for surgery. The anesthesiologist was a happy, tall man who told me he’s from Kisii.

“This should be fun!” I thought.

I was asked to sit up and hold my knees for the epidural. I keeled over, and he inserted the monstrous pipe – it can’t be called a needle, it’s too long – into my back. He waited a few seconds and asked me to lift my legs. I did. He was bewildered. He asked me to raise my foot high again. I did. I shot it up like the expert I had become.

He announced that I have to get another shot into my spine; it looks like I was too hardcore for one dose of the poison he was trying to kill my nerves with. He gave me a second one. He asked me to lift my legs, but I couldn’t feel my legs. That remains the weirdest feeling ever. I can’t describe it; you can only experience it. Not being able to feel my legs was so surreal and a little scary.  

A few seconds after my legs went missing, I instantly got a strange, scary feeling – like I was about to pass out. I’m not one to keep quiet; I’m chatty and annoying and fun and lovable. I told the Kisii guy, “Gaaki, I feel funny in my head. Like I’m falling, or I’m leaving my body. Is this normal?”

He said, “Nope!”

He quickly lifted me to a sitting position and held me until the feeling passed. When the floor stopped rising to meet me, he lowered me back onto the table. They cut me up and removed a pink little girl with the slimmest hair and the puffiest eyes you’ve ever seen. She looked Chinese.

My gynecologist thought it was funny that my baby looked Chinese. He told my husband, “Aii, umepata ka SGR!” I didn’t think that was funny, even with the anesthesia and my non-existent legs. I had to fish photos of my firstborn to show him that she also looked Chinese when she was born and prove that I had not been playing hide and seek with a little rail-building ching-chong. It’s funny now.  

That’s not the reason I’m not planning to get another baby. Remember my Kisii anesthesiologist? When I felt better, and he finally put me down, I asked what had gone wrong?

He said the anesthesia was most likely riding up my back with spinal fluid. It would get to my check section, then up to my neck, and probably my brain.

“Then what would happen?” I asked.

“You die.”

He told me that while I was still on the operating table, with my intestines and probably one kidney already on the table as they made way for the big baby I was having. While I stared at the white ceiling, with my lower abdomen open and a human hand fishing for a baby inside, with a fat nurse holding the suction pipe to suck blood from my open uterus, he told me THAT!

Gaaki, gaaki gwatũnyarire!

Would you go back there if it were you?

Disclaimer: If you meet me a few years from now with a big stomach, swollen feet, and a fat nose, don’t ask me what happened to this declaration here. I also don’t know.

12 thoughts on “She looks Chinese

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.