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Simply put, the reality of this would not sink in, and once again Mitchell Lipensky wondered, How can this really be? The idea of him being a father, a “daddy,” was about the same as the concept of pushing a feather through a rock: Impossible!

Chicago, Illinois

March 23 through April 6, 1957

Her eyes closed, Marsha appeared to be sleeping.

Sitting alongside the bed, taking her dry, warm hand into his, “Marcie,” he said softly.

Opening her eyes, “Hi, Mitchie,” she said drowsily.

“Hi, honey.”

“So, did you see him?”

“Yes, I did. He’s beautiful, Marcie! You made a beautiful baby.”

“No. We, Mitchie! We made him—you and me! You think so? You really think he’s beautiful?”

Lifting her hand to his lips, kissing the tip of a finger, “Nah, I was lying,” he lied. “He looks like a shrivelled up old man.” Which, actually, the baby almost did. Teasing her, “One thing, sure,” he added, “the kid’s got your nose.” Which, actually, the baby did. “And what about the bobbea meisseh (old wives tale) about heartburn meaning lots’a hair? The kid’s bald as a cantaloupe.” Which, actually, he was.

“Yeah, but he’s got your bubble chin and pixie ears.” Which, actually—though it was too early to tell—he did.

“Yeah, okay, you can blame me for that neat stuff, Marcie, but he’s sure got your mouth; you should hear him cry!”

“Michael was crying? Maybe he’s hungry!”

Michael? Preferring a girl… or a boy, they hadn’t been too sure of the name before, but then, as Marsha said it, “Michael” fit perfectly.

“No, baby,” he smiled. “I was only kidding. Mikey was quiet as a church mouse.”

“Good.” Her eyes closed, then opened. “Did you call everyone?”

“Yeah, sure. As soon as Greenblatt told me everything was okay, I called your mom first, then mine and told them about you and Mikey and asked them to call everyone else.”

“Good. Guess that means the phone calls should be…Mmmm!” Moaning, Marsha grimaced as she changed positions.

“What’s the matter? You okay?”

I’m just sore, from where they stitched me.”

“Stitched? What do you mean, from where they stitched you?”

“Mitchie, they had to cut me to help get the baby out.”

“Knocked out,” or “put to sleep,” did not, in Mitchell’s mind, equate to “they had to cut me.”

“For God’s sake, Marsha, I didn’t know that!” Asked stupidly, “Where?”

“Where?” Smiling, “Here,” pointing to her forehead, but seeing the look of concern on his face, motioning towards her crotch, “No, it’s okay, Mitchie. They cut me down here. It’s called an episiotomy, and unless you’re going to have natural childbirth,” smiling wanly, “which I didn’t, or having a cesarean, most women have episiotomies now.”

Marsha had originally requested a semi­private room, but upon hearing that her daughter had, indeed, delivered, Rhea, for reasons know only to her, had called the hospital and ordered a private room.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Lipensky.” A nurse coming into the room asked, “Are you planning on breast feeding?”

Emphatically, “Oh, yes!”

Looking at Mitchell, “You’re the father?”

“As unbelievable as it seems,” looking at her name badge, ‘K. Menees,’ that’s me, Miss, uh…?”

“Okay, you can stay if you want, but please, call me Katie.” Going to the foot of the bed, consulting Marsha’s file, “This is your first child, so if you’d like, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“What’s to show? I thought all you’ve got to do is put the baby here,” touching a breast, “and he’d do the rest.”

“Hypothetically that’s true ,” the nurse said, “but sometimes it’s not quite that simple.”

Watching, Mitchell sat in a chair to the right of the bed.

In a hospital gown, Marsha had slipped her arms through and lowered the gown off her shoulders, revealing her entire chest.

“Sit up just a bit higher. Lean against the pillow and cradle Michael this way.” Standing to the left of the bed, placing Marsha’s arm a bit lower, Katie moved the baby’s face to her right breast.

Outside of their pregnancy ­induced size, which Mitchell liked a lot; hoping that once she was through nursing Marsha’s nipples, at least, would return to how they’d been before… Mitchell wondered when it had happened, because, though the areolae had flattened and enlarged before she had the baby, they had now changed color also and completely gone were the, in his opinion, beautiful, domed, dusky ­pink areolae. Considering himself an aficionado of breasts—well, really, his wife’s breasts—he saw that the appearance of her breasts had changed once again, because lines of crooked, dark ­blue veins now ran beneath the translucent, tautly stretched flesh that appeared to emanate from, or end at the, now, dark ­brown areolae.

With Michael’s head cradled in the crook of her left arm, holding her right breast from beneath, squeezing the nipple between her thumb and forefinger, producing a driblet of thin, white substance, Marsha directed the wrinkled, erectly­ standing flesh to her baby’s mouth.

Watching his wife and the newly born child in her arms, Mitchell felt the solid ache of his barely contained love of Marsha and his son… But also, looking at his wife’s newly changed, pale ­white breasts with their strange, dark ­brown nipples—which he did not think of as pretty—sensing the familiar tightening within his crotch, he wondered at his perverse nature for allowing himself to even think of sex at such a wondrous time—but then realized that his thoughts were not of sex. But if I’m not thinking about sex, he thought, then why in the hell do I have boner? And again, as many, many times in the past, the thought that his penis truly did have a mind of its own flitted through the mind, the upper mind, of Mitchell Lipensky.

But Michael did not accept the nipple.

“Try leaning back a bit, Marsha.”

Glancing at Katie, feeling the pain of her stitches, scooting downward a bit, trying again…

“Now let’s see if the little guy ‘latches on.’”

But jerking his head to the side, smacking his lips, Michael began to cry.

“Hold him a bit firmer, and try to keep the nipple in his mouth.”

Complying, but afraid to hold him too tightly, Marsha again moved his head to her breast and again held the nipple to his lips and relaxed as, feeling a pleasant drawing sensation, the baby stopped crying… Only for a moment, though, till releasing his tenuous hold, again jerking his head away, Michael made two hard, drawing motions with his lips, then, his face becoming crimson, cried harder than before.

“He doesn’t want it! He’s so hungry, but doesn’t want it!”

“Don’t get too upset over this, Marsha. Newborns aren’t really in need of nourishment this soon. The sucking is just a reflex and he’s not all that hungry. Go on, keep trying.”

The manipulation of her breast had forced more of the thin, watery fluid to ooze from the perforation at the tip of the nipple.

“Marsha, rub some of the colostrum over his lips.”

“‘Colostrum’?” Mitchell questioned. “That’s not milk?”

Looking across the bed, “It’s a form of milk. The real milk won’t come for a few days.” Explaining to Mitchell as well as Marsha, “Colostrum is the fluid secreted by the mammary glands and it gives the baby the start to its immune system, so it’s real important he gets it.”

“Okay, baby,” trying again, “okay.” Holding Michael’s head a bit firmer, squeezing her nipple, forcing colostrum through the nipple, Marsha rubbed the fluid over the baby’s lips… And Michael did stop crying and did allow his mother to place her nipple into his mouth… For no more than three seconds, until it slipped away again and he began to cry with renewed vigor.

“Katie, what’s wrong?” Becoming even more flustered, “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong. Sometimes it takes a number of tries till a new­born latches on. Just keep trying, and when you do get it, go for about five minutes on each breast. I’ve got another mother to see, so I’ll stop by a little later to see how you’re doing. Okay?”

“Come on, baby,” Marsha cooed, “please hold on, please!”

Sitting on the edge of the chair with both crooked arms on the side of the bed holding his chin in his hands, his lips pursed, as though by doing so Michael would get the idea and follow his father’s lead. Also, about a foot from his wife’s breast, Mitchell subconsciously did want to put that strange, swollen nipple into his mouth, and as he—going beyond just sex—loved the sense of cunnilingus: of taking Marsha’s fluid into his body, of becoming spiritually one entity rather than two, the thought of taking this new fluid, this colostrum his wife so miraculously produced, into himself, to become even more a part of Marsha was all but overpowering. This philosophical concept, of course, loomed as a non­-comprehensible thought that transposed to a sensation of longing in the pit of his stomach, that transmitted from stomach to brain—upper brain—to lower brain—in the form of desire and, hidden by the bed, Mitchell, once again had unwittingly achieved a full erection.

“Come on, Mikey!” But the baby could not pull enough suction to catch onto his mother’s nipple and it slipped from his lips again… And again, in his frustration Michael began to wail and, her eyes becoming watery with the tears of her own frustration, “Mitchie, he won’t…”

The sudden silence was startling as…

Michael latched on and the sensation of his surprisingly strong suction caused a contraction in her uterus transfusing Marsha with a flux of electricity that surged throughout both mind and body.

A ring of white foam forming around Michael’s lips and the flesh of his mother’s nipple, “He’s doing it,” Marsha said in soft wonder.

                                      ****

The door closed when he returned to the hospital that evening. Opening it a crack, “Hi, sweetie. Okay for me to come in?”

“Sure!” Contentedly nursing, Michael at her breast again, looking up as Mitchell came into the room, “What’s that?” nodding her head at the brown paper bag in his hand.

“To celebrate the baby, Uncle Al bought a bunch of lobsters at the market area over on Randolph Street and surprised us with dinner tonight. And knowing how much you love lobster, my dad sent a couple’a claws over for you.” Opening the bag, he removed a plastic bag containing two large claws and a nutcracker. “For later, if you get hungry.”

Under normal circumstances, Maine lobster was a favorite of Marsha’s, but for the last hour she’d been feeling a sharp pain in her stomach that she attributed to the delivery. The thought and sight of the claws making her slightly nauseous, “Tell your dad and uncle thanks for me. Maybe I’ll get to them later. Put the bag in the drawer, will you, Mitchie.”

“Sure, baby.” Tossing the paper bag in the wastepaper basket, putting the plastic bag in the nightstand alongside the bed, “You getting many calls?” he closed the drawer.

“You kidding? Your mother! My mother! Your father! My father! Your aunts! My aunts! Your cousin! My cousin! The phone hasn’t stopped… Uh oh.” Marsha was cut off by the ringing of the phone.

 March 24, 1957

“I don’t know what’s wrong, Rosalie. I just don’t feel well.”

“You’ve told the doctor?”

Shining through a mis­positioned slat in the blinds, the early­ morning sun casting a ray of light onto her eyes, changing positions, Marsha shifted the phone to her other ear. “Sure, I’m not stupid! I got sick at about two this morning and they called Greenblatt, and a nurse gave me a shot of something that put me to sleep for a while, but when woke up the pain was still there.”

“Have you told Mitchell?”

“Of course! He called when he got up and when I told him he wanted to come right over, but I told him not to because, after all, what can he do? Besides, he’s got to work.”

“How’s about Mikey? Did you feed him this morning?”

“I wanted to, but they didn’t want whatever was in the shot to get into Mikey’s system, so I just gave him a bottle, at least until the pain got worse. Then, at about six, they took him away and gave me another shot.”

“Your mother! Does she know?”

”My mother? Christ, no! That’s all I need, is for my mother to charge over here and make everyone crazy.”

“How are you feeling right now, Marcie?”

“Terrible, Rosalie!” Holding her stomach, closing her eyes, “Really terrible!”

“Marsha, I’m calling your mother!”

                                           ****

“Marsha!” Leaning over the bed, he shook her shoulder. “Marsha.”

Opening her eyes, “Doctor Schaffer?” she said groggily. “What are you doing here?”

“Your mother called and asked if I’d look in on you… So, you and Mitchell had a beautiful little boy, eh?”

“Yeah, Doc.” Attempting to smile. “You had a chance to… ummm, see him yet?” The effort to talk turned to a grimace as she felt the pain, even through the third Lidocaine shot she’d received.

“No, I wanted to see you first. I’ll stop by the nursery when we’re done here.”

Lifting her hand, he studied the coloring of her fingertips. “Scoot down on the bed a little lower…. That’s’a girl.” Having changed into pajamas the night before, Schaffer lowered the bottom to below her navel.

”You wanted to see me, Doctor?’

Glancing over his shoulder, “Yes, nurse. When I’m through here, take Mrs. Lipensky’s temperature and blood pleasure, please.” Pushing inward on the flabby, pregnancy extended flesh of Marsha’s left side, “Does it hurt here?”

Shaking her head from side to side, “No.”

Prodding the flesh on the right side of her stomach, “Here?”

“Yes, but not too much.”

Pressing just below the breastbone, “And here?”

“Yeah!” Her body jerking upward, “It hurts a real lot!”

Replacing the pajamas, “Okay, nurse.” Going to the foot of the bed as the nurse placed a thermometer into Marsha’s mouth and the pressure cuff about her arm, Schaffer studied her chart.

“Doctor.”

Handing the file over, Schaffer watched as the nurse made her entries.

Taking the file back, contemplating the data: Temperature’s high, he thought, but that could be due to three shots of Lidocaine. Blood pressure’s low though, and her white count, when they took the last blood test—looking at his watch—almost two hours ago, was significantly elevated. Further thinking, She gave birth about twenty­-four hours ago and her organs could still be displaced, but she does have an acute abdomen… could be gallbladder or a hot appendix.

Forcing a smile, “Marsha, I’ll be right back.”

“Doctor,” fearful, but not expecting an adverse answer, “is anything wrong?”

Considering a moment, “Can you reach Mitchell?”

Alarmed, “I’m not sure. He’s at work, but most probably out making calls.” Becoming frightened. “Why should I have to call him, now?”

“Marsha, you mother’s out in the hall waiting for me.” Going to the door, “I’ll be right back.”

“Doctor Schaffer, I am not a child anymore! I’m a married woman with my own child and if there’s a problem you talk to me, not my mother! What’s wrong?”

Benjamin Schaffer had been the family doctor and attending physician when Marsha was born and—remembering the heated discussion regarding Rhea’s adamant wish to abort Marsha—Schaffer knew she had been an unwanted child and, indeed, still thought of her as a child.

“Okay, you’re right.” Trying not to alarm her too much. “I’m having you prepped for immediate surgery and suggest you get on the phone and try to reach your husband.”

“Surgery!” Definitely alarmed, “What kind of surgery?”

“I’m not sure. But because you had a baby yesterday, your internal organs may not be quite in their right place, so I’m not exactly sure what for.” Going to the bed, taking her hand, “Marcie, I’ve know you all your life… Hell, I knew you before you were born and I’m not going to let anything happen to you! But I’ve got to get hold of a surgeon and we don’t have time to talk now.” Handing her the phone, “Find your husband. Don’t worry, every-thing’ll be okay.”

                                             **** 

“Walter Lewis Studio.”

“Is Mitchell there? I’ve got to talk to Mitchell!”

Recognizing the voice and tone of urgency, “Marsha, what’s wrong? The baby… Is the baby…”

“No, Mikey’s fine! It’s me! Something’s wrong with me and they’re getting me ready for an operation, and I’ve got to talk to Mitchell, now!”

“He’s out and I don’t know where.” Glancing at her watch: 9:52. “But he usually checks in at about eleven.”

A nurse carrying a tray with a syringe and an orderly pushing a gurney entered the room.

“They’re here! Please find my husband!”

Looking helplessly at the phone as it went dead in her hand. “Walt!” Myra yelled. “Where’s Mitchell?”