Neither of us read each others' stories, I promise. Here's Peter's version of Friday/Saturday last week!
I had just come home on a normal Friday afternoon, and had
gone through my normal routine of going upstairs, changing out of my work
clothes, and talking with Alison. We had received a letter in the mail about
hour Home Owners Association and I was telling her I wanted to go to the
community pool that evening to see what was going on with the Association.
Through most of this discussion, Alison had been sitting on the floor with
Ella. As I was helping her off the ground so we could go downstairs for dinner,
I heard a small pop and noticed a quick look of what I took as pain flash
across Alison’s face. That look quickly turned into the happiest grin of
surprise I have ever seen on her face! It was at that point she told me her
water broke.
Those
first few moments after her water breaking were nothing but exciting and happy
for me! I couldn’t believe it was finally here. The day we would actually go up
to the hospital and come home with our son. I was so excited I’m sure I looked
nervous. I knew Alison had already been pretty dilated as of the previous
Tuesday, so I fully expected Alison to tell me her doctor wanted her to go
right up to the hospital. I guzzled some food and packed the remainder of our
bag and the car. Our trip up to the hospital was one of the longest drives of
my life. I began to worry a little that we wouldn’t even make it to the
hospital in time when Alison’s contractions became closer together (under 5 min
apart, each lasting almost a minute). I especially got nervous when she told me
“Go ahead and drive a little crazy”.
The
drive up there lasted only 27ish minutes. Once at the hospital everything
slowed down. The initial excitement for me had worn off, which left me with
only the nervous helplessness of waiting for nurses to gather info, admit us,
and for someone to give her the darn epidural already!! It is one thing to be
in pain, as a man you are expected to deal with it and show as little as
possible. It is entirely different and far more difficult to watch those you
love be in pain. This would be one of my toughest tests to date. I really
dislike feeling helpless, and that was exactly how I felt through most of the
night. All I could do was be present and comforting as possible for Alison. I
hope I did okay. Through most of the labor (just up to the epidural, and then
again through all the pushing) I was incredibly impressed and proud of Alison.
She handled the pain like a champ. Not once did she yell at me or curse me out
for getting her pregnant J.
She dealt with everything like a Zen Master! When the pain rolled in, she
calmed her breathing and focused…on what, I have no idea, but it worked. She
stayed calm through what I can only imagine was the greatest pain and
discomfort of her life!
At
around 4:30am on Saturday, we were told that it was probably going to be in our
best interest, and that of Colin, to go ahead with a C-section. I hadn’t really
even considered that to be a possibility up to this point. I just thought he
would join us in the traditional fashion. When I realized it wasn’t likely for
this to happen my only thoughts were about making sure Alison and Colin were
both as safe as they could be. In this case, it happened to be the C-section
that made it possible for them both to be safest. From here I became even more
nervous. Not just for Alison going off (alone at first) to be cut open, or for
Colin to be pulled out of his Mother’s stomach into a strange sterile room with
lots of doctors in what looked like welder’s masks, but also a little for me.
Would I see something in there that would make me pass out? Would I fail my
wife in my one task as the father? In her time of greatest fear (doctors
reaching inside her body while she lay there awake and aware...not feeling
anything, but still aware), would I pass out and leave her to deal with it all
alone?
Turns
out my love and fear for my wife and child trumps my inability to stomach
looking at blood without getting woozy. I definitely saw some things in that
operating room I would rather forget, but probably never will. I’m pretty sure
at one point one doctor handed the other a crowbar…well, it looked like a
crowbar to me. Thankfully we were at a
great hospital with some wonderfully talented and experienced doctors. They
walked me into the O.R. a little before 6am, began the procedure at 5:57am, and
our son was yanked out at 6:04am. Yes, yanked. Alison had pushed long enough
and hard enough that Colin was a little stuck down in her pelvis. Just before
yanking, one of the doctors across from me told Alison she would feel a little
pressure on her chest. At that point, the doctor locked her hands flat on
Alison’s chest, locked her elbows straight, and pushed down on her as if she
was beginning some great feat of acrobatics. If I had looked under the table,
I’m confident that doctor’s feet would not have been on the ground.
I have
never felt such relief as I did when I finally heard Colin cry out the first
time. I am still a little emotional thinking about that moment. Our son, whom I
had only known as a growing stomach that occasionally kicked at me was finally
out, free, and ready to meet the world. The doctors passed him over to the NICU
team that had come down for the procedure and they commenced cleanup. I didn’t
get a good look at him at first, choosing to focus on Alison right away to make
sure she was okay (and also to make sure I didn’t pass out). Alison then gave
me permission to go over to Colin and take some pictures. After some time, I
looked back over to Alison and all my relief and joy was pushed down to make
room for a little more fear and guilt. Fear that Alison was still lying there
with her insides open to the world, and guilt for the fact that here I was
gushing over our son while my wife still lay there unable to see him,
shivering, and still plenty scared. It was at this point I truly wished I could
be in two places at once. Part of me needed to be with Colin, to let him know
he had come into a world where he was loved and would be cared for. The other
part needed to be with Alison, to comfort her and let her know she would be
just fine and not alone.
We
finally got a chance to go back to our room with Colin riding shotgun in
Alison’s big old bed. I hope I never forget the look of happiness and relief on
Alison’s face when her son was set down next to her head for the ride back to
the room. Just like his Dad, Colin needed to spend a night up in the NICU under
his tanning bed lights to help his little body acclimate to this crazy world. I
felt surprisingly calm about this process, mostly because I knew I had gone
through it and come out just fine. There was still some fear of something else
unknown happening, but mostly I was just so dang happy that I was finally a
Father.
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