February 26,
2004—8:50pm: I walked
into surgery and Sunday was strapped to a table that was shaped like a cross,
and her arms were perpendicular to her body.
A curtain divided her head from the rest of her body. About seven or eight nurses were in the room
in addition to our O/B and the anesthesiologist. They pointed to a metal chair near Sunday’s
head. I was supposed to sit on it during
the surgery, but I leaned forward and watched as the doctor cut her open. I couldn’t help thinking during this time
that, if something bad was going to happen, I wasn’t going to sit behind a
curtain and just hear it all. I could see everything directly if the doctor stood
at a certain place while he was doing the surgery. When the doctor stepped in the way, the
shield that the nurse across from the doctor wore served as a good “mirror”,
showing me what happened. I saw
everything, and I am glad. In fifty
years, I’ll still be able to tell this story in great detail.
February 26,
2004—9:02pm: When the
doctor pulled Jonah out, there were two concerns: (1) since he pooped in utero, the doctors were afraid that he would aspirate it; (2) I was
afraid that the time spent in delivery in the wrong position would somehow hurt
him or her or both. Thankfully, none of
that happened. As he was delivered, the
anesthesiologist told me to stand up so that I could see the first seconds of
his life outside of Sunday. It was the
most terrifying moment of my life. I was
surrounded by the anesthesiologist on my left, the doctor right in front of me
and nurses seemingly honeycombed throughout the room. As I stood up, I got another angle on the
surgery I had been watching for the past two or three minutes. (It seemed like I’d spent the night in this
room, but it hadn’t been over five minutes since the nurse came in the room
down the hall with the surgery outfit.
Time had elongated, making every second seem like a day). I stood up and
the doctor had Sunday’s guts up on her belly—I later learned it was her
uterus—and they pulled Jonah out, covered with all manner of fluid and
filth. He was green, mostly, punctuated
with pink and black and grey. He looked
like a rotten watermelon.
February 26,
2004—9:05pm: Jonah was
taken to a table across the room from where Sunday lay unconscious, but they wouldn’t
let me get near to either table. I stood
midway between them—both of them unable to make a noise—and my life stopped.
I had never been
forced to depend on two people more than I had at that moment.
Sunday was one
person, the human being who knows me better than any on the planet. She was there, deeply cut open, knocked out
and unable to move. She looked bad,
really bad.
Then, there was
Jonah. Although he came from both Sunday
and me, he was at the other end of the relationship continuum from Sunday. We’d spent the least amount of time together.
Heck, the doctor and some of the nurses
had spent more time with me than Jonah had. I know nothing about him. Unlike Sunday, he didn’t know me at all. Yet I felt like I had spent my entire life up
to that point for that moment, between the two tables.
I was there, in the
middle of them, praying with all the energy I could produce in that room, that
both of them would be alright.
The doctor to the
left of me was scrubbing Sunday’s insides clean. He seemed calm, which calmed me a little. The seven or eight nurses all surrounded
Jonah on the table and it sounded like a pit stop at a NASCAR race. I swore I heard air guns being used to try to
change tires over there. Then, the greatest thing I had ever heard in my entire
life.
Jonah screamed.
My legs almost
buckled I was so relieved, because after he started crying, I knew we were
doing well. If I concentrated, I could
still hear his first noise, his proclamation that he was alive. It was one of the most beautiful sounds I could
imagine. Although I know that I’ll get
tired of him crying, I haven’t yet. It
just reminds me of how low I was and how high I went, just because of his
screaming.
February 26,
2004—9:10-11:00pm: I
carried him to the nursery, where more wiping and buffing and suctioning and
cleaning continued…and that was just the work they do on me! Sunday’s family stayed in the hospital
waiting room the entire night and day to see this moment and the hospital staff
told them that they had to wait four more hours. I thought there was going to be some
knuckin’. Regretfully, the in-laws left
to go to work the next day, so they waved through the glass of the nursery and
said goodbye to me, but not to Sunday.
She was still sobering up from the surgery.
February 26,
2004—9:10pm: As I took Jonah out
of the operating room, Sunday briefly woke up from her drug-induced haze. She looked at me first, but then she
recognized what I was holding, smiled, and she quietly cried herself back to
sleep.
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