August 30, 2010
Sitting in the quiet hospital room. Mandi visited, took good photos and went home. Maddie played, ate yogurt, laughed a lot, cried a little, and left with Nana and Pop Pop for a nap. Holly is sleeping now. What a time to recap what I remember of yesterday.
Holly is 38 weeks pregnant and it’s the Friday before the Monday of her planned Cesarean birth of our son.
Holly had planned a wonderful Saturday trip to the zoo as a family. She wanted to show Maddie the zebras and monkeys and such. Maddie was on board and ready, but I was trying to caution her against being in the middle of nowhere, between Ashland and Columbus, with no medical help. The money would have been tight, but she saved some, held a garage sale, and was going to get her daughter to the zoo. I support that and was disappointed when we cancelled that plan. Here is our story from my point of view.
FRIDAY
She told me of night back pains and nausea, which are signs of impending labor. Friday morning is the last OB doctor visit. When he checked and found her to be 3 cm dilated and slightly thinned, he recommended against it. I concurred. She seemed heartbroken and I felt it too. While I usually throw caution to the wind on worry-wart behaviour, feeling that worry and fear rob us of our lives and joy, this one just didn’t feel right. Holly called her parents who were planning a late Saturday arrival to watch Maddie for the procedure. They accelerated their plans and aimed to arrive in the area late Friday night. They did arrive Friday night. Leaving the doctor, she dropped me off at work, where everyone was leaving for Mexican Friday lunch. Laura, Brian, and Danielle later said that Holly had that look of being in real discomfort, and doubted she’d make it until Monday. They were right.
Later that day, while at work, Holly called to say that her contractions had been increasing to 15 minutes apart but were going away. I admonished her and told her that since I was 10 minutes away, she HAD to call me if they got closer than thirty minutes. Thirty minutes was the threshold at which we would call the doctor to head to the hospital. “Bad Holly!” I admonished to make her hear the seriousness at this thirty minute rule we made.
SATURDAY
Saturday morning, we had coffee at Starbucks, and pound cake, too. Holly treated with her zoo money. We had a good time. For five minutes, Maddie and I chased each other outside, danced in circles, and ran slow and fast. After Starbucks, we went to the pool at Dreamland. There, we played in the shallow water, Holly sat mostly, not feeling too comfortable, and Mandi had Halley and Hannah. After a short while, holly’s parents arrived and they sat around, too, seemingly trying to stay in the shade - not a challenge to understand on a bright, 90 degree day. After a while we all left and had lunch. Holly got a veggie, Subway sub, and the rest of us lunched at China Wok. Afterwards, Holly’s parents went to the campground in their RV, and we went home.
We reclined in front of the TV, and watched Clash of the Titans, while measuring Holly’s contractions. I even downloaded an iPhone app to measure. They were about 12 minutes apart on the first interval, then 22 minutes, then 28 minutes. All seemed to be calming down. Nightly routine, Maddie went to bed, and I fell asleep around 11:30.
SUNDAY (Barely)
At 12:45 am, I heard a loud crack, and Holly yelling, “Mark!” I snapped out of bed and ran to the bathroom to see Holly sitting on the floor in front of the toilet, vomit on the toilet lid, and she looked bad. Her contractions were 8-10 minutes apart.
“Huh? For how long?” I asked.
“Now” she replied. Having just woken up, I had little communicative reserve.
“We’re going to the hospital,” I informed her.
“Should I call my parents to come watch Maddie?”
“No time, and I’m not waiting at all. 10 minutes apart? What about our Thirty Minute Rule?”
“Let me call my parents.”
“I’m not waiting one minute, we’re going. Head for the truck.” And with that, I slung my fashionable, green Maddie doo-dad bag over my shoulder. That’s my “bugout” bag of her clothes, diapers, snacks, and such. I went into Maddie’s room, and scooped her up with her pink cat, Helen, and her little black dog, Tuffy. I made sure to get her blanket and sling it on the shoulder strap of my bag. Holly was almost out the door having grabbed her bugout bag. As we’re going down the stairs, Maddie finally realized something was not right, and with her soft, breathy, slightly confused voice, she asked me a question.
“What are we doing, Daddy?” she whispered. Of course it sounded more like, “Whah ah we doing, Daddy?” She melts my heart. So often. So easily.
I only ran one red light on the way, and didn’t speed too badly, either. Her contractions were down to a couple minutes apart. I called Dr. Assaley’s answering service and left voicemail as to the situation and what we are doing. Finally at the hospital after the 20 minute drive. Maddie and Holly stay in the car. I run to the ER, grab a wheelchair and head back to the truck. Wheelchair brakes on.
“Holly, can you get in yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Where are we daddy?”
“We’re going to see the mommy-doctor.”
I get Maddie out of the car seat. She’s still a little disoriented. I make sure to grab her Helen and blanket. Holly in the wheelchair. Maddie in my left arm. I get them both into the hospital. Hard to steer with one arm. When we arrived at the labor and delivery floor, I was still carrying Maddie, and I get to the nurse at the desk.
“How are are her contractions?”
“About 2-4 minutes apart. She was 3cm yesterday.”
“Oh my.” The other two nurses behind her get the look of a person about to start to work. The look that says, “back on the clock.”
The nurses help Holly to a monitoring bed, and Maddie is getting concerned.
“What’s mommy doing?”
“She’s getting ready to see the doctor.”
“Can I have some pain medicine? This is so much worse than when I had Maddie? I need it now. Get the spinal guy in here!”
They have called Dr. Assaley, and he’s on his way. A few minutes later, Leslie and Al are there in the hall, so I take Maddie to sit with them while I figure if it would be better for them to wait or take Maddie home.
As I walk into Holly’s room, she says that her water broke. She later described it as a rush or gush of fluid preceded by a “snappping” feeling. Yeah.
“That’s probably to be expected,” I say not thinking at the time that we had just reached the point of no return. Once the amniotic fluid no longer protects the baby, he cannot stay in the uterus for long. “I’ll tell them if you want me to.”
“Yes, I want you to. I think it got on their sterile tray she left down there.”
“Just so you know, her water broke,” I tell the nurses in the hallway. That “back on the clock” look duplicated, except they were already at condition yellow. Next thing, I’m telling Holly that they know, and they’re in the room, unhooking her monitoring leads and cables, moving her, on her bed, into the hall, telling me to follow her.
“It’s a sterile area, you’ll need to wait here until I get you your gown.”
Huh. This is going fast.
Another nurse helps me quickly don blue footies, a mint colored hair net, yellow mask, and a yellow scrub gown. We’re walking in the process. I don’t remember anyone tying that gown, but someone did, wasn’t me.
When I see her, she’s being moved onto a surgical table half dozen people all masked, gloved, and gowned, are waiting for her. Dr. Assaley walks in a few minutes later, and while he’s washing his hands (i.e. scrubbing in), I tell him that she wasn’t going to wait, and didn’t tell me until the contractions were 10 minutes apart. He smiles and slightly rolls his eyes and bobs his head, as if to say, “yeah, we get that a lot.”
“Breath, sweetheart,” I tell her. My place is at Holly’s left ear. The anesthesiologist at her right ear. They eventually give me a short steel stool. “Don’t push! Breath,” I say again. I’m not alone in this, everyone is trying to get Holly to calm down.
“It hurts! I have to push! I can’t stand it. Medicine! Pain medicine now!”
“Don’t push! Breath.”
They ask me to leave while they administer the spinal block which seemed like it took 10 minutes. At one point, after the anesthesiologist gave the local on her back, and was doing what looked like a spinal tap, someone said to Holly not move, and it looked to me like the whole room froze. No one moved. No one spoke. As if someone would make her move while working around Holly’s spinal chord. It couldn’t have been more than 30 seconds. Those 30 seconds were surreal to watch from the doorway. As though a glass of water falling from a table would ever suspend in air, or a spray of grease from a pan would ever stop before hitting the stove. Time stood still. Then she completed her procedure before another contraction.
“It’s not working,” holly cried.
“It takes a few minutes to take effect.”
Kay, a nurse, was holding Holly after they asked me to step out for the spinal. Holly was clutching onto Kay like a baby Koala to its Mommy.
Soon, a blue drape was inserted between doctors and holly’s head, and clipped to the steel poles. The procedure of birthing Blake began.
“It still hurts!” said holly. The anesthesiologist told Dr. Assaley that what he did was not numb to Holly.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Please knock me out!”
“Can you do that if she wants?” I asked. In typical movie operating room form, I didn’t get a direct answer.
“We won’t put her completely out.”
Eventually, holly was given both a breathing mask of nitrous oxide and a dose of fentinol, a morphine derivative. She was sedated.
“Can she hear me?”
“No, but she’s breathing on her own.” If I told someone that they would not be completely out and that meant they’d still be breathing, most people would be under the impression that I understated. “Fully out” means the inability to breath for oneself. Holly could not hear my encouragement, but I still whispered into her ear.
“I love you. You’re going to be ok. I love you. You’re having a baby today. You’re doing great, my love.”
After a short time, Blake was presented and brought to the warmer. He looked great. I noticed a slight laceration on his right ribcage about 1.5 cm long from the scalpel that incised his old home. A little bleeding, like a paper cut.
He was a breech baby, Frank-breech to be specific. The distinguishing sign was the position of his legs: he kept his ankles by his ears for so long that he would not put them down. This made him look like a cartoon, child book, turned to the “V” page. This also means that had we gone to the zoo and not made it back before labor after so much walking, I would have had the unfortunate task of having my first child-delivery in the car an hour and a half from anywhere with a decent hospital, delivering a breech baby. Someone would have had a medical emergency, I’m sure of it. I’m even more glad we didn’t go. But I still want to.
Another 30-50 minutes of procedure on holly, and she was closed. Her suture line looked really good. I was holding Blake for much of that time next to Holly’s left ear. She couldn’t hear me then, either.
SUNDAY (Later)
Leslie and Al came into the room with Maddie, and I recorded a video of Maddie seeing Blake for the first time. She says “awe” a lot when she sees him. He’s so small. She said, “look, Blake’s crying. Don’t cry, Blake.”
Of Holly and I, I changed his first poopie diaper. Then within 20 minutes, two of Maddie’s. I think that’s pretty good.
MONDAY
Holly has walked a little, her cath and IV are out.
Blake is back and forth to the nursery and exams.
They have yet to get him to hear in one ear, but they say that’s very common.
I am still figuring if I’m half a dad or twice a dad. I went home for a short time this evening again, same as yesterday. I had enough time to play with maddie a little. We did the night time routine of potty, light shower, wash hands, brush teeth (even rinsed and spat), wash face, towel, and new diaper, pajamas, then medicine, milk, night night hugs and kisses. In bed with Helen and Tuffy. “Twinkle twinkle little star” with a few, “I love you’s” and “sweet dreams.”
Holly has yet to get him to nurse really well, but he’s getting better. Give them both time. Everyone is different.
“Fruit filled pancakes with Cinnamon apples” have no fruit or apples, at least here. Their scrambled eggs are good, and so are their medium sub sandwiches.
The nurses and staff surprised me with their friendliness. Our brief visit a few weeks ago lowered the bar on what I was expecting. That nurse was ok, but seemingly stern. These nurses and doctors are all nice and understanding. So far, both delivery experiences I’ve had are good, with almost no complaints.
Blake’s crying sounds like a baby bird. I think Maddie was the same at first, but I cannot remember the sound of her crying as a newborn, though I know she did quite a lot. Blake is so darned little. He fits in one arm with room to spare. Maddie barely fits in two arms, and rarely like to stay in one place anyway. Maddie is such a bundle of fun and energy, who lights up a room and makes everyone smile. Maddie has set the bar very high for my expectations and hopes for Blake. Everyone is different and no one will be compared to each other. My biggest hope is that they will have some sort of positive energy feedback loop, helping and encouraging each other to excel and be happy. I don’t mean that they should need be competitive with each other, but, rather, make each other better.
I didn’t read as much as I wanted while not with Holly.
But I did manage to write a little.
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