February 26,
2004—9:30am: Sunday was
looking deeply in my eyes, wishing I would have never touched her. Ever.
I tried to hold her hand and comfort her, but she punctuated her
feelings about my touch by gently but firmly attempting to break the small
bones in my hand. I could no longer
stand the pain, so I called the anesthesiologist to get an epidural. While she got the shot, I was required to
leave the room—which I did—so I went to the waiting room where my
brother-in-law, sister-in-law, nephew #1, nephew #2, father-in-law #1,
mother-in-law #1, and mother-in-law #2 wait for word. (Yes, you read that right. All those people waiting in a very small room
with the bad network television). Fun
times.
February 26,
2004—9:32am: Sunday
loves me again, but I was still a little shy about holding her hand. The epidural was particularly effective,
almost shutting off Sunday’s vascular system. Apparently, the epidural is not supposed to
be administered to someone lying flat in bed.
Thus, the numbing power of the drug traveled north of her chest, which
caused the difficulty in breathing. Adjustments were made and she breathed freely
again.
February 26,
2004—10:00am through 2:00pm: I traveled
back and forth between the waiting room and the delivery room shuttling
Sunday’s family members, making sure that the order of the visits coincide with
the expectations of the hierarchy of the power structure in the family….ok, I
just made sure that certain people did not have to attempt small talk in the hall
on the way to the delivery room. The
entire group—now friends and family—seemed to be getting along swimmingly. To be honest, I didn’t know how they are
holding up so well. It was my child and
I had moments where I just wanted to go home and shut the door and never come
out. Nevertheless, the conversations
between Sunday and her visitors went something like this: “How’s it going, babe?” She returned the question with a look of,
“Are you on crack? I have a human being
shooting out of me!” Or, “How’re you
feeling, Sunday?” She returned this
question with a look of, “Are you on crack?
I have a human being shooting out of me!” Or, “What’s the doctor saying?” She returned this question with a look of,
“Are you on crack? I have a human being
shooting out of me!” You get the
picture. I felt good for Sunday that she had support from her family and such,
but I really felt bad that she couldn’t eat or drink during this entire time,
especially when I was down in the cafeteria eating chili and onion rings. (I am a bad, bad person).
February 26,
2004—2:00pm through 4:00pm: Sunday and
I attempted to sleep because we both knew that she was not quite progressing
and this birthing process was not going as planned. She passed out, but I simply could not get
the rest I require. This was
uncomfortable for me and I was considering not having any more children. In addition, Sunday’s health was doing well,
but Jonah was not. The amniotic fluid had mostly escaped, so Jonah’s body
pinched the umbilical cord—much like a garden hose—and cut off his circulation.
I noticed his heart rate cut in half when Sunday shifted to certain
positions. A few times during this section
of the day, the nurses came running in the room to stare at Jonah’s heart rate
on the monitor. As they stared, the
little blips plummeted to one-half the previous level, then rose at an
excruciatingly slow pace. These were the
moments when I was glad Sunday couldn’t see the computers.
February 26,
2004—5:00pm through 6:00pm: The
Simpsons. Priorities.
February 26,
2004—6:00pm: The
doctor returned after taking most of the day off. When he returned, the doctor gave us mixed
news. Sunday had dilated to about seven
centimeters, but Jonah was looking at her bellybutton instead of her backbone,
which was not a good thing. His head
and shoulders would not fit through the birth canal as easily as if he were
faced the other way.
February 26,
2004—7:00pm: Nursing
change: The wide-eyed Romanian left in
exchange for Helga the nurse from the Hinterlands. I think we got the most evil, vicious woman
they could find. She was tough and she
had a potty mouth. I saw her out in the parking lot later kicking the snot out
of bikers and young children in wheelchairs.
Mean woman. She was good, though,
because Sunday and I both needed more encouragement, since the nightly news
just finished and I didn’t know how I was going to pass the time until Jonah
was born. The doctor determined that
Sunday had dilated 9.5 centimeters, so we planned on starting to push at 7:30.
February 26,
2004—7:30pm: Doctor
“checked on” Sunday, and tried to turn Jonah while the nurse verbally abused elderly
hospital volunteers out in the hallway.
I was completely shocked by her rough language. Sunday remained unfazed.
February 26,
2004—8:15pm: After
about forty-five minutes of pushing, the doctor determined that “we” could be
pushing for another two hours and not have any progress. What’s this “we” business? I almost asked if he had a mouse in his
pocket, but I didn’t think humor at this point was a good thing. Thus, the doctor made the decision to go for
the C-section, which was music to Sunday’s ears, in addition to other parts of
her body. While most of her pregnancy
was spent discussing this eventuality—and we really didn’t want this to happen
this way—the welcome news of a C-section was just another step in the realization
that, THIS AIN’T OUR LIFE ANYMORE! Since
Sunday’s epidural had been wearing off for about two hours, the thought of more
drugs was a good thing, too. I think the
anesthesiologist could have handed her a crack pipe and she would have gladly
sparked it up.
February 26,
2004—8:45pm: I got
dressed to go into surgery. The nurse brought
in what I have to wear, and it looked like something Elvis wore in his “fat
Elvis” Vegas days, but I kept my mouth shut and put it on. In
fact, she could have brought a bikini-style surgery outfit and I would have run
down main street wearing it, just to get our son delivered.
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