Took me a little longer to do this than I thought and it's rather long, but if you get bored, feel free to not read it all.
About 1 AM Sunday morning Evenspor got up and was having some pretty strong contractions. She woke me up 20 minutes later and a few contractions after that she told me to gather up our stuff, because she was ready to go to the hospital. I still didn’t have the urgency that I probably should have; after all, we’d already spent one night and most of an afternoon in the hospital. But I didn’t drag my feet because these contractions seemed much more intense than anything Evenspor had before. Plus, they were 3-4 minutes apart.
I got all our stuff together and out in the truck. I called my sister to tell her we were coming to drop off Beeper. I got her voice mail. Naturally, she was asleep. I called her husband’s number and he answered and sounded wide awake and alert after one or two rings. (He is in the safety department at work and so he might get a call at any time if there is an accident. He’s very reliable).
I got Beeper out of bed and took him to the truck. He wasn’t entirely pleased about the deal, but he was half asleep. His big concern was that I didn’t screw up his blanket.
Evenspor was ready to go by the time I had hauled out several bags and strapped Beeper in and started the truck to warm it. She’s amazing. (She had bags packed several weeks ago and in the truck, but I noted on one of our earlier trips to the hospital that there weren’t enough snacks, so I’d loaded up - hence the extra bags to carry out to the truck).
I helped Evenspor out to the pickup. It was probably a good thing we had planned on going to the hospital in our pickup rather than the Bronco, because Evenspor doesn’t think she could have climbed into the Bronco while she was having such intense contractions.
When we were all in and everyone was secured with seatbelts, I slammed the truck into gear and spewed gravel as we backed out the driveway. (Actually, I never slam my truck into gear and only very rarely spew gravel, but it sounds more dramatic that way! In reality, I eased it into gear and we very responsibly backed out into the very empty and dark street).
My reliable brother-in-law was waiting in his driveway when we got there. Rather than have Evenspor get out of the truck so I could get Beeper out (we only have a two door pickup), I hauled him out over the back of my seat. I couldn’t get his blanket in the first reach, which he was again very concerned about. I handed a load of bags over (extra diapers, wipees, clothes, toys, etc) and climbed back into my seat. We waved goodbye and again very responsibly backed out the driveway. (OK – now I was getting a little anxious, so I wasn’t as responsible as I should have been).
The next morning Beeper told my sister’s family that he had a bad dream. He dreamed he was riding in a truck and someone told him to get out. He didn’t want to get out so they threw him out the window. Hmmm.
As we drove out of my sister’s neighborhood, Evenspor remarked that the streets there are in poor repair. (It occurred to me we might have been able to avoid the nighttime ride altogether if we’d been driving on those same streets the afternoon before).
There’s a 6-8 mile stretch of highway between our house and the hospital. It’s nearly desolate at 2 AM. Not much going on. The speed limit is 55, which many of us that drive that stretch on a regular basis don’t understand. In daylight you can see for miles, it’s a more or less either straight or gently curving and the road is in good condition. Many people feel the speed limit there should be 65 or 70. I usually limit myself to 4 or 5 miles over the speed limit, but I cranked the old truck up to 70 for this trip. Everything was going pretty well (we hit a green on the only light we’d been through) until we passed a highway patrolman. He flipped around and switched on his lights. I’d seen him going the other way when we passed and I knew what he was after. I pulled over, rolled down my window, took out my license and turned off the truck. When he ambled up to my window and shined his light in I handed him my license and told him I was only speeding during the contractions. I then politely asked if he was going to ticket me would he please be quick about it. He shined his light in the truck again, handed back my license, said “Carry on” and walked away. We were doing 40 before he got back to his car.
During the whole ride Evenspor had been making quite a racket during the contractions. She told me it seemed to help control the pain and she hoped the folks at the hospital wouldn’t mind. I casually remarked that they probably had heard it before. I suspect, however, that the officer had not heard it many times before. In any case, he’s a credit to his agency; the rapidity with which he sized up the situation and made a decision puts me in awe. If I’d gotten his name (or which branch of law enforcement he works for) I’d write a letter of commendation for him to his boss.
I ran the next light we came to. It’s right next to the hospital and like I said, there’s not a whole lot happening at 2 AM.
I pulled up to the ER doors and jumped out. No one was at the admitting desk when I got there and I couldn’t find a wheelchair. After a 20 second eternity (with musak playing in my head the whole time), someone showed up and got me a chair.
I wheeled Evenspor in, passed her off to the duty nurse and went out to get our bags (all 47 of them) and park the truck. Fortunately, I was wearing my brand new, nylon mesh running shoes. They’re really cool; they have netting between faux leather bands for good breathing. They’re good summer shoes and Wal-Mart was clearancing them so we got a good deal on them.
When I got back, they were in the midst of asking Evenspor a bunch of stupid questions. She had a tough time thinking, but apparently one thought did come through clearly “Why in the world did we register early if they were going to ask all the same stupid questions?” I guess I hadn’t been clear enough when I passed Evenspor off that we were pre-registered. (I handed the chick (chick is technical term for someone in a responsible position who doesn’t listen to important details - see also: dude - a term for any male person whose name I do not know) my license when I took the wheelchair, since it was already out and it has my name on it and told her how to spell E-V-E-N-S-P-O-R, so it shouldn’t have been a great leap after I said, “We’re pre-registered” for her to look through the file for a similar last name).
Anyway, I got there for the end of the questions. I held Evenspor’s hand and she asked for her water bottle. Sometime between when I walked back in and when she asked for her water bottle, her water broke. Unfortunately for me, my foot was under the wheelchair at the time. More unfortunately, my foot was still in my brand new, nylon mesh running shoes. I realized this bad turn of events when I ran back out to the truck to get Evenspor’s water bottle and the cool night air rapidly chilled my now-wet foot. (I also happened to be wearing my brand new work socks, which I’m told wick moisture away from your skin. Not fast enough).
Before we left the admitting room, I looked at the screen and they admitted Evenspor at 2:28. I wrote it on my hand so I wouldn’t forget. (Ever since my NROTC days, I always try to carry a pen. I used to give the underclassmen a hard time any time they didn’t have a pen, so I learned that I behooved me to set the example. Now I just find it handy to have a pen).
I also noticed the pond that had formed under the wheelchair just before they wheeled Evenspor out to one of the ER exam rooms so the Labor and Delivery (L&D) nurse could perform an exam. Evenspor was still making quite a racket, which was amplified by the fact that it was about the only noise there was.
It turned out that I know the L&D nurse that came down to do the exam. Three other nurses were also there. One tried (and failed miserably) to get an IV line into Evenspor’s left arm. The nurse said something about a blowout (which it attested to by the huge purple blotch in the same vicinity on Evenspor’s left arm). Meanwhile, on the other end of the table ooze is pooling. At the head of the table Evenspor is squinking her eyes shut and still carrying on with the noise. The nurse is telling her to quiet down because the sound Evenspor is making is causing her to push and “we don’t want that”. I was kind of under the impression we did want pushing at that particular juncture, but I’m not an expert so perhaps my timing was off.
My acquaintance, the L&D nurse, finished her exam. She declared Evenspor was at a 10 (10 cm is the size they say is just right for giving birth). She then ordered or the doctor to be called in directly to the ER. She said she thought we wouldn’t have time to go up to L&D and that maybe the doc wouldn’t make it. A moment later she thought maybe we could make it upstairs. A moment after that Little Fish’s head started to crown. (That’s a technical term, I believe. Yes, thank you, my vocabulary is extensive).
The next few minutes are a bit crowded and mixed up in my mind. At some point I was ordered to talk to Evenspor. I realized that I had absolutely nothing to say and I stood there dumbfounded for about 45 minutes. (OK, it just seemed like 45 minutes). Then the only thing that came to mind was, “pull with your arms, pull with your legs, pull with your arms, pull with your legs.” For anyone that missed the reference, it’s from The Dirty Dozen. For those of you still missing the reference, it’s the movie Tom Hanks and Victor Garber joke about making them cry in Sleepless in Seattle. BTW “Little Fish” is a reference to Rudyard Kipling’s classic tale “Captains Courageous”. Spencer Tracy Plays the lead character, Manuel, who sings a song about a “Little Fish” he caught.
Finally, (after, of course, blurting out, “pull with your arms, pull with your legs”) I found something more intelligent to say. I don’t remember what it was, but it must have helped because then Little Fish’s head popped out. (Personally, I think Little Fish was following orders and he was pushing with his legs).
He was a little blue, but after they disentangled him from his cord, he pinked up a little.
Evenspor was a trooper, pushing at all the right moments and doing everything she was supposed to. I was in awe again (for about the 20th time that night) at the amount of goo coming out of my wife.
There was all kinds of action going on at the far end of the bed (thankfully, I was more or less out of the way at the head of the bed, but I still had a pretty good view of what was going on below). One nurse was busy trying to find Little Fish’s pulse with a little wireless doodad; another was finally getting an IV in. I think there was one standing by in the event that a little space bedside might open up and the forth, my friend, was playing catcher. It was a pretty good thing she decided to go into nursing, because her baseball career would have been a short one. It was also good Evenspor was on a bed, because with the next push, he flopped like a little fish out onto the bed. He seemed to be rather aloof and nonchalant about the whole thing for a while.
They clamped the cord and I asked “May I?” and I was told, in a rather callous tone that this is not a normal delivery. No kidding. I thought you did it this way all the time. Of course I was aware of the irregularity of this birthing, but I didn’t particularly care. They handed me a set of those goofy, long handled scissors, which I might add I handled most expertly.
Just before clipping the cord, I checked the clock: 2:43. Before they whisked Little Fish off for testing there was a discussion about the time of birth. I was apparently the only one that looked at the clock, but I wasn’t given any input into the discussion. They settled on 2:44.
I asked Evenspor if she wanted me to stay with her or go with him. She said go, so I did.
I should mention at this point that it sounds like I’m being a little down on the nurses and that’s only because I’m only writing down the things they did wrong (in my opinion). But for everything they did that I didn’t like, they did ten that were downright heroic. They did an excellent job and if you are planning on having a baby any time soon I very highly recommend the staff at our local hospital. It’s also very comforting that they did such a magnificent job without the benefit of the doctor, who apparently didn’t get the part of the message about going to the ER and showed up looking for us at L&D.
My L&D friend told me on the way upstairs she didn’t like his color. I thought he was several lovely shades of pink, the blue being almost entirely gone by that time.
When we got upstairs she gave him O2 and a t-shirt that kept riding up. I visited with Little Fish as he lay there getting measured and poked. The first poke was an enlightening experience for him. His face told the whole story; there was a brief moment off “hey, that’s new!” followed by “what the heck was THAT!?!” followed by “I’m going to tell them to knock that off” followed by weeping and wailing and gnashing of gums. Not much weeping and wailing and gnashing of gums though. Surprisingly, he took it, for the most part, like a man.
His head was 14.5” in circumference. Now tell me my wife’s not tough. He’s 22” long and weighed 9 lbs 8 ozs. (He lost a little by the time we left the hospital, but that’s normal and he’s still a heavy weight). There were more pokings and proddings, all of which Little Fish found disagreeable.
A nurse poked her head in and said the doctor was here and was in with Evenspor if I wanted to go to her. So I wandered in and held Evenspor’s hand while the doc sewed her up (2nd degree tearing).
Eventually they moved us all to a recovery room. Evenspor and I took turns holding Little Fish through the rest of the night and all day Sunday. He was pretty pooped out and didn’t argue much. Every so often the nurses came in and took him for more poking and prodding.
