In Sickness and in Health, Part II

The doctor instructed me to “pack” her wound with gauze twice a day, scrubbing the inside of it with peroxide each time I changed her dressing.  The wound was about four inches long, an inch and a half wide and an inch and a half deep.  It was raw meat and I was required to stuff 4x4 inch gauze pads in it twice a day. 

As he finished explaining, the doctor said, “I am glad you are doing this.  There are plenty of husbands who just have the nurse come to the house twice a day…”

Right there, I considered kicking this guy’s butt.  Why did he have to give me the option to wimp out after I ignorantly volunteered for duty? I began to hate this man I’d just met, and I don’t hate anybody.   After planning how I would have to dispose of his body if I killed him, I decided against it.  I then calmed down.

While I knew that we were going to have struggles and tough times, I didn’t think our love for each other required actions that were more intense than the feeling of a simple hug or a kiss goodnight or the struggle of an argument, or even the birth experience itself. But this clinched it. 

I didn’t think I could live long enough to have a week like this one.  I saw my son born, I saw my wife cut open, then sewn up, and then burst open again.  I couldn’t relate to myself in these circumstances.  I couldn’t believe I was the one everyone in the room was depending on to be “nurse” for Sunday.  This just wasn’t me.  I couldn’t do it.  Her wounding was much too powerful for me to live through.  I felt like I was dying in that room, I was so stressed.  Her life was up to me, and, by extension, Jonah’s.  Twice a day, I was ensuring the health of my family’s future destiny with a simple, intense ten-minute change of bloody bandages.  Since Sunday’s belly was too big for her to see it, I felt alone in my silent panic.

I responded to all of this with a smile as my hands shook violently at the thought of what I had to do.  

I walked out of that room a different man.  I couldn’t relate to myself in there because I wasn’t me anymore.  I was responsible at a higher level than I had experienced.  And I still couldn’t handle it.

I was seeing my shaking hands and Sunday’s tear streaked face and I knew I was on my knees with this heavy load on me.  I couldn’t take this by myself, and although Sunday was certainly there physically, I couldn’t tell her about my fear.  I couldn’t tell her that I was petrified that she was going to die.  I couldn’t tell her how awful her belly looked.  I couldn’t tell her that I loved her, but I didn’t know if I could love her enough to see her scars every single day, twice a day.  I couldn’t tell her.  I just couldn’t.  I was silent, weighted down and silent.

When we got home, I made sure Sunday was comfortable, and then I went into our bedroom and called my parents. I bawled my eyes out.  I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty creative and visionary type of person, someone who can see himself past a tough situation into a place of triumph.  This time, it wasn’t happening.  I was a changed person.  I wasn’t defeated, but I certainly needed some help.   I could only see her open belly and the potential for disaster.  I certainly knew what was at stake and it scared me silly. 

While I talked to my parents, I only remember what Dad said, mostly because I recognized that it was our first father-to-father conversation.  They both knew what was at stake, but Dad had the special position of father and husband in the conversation.  He knew what it was like to carry a load he couldn’t handle.  He knew what it was like to be frozen by the prospect of failure.  In that moment, he could connect with me, and he offered to lift that load.  I have no doubt in my mind that I could have physically fulfilled the promise I made to the doctor and to Sunday:  I would dress her wound every day, just like I said.  The conversation with Dad that night allowed me to fulfill that promise with the knowledge that he was there, understanding, supporting, lifting the weight off of my shoulders until I could move again.  He knew I was on my knees, and he knew that, being eight hours away, he couldn’t immediately do anything, but he also knew that I needed a lift. 

Right there, on the phone, he gave it to me.  He said, “We’re here.  And we can be there, if you need it.” 

In Sickness and in Health, Part I

Shortly after Jonah was born, I went back to school.  I was in graduate school, which means I taught classes in addition to the classes I took for my degree.

My cell phone rang at 12:15, when my 11:00 class let out.  The cell phone was there, in case an emergency came up.

It was Sunday.  The incision from the C-section had come open.  I remember getting dizzy and my chest tingling from fear.   I gripped the table I was walking past, and I really didn’t think I was going to make it out of the room without breaking down crying.

She confirmed how little she understood when she said, “There’s blood all over the place and I called the doctor.  We have an appointment at 2:00.” 

AN APPOINTMENT AT 2:00?!?! IS THIS DOCTOR CRAZY? 

I asked Sunday if she thought that an ambulance should be called or if I should meet her at the hospital.   At this point, she said the one thing that I never expected:  “No, just go to your next class and meet me at 2:00 at the doctor’s.”

GO TO YOUR NEXT CLASS AND MEET HER AT THE DOCTOR’S?!?!  IS THIS WOMAN CRAZY?!?!?! 

At this point I remembered something that I have consistently recognized at various points in our relationship:  Sunday’s a stud.  She looks emotional and fragile and all that malarkey, but that’s what all those sentiments are: malarkey.  She’s as tough as nails and she is the toughest when she needs it most.  

She was focused and I wasn’t. 

That drive from the campus to the doctor’s office was like moving through clear gelatin.  I didn’t hear anything, everything was a blur, and I really didn’t feel much, either.  I was scared to death.  I didn’t know what I was going to encounter when I got there.  Most of the stuff I imagined weren’t positive, and I have a pretty good imagination.

When I got there, I met her at the doctor’s waiting room and she looked just fine. 

We went into the doctor’s office—Sunday’s mother looked after Jonah, which was a huge help—and we met another doctor who was not our doctor.  I immediately began worrying again.

A little explanation.  My marriage to Sunday introduced me to a new concept:  the regularly-scheduled doctor’s appointment.  When I was a kid, we didn’t have those.  In fact, we didn’t have a “family doctor” which shocked Sunday when we got married. 

To me, “doctor” meant the guy in the blood-splattered white coat at the Emergency Room.  Unlike me, Sunday had scheduled doctor’s appointments when they were well.  My parents didn’t believe in that kind of medicine.  We went to the doctor when some thing was sticking out of our skin or when someone had lopped something off of someone else.   Obviously, Sunday was raised in a more civilized environment.  The doctor/patient relationship was more of an acquaintance for us, and an invested partnership for Sunday.  

I was used to having a stranger take care of me, but Sunday wasn’t.  She formed a bond, a relationship with the person providing her medical care, and I didn’t think this new guy was going to fly, mostly because he was new.  But, again, Sunday surprised me.  She seemed not the least bit nervous or uncomfortable. 

As the doctor looked at the bloody bandages and tape that Sunday had put on her belly to stop the bleeding, he began explaining how this type of thing happened all the time and that it wasn’t a big deal.  (Yeah right).  I have noticed when a doctor says that “this kind of thing happens all the time” he says it with the boredom of an expert. 

While he’s saying “this sort of thing happens all the time,” I am thinking, yes, this happens all the time.  So do violent verbal outbursts, mutilations, butt kickings and death—all of which may happen to the next doctor who tells me that something “happens all the time.”

The doctor started peeling off the layers that covered her wound, and everyone got quiet:  Sunday, the doctor, the nurse, and me.  When everything was uncovered, he did something I didn’t expect:  he opened her incision about four inches long.  Inside, there were dark patches where her blood had clotted.

The doctor broke the silence as he explained what happened.  The way he told it, the clotted blood inside her acted in the same way that frozen water acts inside a plastic bottle.  Simply put, the clots expanded so much that it burst her incision.  He pulled out clots that totaled the size of my palm and then he turned to me and said, “Are you ready to be nurse?”  I realized that this point was not the time to make a joke and ask for my sexy nurse costume, so I just said, “Yes.”  I have discovered that saying “yes” before I really know what I am agreeing to can lead me into some exciting, daring adventures.  This wasn’t one of those times.  This was a duty, not an adventure, a job, not a thrill.

Then I started running it through my head, “…in sickness and in health…”  

The Blowout: Your Child and Toxic Waste

Although the breastfeeding got hazardous every once in a while, this is the point in our story when things got dangerous.  For some reason, I never got the your-child-may-explode lesson from all that pre-natal reading I did.  No one says that little bitty babies, from time to time, poop with extreme force.  Seriously, there’s a learning curve here that no one talks about.

I thought I’d at least pass along these bits of information I’ve gleaned:

           

#1.  When you feed him about eleven, he’ll probably eat at three.  It is very important to change his diaper before putting him down at that eleven o’clock feeding, or there’ll be a larger-than-expected present for the person waking up at three.

            #2.  If you are the one feeding at eleven, and you don’t change him, and he has a blowout at three on the “other” person’s watch, be expected to be woken up to help with the cleanup.

            #3.  If you are woken up to help with the cleanup, don’t get grouchy.  In fact, if grouchiness is detected, cover your eyes and throat immediately, because retribution is coming.

Here is the story.  I was calmly and gently feeding my son at eleven—yes, it’ s a shock that my role is the one that occurs at eleven.  I was watching some late-night television and laughing as Jonah slipped off to sleep and I recall thinking, “He’s so peaceful.  I certainly don’t want to intrude on his slumber.” 

So, I made a terrible decision:  I didn’t change his butt. 

Now, here is the point where you may think, “Matt, you fool!  Why didn’t you change his butt?” 

Well, my response is, as always, “I forgot to change his butt.” 

Or, I could always reply, “His butt was asleep.” 

Or, "I didn’t want to wake his butt up.”  

At any rate, I was wrong.  His butt was very much awake and working overtime creating the slimy “refuse” that comes out of his very small body.  (Definition of refuse:  toxic, sticky substance that smells a little like my crazy neighbor’s house)  Before you jump on the “laugh at Matt” bandwagon, just remember:  there’s a huge faction of experts that recommend a sleeping baby NEVER be woken up.  Like the rhinoceros of the wilds of Africa, the sleeping baby is usually best left alone to continue his slumber.  (I have actually heard about a baby angrily charging his parents and inflicting massive bruising around the toes and ankles when he was woken up before he finished his nap.)

As for me, I didn’t wake him up and I gently placed him in his crib in his room, turned on the classical music CD that he likes to listen to, and I went to our room to snuggle with Sunday.

Fast forward about 3 1/2 hours.  Out of the haze of my dreams I heard, “Matt!  Get in here!”  I mumbled something about African Safaris and rolled over.  Then I heard it again.  “Matt!  Get in here!”  I woke up to realize that it was my lovely wife screeching at me.  I got up and ran into Jonah’s room, thinking that something had gone terribly wrong.  I opened the door and encountered a barnyard smell that brought me to one knee. 

Sunday was in there, ready for a fight.  At first glance, I thought she was going to hurt Jonah.  But then I saw the direction her anger was pointing, and it was pointing at me.  Yep, she was considering knocking me out right there in Jonah’s room.  At that moment, she seemed to look forward to guaranteeing that I was going to catch a few more moments of sleep, courtesy of her vicious right uppercut.

It took a while to talk her out of cutting me and convincing her to help with the crap-slick that Jonah had created in his room.  As we began the cleanup effort, I felt like we should begin by recarpeting and repainting the room.  It was that bad. I felt like someone had recreated the Exxon Valdez oil spill in this kid’s drawers and we were called on to wash the pollution off his little pelican.   

***As a warning to those people living in the Commonwealth of Kentucky, we have placed all linens and clothes in a hermetically sealed container, which will have a dangerous half-life of 100 million years.*** 

Breastfeeding: This One's Gonna Hurt

Breastfeeding.  If you didn’t know it, there are as many theories on breastfeeding as there are breasts.  While we were in the hospital, we got all the information we thought we’d need.  We just didn’t get any unified counsel on breastfeeding.  No sooner had one nurse left with a satisfied look on her face that she had dispensed the “correct” advice, the doctor would come in and tell us that the nurse was completely crazy.  We had the “Lactation Lady” come in and give us a tip, which would work in some cases, but not all.  Then, the nurse would come in with a helpful hint that her aunt used, and that would work for a while.  Then, the doctor would come in and give us another bit of information—it usually contradicted the other two pieces of advice—but it nevertheless worked, too.   Sunday and I are getting a degree in nippology.

We’ve come to the conclusion that one tidbit of information regularly handed out might be a bit of a lie.  Here it is:  breastfeeding shouldn’t hurt.  Logically, this just doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.  How’s this not supposed to hurt?  We can all imagine the pain and stress put on the nippological region as Jonah feeds.  (Definition of feeds:  When a youngster gnarls the end off of the protruding part of a woman’s chest, forcing her to reconsider this whole idea of “feeding”).  

I can’t imagine a way a man could experience breastfeeding firsthand, but I believe I have gotten really close with the following experiment. 

Here’s what you need.  (All male activities require a parts list.  Have you ever noticed that?)

1.  Heavy duty jumper cables.

2.  Large 4X4 pickup truck, large tires, mud flaps, Hemi.

3.  Your own keys to the large pick-up truck so that you can drive around, showing your buddies your new pick-up truck right after you’ve experienced breast feeding for yourself.

Step one:  Start the truck.  Hear the engine purr.  Try not to weep openly at the beauty of the truck.

Step  two:  Pop the hood. 

Step three:  Spend half an hour trying to find that little lever that allows you to open the hood fully.

Step four:  Attach red cable to “hot” post on battery.  Attach black cable to the other post.

Step five:  Rev the engine.  Again, try to squelch the urge to weep openly.

Step six:  Attach the other end of the cables to your nipples. 

Step seven:  It shouldn’t hurt.  If it doesn’t hurt, rip the cables off the nipples.

Step eight:  Repeat every 3-4 hours until you have formed a bond with the truck, beyond the love-at-first-sight weeping you did earlier.

From my perspective, that is what breastfeeding is like.  There’s cracking, leaking, and wailing.  There’s also bleeding, crying, and cringing—Sunday does most of that—and Jonah simply wants to be fed.  Often.  More than Sunday wants to feed him.  It’s a difficult balance.  We both know that we should love Jonah, but the pain involved doesn’t help matters much

Consequently, during this first few weeks of Jonah’s life, Sunday really didn’t like the little guy.  The way he was treating her, I don’t think he liked her either.  It was rough.

Now, before you start thinking about Sunday’s toughness here, I must rush to her defense.   Sunday and I both thought breastfeeding was a great idea.  She thought it was a terrific opportunity to provide Jonah with the perfect food and with the antibodies he needs as a newborn. Everybody wins.

We had read just about everything on raising a newborn, and almost everyone said that breastfeeding was the best, there is absolutely no way anyone in her right mind would choose the bottle, and that we’re darn near abusing our child if we even passed by the formula section of the grocery store.  Aside from the nutrition, we also understood that the breastfeeding would help bond mother and child, and provide a time for the family to grow together as a unit. 

Breastfeeding is serious stuff, not to be ignored.  If we happened to not have an immediate answer to the “breast or bottle” question, there are always those people who believe it is their duty to spread the gospel of guilt when it comes to whatever they believe in.  They usually warned us about the higher rates of ear infection, colds, lower intelligence, and all-around malaise for those poor street urchins who happened to have mothers who didn’t choose to breast feed. 

After a while, we were convinced that we’d get arrested or something if we bought a can of Infamil. 

On top of the guilt trips, one of Sunday’s “friends” tried to encourage her in her breastfeeding effort by telling her how wonderful the experience is and how she enjoyed every second of the time she breastfed.  To hear this “friend” tell it, she breastfed her kids until they could reach around and unhook her bra strap with one hand. 

Needless to say, the pressure was on.  When, in the second week, Sunday was considering a self-mastectomy because she wasn’t experiencing the wonder and thrill of breastfeeding, she asked her “friend” what was wrong.  That’s when “friend” fessed up.  In her enthusiasm to “encourage” Sunday, she may have told a stretcher or two.  I think she breast-fed her first kid for four weeks and her second a little longer.  (Definition of encourage:  lie.)    

A Fresh Hell: Getting up the Middle of the Night, Part II

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So what if I was a jellyfish in the middle of the night?  So what if my knees buckled at the sound of a baby crying?  So what if I didn’t know how to change a diaper.  So what?

After a quick second, though, I had gotten the courage. 

“HONEY.”  No, I didn’t say it that loud.  It was more of a “honey”  or even a “honey.”  No caveman yet, ok?

She opened her eyes.  I could tell they were open in the dark room for two reasons: 

1.  She was so tired, her eyelids creaked. 

2.  The red laser light of her anger flashed around the room. 

At this point, I was wondering why Jonah wasn’t crying anymore.  I was also wondering why I was in the room, waking up Sunday and causing a huge stinky commotion in the middle of the night. 

Sunday was wondering the same thing.

“I couldn’t get him to be quiet.”

“You haven’t been in there that long, have you?”

“You’ve been asleep.  You don’t know how long I’ve been in there.”

“Matt, he’s been screaming the whole time.  I’ve been awake.”  I looked at Jonah with silent blame.

“I don’t know how to get him to be quiet.”

“Try again.” 

This “try again” was said in about the same tone your mother uses when she says your first and middle names.  It’s a warning, a sign that all three names will soon be used and then a fresh hell will be unleashed in an unmerciful fury against which no one on the planet will be able to withstand. 

Sunday, the merciful, was giving me a warning. 

I didn’t get it.  “Well, I was hoping you’d help…”

“No.  I am going to sleep and you are going to take care of him.”

“Why?” 

Here is the most damning thing she’s said to me.  Ever.  “Because you said you would.”

That was it.  No cave man.  No Jell-O spine.  No quitting.  I said I would and I was going to have to do it.  Now, she was telling me:  “Suck it up and quit being a baby.”  I would have to engage in the difficult things. I had to wipe that stupid look off my face, walk back into Jonah’s room, and stay there until he passed out.   Not because I wanted to, or because Jonah needed it.  I was going to plug in, raise my IQ, and get to work because Sunday expected it of me.

As she said, “Because you said you would,” I had no response.  No reply.  Nada.  I stood there, in the dark, holding our baby with nothing to say.

You know what Sunday’s response to my silence was?  She rolled over and went back to sleep.  She was snoring by the time I had collected my thoughts well enough to realize Jonah was asleep, too. 

I’ve thought about that night for a number of reasons, and I’ve always asked why she confident enough to go back to sleep.  Some women would have badgered me until I gave up my will to live or simply refused to ask me to do anything from then on.

No, here are the reasons I believe Sunday rolled over and went to sleep.

1.  She decided that there could only be one exhausted parent in Jonah’s life, and I had been chosen to be that parent.

2.  She was not in the mood for my garbage.  This one’s important.  There are times when I absolutely need her to swallow a big shovel full of my attitude.  I need it.  There, in the middle of the night, was NOT one of those times.

3.  She knew that, if she took Jonah then, she would take him for the rest of his nocturnal scream-fests.  A kick from Jackie Chan couldn’t get me out of bed if there was a chance that she would end up taking him.

4.  She knew I could handle it.  No emotional melt-downs, no hierarchy of knowledge.  Neither one of us knew what we were doing, so it didn’t matter who was trying to get him to shut up.  Our ignorance was parallel and simultaneous.  (That means that we walked in oblivion, all at the same time.)

5.  She knew Jonah didn’t care which one of us got him back to sleep.  He just wanted to sleep.  And since Sunday was the one in the supine position, then I must have been the one who got him out of bed.  Thus, it was my job to put him back. 

6.  She knew I’d do it.  She knew it.  She didn’t have the fear that I’d forget, or I wouldn’t think it was important or that I’d whine until she woke up again.  She could trust me enough to take our small baby back to his room, lay him down, and run quickly away before he started crying again.  She knew I’d do it. 

Looking back on that night, I’m glad she left me holding the baby.  That meant she cared enough—about me AND about Jonah—to do that.

Stuff I'm not Equipped to Do: Getting up in the Middle of the Night

When we brought Jonah home, I was prepared to do anything.  I wanted to help, I wanted to be involved, and I felt myself developing a gritty determination to climb mountains, cross icy streams and wear a pork-chop dress while wrestling a grizzly bear to show I was a New Millennium Dad, one who is involved and engaged in the child rearing.  I was so pumped, I should have had theme music.  It was tremendous.

Then, the second week started. 

We had begun a system where I would feed Jonah the last feeding of the night and Sunday would get up in the middle of the night to feed him.  If Jonah woke up after I fed him, however, I was to take care of getting him to be quiet and go back to sleep, before he needs to eat in the middle of the night. 

The first time I got “the kick” I was out of the bed and ready for action.  For the uninitiated, “the kick” could range in ferocity from a gentle touch with an ice-cold big toe to a foot assault that Pele could not complete.  

At any rate, that first night found me ready to accomplish my task and be back in bed within the half hour.

Pitiful Amateurism.  Sweet Ignorance.   

I swaggered into Jonah’s room and began my efforts to calm him. 

First, I picked him up. 

Still screaming. 

I gently rocked him. 

Still screaming. 

I checked his diaper, turned on some music, and told some jokes. 

Still screaming. 

After about five minutes of this, I was on my knees begging this kid to be quiet. I pride myself on being a problem solver, one who can recognize the negativity in a situation and work to resolve it.  At the foot of my child’s crib, surrounded by stuffed animals in the shape of Snoopy, my iron will buckled.

I quickly resorted to bargaining, which, by the way, is one of steps a dying person takes when he tries to resolve the idea of dying too soon.  I tried everything—and I do mean everything—in the span of 6 ½ minutes and Jonah wasn’t having any.  It was embarrassing, but I was pleading with a person who was two weeks old to “quit being a baby and suck it up.”  I knew he wanted only one thing—or at least a choice of one or the other thing—and I wasn’t equipped to provide either one, if you know what I mean.  Anyway, my efforts failed miserably, so I decided to risk my life and ask Sunday for help. 

As I walked the short hallway back to our apartment with young Jonah, I felt a powerful change come over me.  I began to zone out Jonah’s cries, my face was contorting and I literally felt my IQ dropping about 25 points.  Yes, on that trip down the hallway, I was turning into an imbecile.  I was fully prepared to genuflect at Sunday's mighty, motherly powers and never attempt to fly where only mothers tread, or something like that.  I had given up.  Jonah had whipped me.  I couldn’t get him to shut up.  I couldn’t think, I couldn’t comfort him, I couldn’t cry louder than he could, and I couldn’t take it anymore. They were the worst ten minutes of my life, a sad commentary on the type of father I thought I’d be and the father I was now becoming.  My spine melted and it was replaced with instant Jell-O—sugar free nonetheless.

And it was only a fortnight after Sunday had gone through a pretty tough birth experience.  It was tougher than my birth experience, I can tell you that.

It was pitch black in the room, which is good, because it matched the color of my wicked soul.  I was about to take the step that could change our parenting.  I was choosing the full night’s sleep, the poop free hands, and the world of ignorant bliss.  I was choosing to be an old-school Dad in a new millennium.  I would get a job, make money and take care of my brood financially.  A cave man.  That’s what I’d be.  I’d be a cave man that continued to club things and eat them raw, trichinosis be damned.   I would be brave in other arenas, conquer other hills, and rebuild my spine in the outside world.  So what if I was a jelly fish in the middle of the night?  So what if my knees buckled at the sound of a baby crying?  So what if I didn’t know how to change a diaper.  So what?