I spent the night with Marilyn Monroe on Christmas.

Since I was in labor, I didn’t enjoy it much. The house held a panoply of Marilyns—framed photos, statuettes, even a laminated, life-sized cardboard cutout at the bottom of the hallway steps. She wore a permanent, coy smile, one dainty hand extended as she greeted people who climbed the stairwell.

I’d already been laboring for twelve hours, with no end in sight. Marilyn could afford to be happy, since she wasn’t nine months pregnant. Her gently curved stomach beckoned from beneath the cardboard surface.

My own belly resembled a zeppelin. It was so large that I couldn’t see the stairs beneath my feet. I kept a death grip on the railing as I lowered myself towards the first-floor bathroom.

I’d spent most of Christmas Day at the midwife’s office. Amanda, his assistant, obsessively checked my cervix, as it dilated with glacial slowness. Like the damn thing was opening a door just a tiny crack to catch a peek at an unwanted salesman. 

We tested many ploys to make my cervix expand more quickly. I sat in a birthing tub and attempted relaxation. While I was puckering in the lukewarm water, the midwife told me that she moonlighted as an acupuncturist. Apparently, the ancient technique had been known to accelerate difficult labors.

 I’d always wanted to experience the sensation of having hollow needles inserted into my skin while coaxing a baby from my uterus, so I gave it a whirl. Afterwards, I tried something called “birth dancing”, which involved swaying my bulk in a figure eight pattern. Nothing worked. I remained frozen at one centimeter. How was that even possible?

Amanda moonlighted as an astrologer. “The moon is void of course until the 27th. Wow. That’s an especially long time.”

Noting my look of alarm, she added, “I’m sure it won’t take a day and a half.”

By evening, I felt exhausted and defeated. My contractions came and went in erratic waves. A Christmas birth was out of the question, and my future plans were in serious doubt. I lived on a tiny Puget Sound island and had taken the ferry to Seattle early that morning. The birth center was in a remote part of the city, far from the terminal.

“My dad is spending the night at my mom’s house,” Amanda said. “They’re still good friends, obviously. We can stay at his place.”

Half an hour later, my husband and I pulled up in front of a two-story Tudor house in the tony Greenlake neighborhood. It resembled the other mini-mansions on the block—impeccably clean, with Pacific Northwest-style landscaping that looked like someone had let the lawn grow wild, but tastefully.

Avoiding the floor beds, I lumbered up the steps. Amanda flung open the door and smiled. “I should have warned you. My father is a tiny bit obsessed with Marilyn Monroe.”

Six hours later, I was still trying to force myself to sleep. Marilyn leered at me from every wall. Sometimes, I lapsed into a shallow slumber punctuated with images of her body, all superimposed on each other and swaying in a figure eight pattern. The disturbing scenario jarred me awake, only to repeat itself a few minutes later.

Meanwhile, my husband snored loudly, conserving his strength for the morning. 

Why couldn’t I give birth like a pioneer woman? Just pop out a kid, then return to churning butter? I’d gone hiking almost every day during the latter part of my pregnancy. As my belly expanded, I entertained visions of a hippie delivery, with my baby gliding into a warm tub amidst the strains of soft didgeridoo music. Not this travesty of Hollywood blondness. Where had I gone wrong?

In the morning, we reconvened at the birthing center. Parking was a snap. On the day after Christmas, normal people stayed home, sleeping off their hangovers or deciding which unwanted gifts would snag the biggest refunds.

The vigil began anew. Having already exhausted my suggested methods for cervical dilation, I was out of birthing options. Amanda consulted her ephemeris. “Sixteen more hours until the moon moves into Capricorn,” she said. “But I’m sure it won’t take that long.”

Perhaps food would help. It had offered me succor during many other crises. Besides, I hadn’t eaten for more than a day. A group of Seventh Day Adventists owned a restaurant next door to the birthing center. The sect was known for their healthy, vegetarian cuisine.

I waddled over, husband in tow. What do you order during a protracted labor? I settled on a peanut butter and banana sandwich, figuring it would be easy to chew.

The bread was like Styrofoam. Mastication was a distant goal, impossible to reach. Much like giving birth. The process reminded me of my drug experiments during my 20s, when I tried to make myself eat while coming down from an acid trip.

I glanced up from the table. The folks behind the counter were all staring at me with beatific expressions. Their perfect teeth beamed like floodlights. One of the women turned away, as if she’d caught me looking. The others maintained their gaze, faces contorted into congenial grimaces.

“I’m not hungry.” After I pushed away my plate and rose to my feet, a contraction hit. “Let’s get out of here.”

My husband grabbed his sandwich and shoved it into his coat pocket. He flung open the door and gestured for me to step outside. A few flakes of snow wafted across the threshold. 

I leaned against an external wall until the undulations subsided. “I think we need to be more focused. Perhaps I can dilate my cervix by visualizing it opening like a jar lid that finally gets pried loose.”

My husband sighed. “The moment for that would have been about thirty hours ago.”

It really had been thirty hours. The time had just flown by. Still, it couldn’t hurt to give visualization a try, even so late in the game. Back at the birth center, I retreated into a corner and tried to gather my thoughts. The jar lid metaphor didn’t seem right anymore. Perhaps I needed something more fluid. 

Closing my eyes, I conjured an image of my cervix, stubbornly sealed like the Grand Coulee Dam. I imagined its heavy gates swinging open, allowing my baby to flow downriver towards solid ground. He navigated the rapids like an experienced rafter.

Another contraction hit my uterus, almost knocking me over with an errant wave. Feeling dizzy, I staggered to my feet and consulted the midwife. He checked my cervix, then shook his head. “Two centimeters.” His voice managed to sound both incredulous and resigned. “We can keep trying if you like.”

Amanda popped her head around the corner. “The moon goes into Capricorn at seven tomorrow morning. It won’t be long now.”

7:00 AM was more than twelve hours away. My contractions weren’t getting me anywhere. I had trudged for a day and a half across the tundra of labor, but I still had half a day to go. That is, if my ordeal obeyed astrological dictates, which seemed doubtful. Perhaps it was time to reach for some drugs. Like food, drugs had been my faithful companion during many difficult times. Why should now be any different?

Never had I felt like more of a fan of the medical system, a bureaucracy my hippie-self had so often condemned. “Let’s go to the hospital.” I could hardly conceal my relief.

I spread out an arm, allowed the midwife to lead me towards the door. Mute and compliant, like I was in in a Norma Desmond trance. Amanda and my husband followed, looking similarly dazed. None of us knew how to run the show. The director was an impatient infant that we hadn’t met yet.

Fortunately, the moon’s void of course would be over in the morning. My future suddenly seemed clear. I’d catch a bit of epidural-enhanced sleep on my hospital mattress before being awakened to give birth. My son and I would finally see each other for the first time. Afterwards, I’d enjoy two days of relaxation, while watching old movies on my room’s overhead television.

Hopefully, none that starred Marilyn Monroe.