Raimone says with a stupid look on his face. Although I wanted to knock the shit out of him real bad, I kept my cool cause I got his ass!
I struggle to pull myself up off the couch, yelling, "I'm ready to go, and you acting like you're heading to the damn bar! You could've just thrown on anything and brought your ass, I'm ready to end this!" I make the point by gesturing at my massive stomach with one hand while using the other hand to hold on the couch.
Rolling my eyes, I grab my pink duffle bag, car keys, and walk out the door. He dutifully follows me after grabbing the rest of my bags for my stay at the hospital.
He still had that dumb-ass look on his face, though. I was pissed and he knew it.
He offers lamely, "I'm sorry, Ma, but I couldn't have my daughter coming into this world, and the first thing she sees is her daddy looking busted."
"I'm not laughing, Money, cause the shit is far from funny. Let's just get in the car and go to the hospital." I throw the keys to him to my 2004 smoke-grey Chrysler Sebring convertible; it was a gift from him this past Christmas.
Raimone spent money with no problem, due to him having so much of it. He dabbled into a little bit of everything, from gambling to loaning money at ridiculous rates. Even with all that, most of his money came from drug sales. Back in high school he worked for a guy named Chino and made just enough money to trick-out his car or buy a fly wardrobe. That all quickly changed when Chino took him under his wing.
Chino was a drug lord in the process of moving back to his homeland in Cuba. He wanted someone in the States to keep his business going. He had been watching Raimone for the past few years and saw that he handled his business properly and was never late with his money; basically, he found the perfect student. So for the whole year before Chino was to leave, he prepared Raimone to take over the business; teaching him everything there was to know about the drug game. When he finally left at the end of 1999, Raimone became the new King of Ohio. Chino showed him so much love on the prices of the packages that Raimone was making money hand-over-fist. He went from being a corner boy, to having guys on the corner working for him.
"Why can't we drive my car?" he complains, frowning. He hated to drive my car; he said it made him look like a clown. At this moment I really didn't give a flying fuck about how he felt or looked. If he would've hurried his ass, we could've taken his car. He took his time, not caring about how I felt; so right now, I don't give a shit about his feelings.
"I want to take my car, so let's go," I order, exasperated, standing on the side of my car, waiting for him to open the door. He walks over to the passenger door, opens it, and I climb in, reclining my seat back.
Noticing that he's pleading with his eyes, I put on my Chanel glasses so as to let him know that it's the end of the conversation.
Slamming the door, he lifts up the trunk and tosses my bags inside. Then he climbs in the driver seat and starts the engine. "Don't slam my shit no more," I say, nit-picking as we pull off.
To my surprise, we arrive at the hospital right on time, and I am ushered right up to labor and delivery.
It takes an hour for me to get in my room, undress, and for the doc to come in and see me. The contractions come as soon as the nurse places oxytocin in my IV, and I'm telling you now that shit ain't no joke! I mean I thought I was gonna fucking die! Before my labor, people used to tell me that the contractions felt like menstrual cramps. Well BULLSHIT, 'cause I ain't never in my life had cramps that bad! I'm laying here right now trying to tough it out for as long as I can, but it's starting to become unbearable. I'm trying to stick to the whole "natural" birth thing, but this is really getting hard. Looking at the small monitor on the side of my bed, I see another contraction coming, so I brace myself.
That didn't do any good, because it still hurts like hell.
I hold my breath and I squeeze the rails of the bed until my knuckles turn white. I exhale after that one subsides and I start my breathing exercises, thinking that maybe the breathing will help me a little bit. Raimone gets out the chair, walks over to the sink and turns on the water.
After wetting a rag he walks over to where I'm laying and dabs the cold cloth across my forehead, making me feel better; I smile at the gesture.
"Ahhh!" I cry out in pain. I can't take this shit no more! The whole "I'm-not-getting-no-drugs" idea flew right out the window. Pushing the "help" button repeatedly, I buzz the nurse so that I can ask for an epidural. Of course they don't give me one right away, saying I had to dilate some more before they could. An hour later, I'm still in pain and no closer to getting the epidural than I was before.
It seems like nurses are going in and out of my room with no care in the world about me. I say loudly, "I promise you I'm gonna go the fuck off, if they come in this mutha'fucka one more time without my epidural!"
"Calm down, Sash, they are only doing their jobs.
They can't give it to you right now, so chill out."
Raimone was trying to keep the peace--wrong move!
Pushing up on my arms, I sit up slightly and yell in his direction, "Don't you fucking tell me to chill out; you don't know how much pain I'm in. All you doing is sitting your stupid ass over there in the corner watching TV, while I'm over here damn-near dying!" Suddenly another contraction hits me. After that goes away, I start on him again. "So do me a favor and shut the fuck up!"
When he doesn't give me the argument I want, I roll over on my side and stare at the monitor once again.
I hear him get out of the chair and walk over to the door. Once I hear the door close, I look up to see that he's gone. I'm pissed and I really want to tell him to go fuck himself, but I'm not about to chase after him. This is the second time that he's showed me that he didn't care about me being angry, the first being when we broke up for a short period of time.
It was two years ago, in October. He disappeared on a Friday night and stayed gone for the whole weekend. I called every jail and hospital in the surrounding counties, searching for him. Saturday afternoon I received a private call. It was him, telling me that he'd gotten pulled over and was taken to jail for a traffic violation. When I asked him what jail he was in, he told me that he was locked up downtown in the city jail and he wouldn't be released until the morning. Which was a crock of shit, because I had called down there numerous times, so I knew he wasn't there. I told him that whatever bitch he was with to enjoy himself, and when he decided to come home I wouldn't be there. I guess he thought I was bullshitting because he didn't attempt to come home at all that night.
When he came home the next day, he found the house empty. I packed up all of my stuff and moved back home with my parents. It took him a couple of days to track me down due to me not answering any of his calls.
But after awhile he convinced me to come back home, telling me that he was sorry and promising that he'd never do anything again to jeopardize our future.
As more contractions started to come, I remain quiet.
My tears flow on to the while hospital pillow. I see the doc enter the room with a smile on his face. He's an older white gentleman, tall with a slim build. His jet-black hair is cut short and looks like it's been dyed to hide the grey.
"Hello, Miss Jones. I'm Dr. Tate, and I'm here to check on how much you've dilated," he said while sliding his hands into a pair of gloves.
I take a breath and grab the rails so that I can turn over onto my back. Placing both of my legs into the stirrups, I allow him to check me out. It's funny how you don't give a damn who sees you naked when you're about to have a baby. You're free to spread your legs at the drop of a dime. I'm ready for the pain to be over; I want to hold my baby.
"Owwww," I groan, biting down on my lip. It feels as if he's sticking his whole arm up in my shit!
"Miss Jones, you're only three centimeters. You have to get to at least seven before you can get the epidural,"
he tells me, smiling once again. He removes the gloves, tossing them into the wastebasket, washes his hands and walks out of the door. Maybe