Medal of Honor

I had the sniffles, and was oohh so tired. We were just getting over the Flu, and I needed a good dose of NyQuil to help me get to sleep. Glug glug glug... down the hatch the scary green stuff went, and a few minutes later I started feeling blissfully drowsy.

A couple of hours later I was roused by a light in my face as my wife stumbled back from the bathroom. "I'm having contractions," she said.

"Whut?", I slurred through the NyQuil, trying to sit up. "Are they bad?"

"My water broke, but the contractions aren't that bad yet."

"What??? Your water broke!" Now I was wide awake, but the NyQuil was trying its best to pull me back, back into a land where I didn't have to worry about stuff like... this.

After a few moments of discussion we decided to rest a while longer, until the contractions decided to get moving, and I rolled over and let the NyQuil do its thing. Bleeehhh... within minutes I was fast asleep, tongue hanging out of my head, to not wake until more than an hour later when my wife trumpeted loudly that it was indeed time. I leapt from my bed and took a quick shower whilst Monica called our Pastor and his wife, who were "on call" to keep our kids for us when the labor bell struck (bless their souls forever!).

And the labor bell was ringing with a vengeance. By the time Bro. and Sis. Dale arrived I was getting nervous, and pacing just a tad. Particularly because my wife was taking her dear sweet torturous time getting ready! I guess Bro. Dale could see I was a little, er... tense, and tried to help keep my head screwed on tight by offering suggestions such as...

1) "You might want to have her coat ready."
2) "You might want to warm up the car."

...to which I responded intelligently, "Oh yeah right right", and scurried away. The NyQuil had me floating around on puffy white clouds, so I like to imagine I wasn't quite as goofy as I could have been. Nyuk.

Into the car we capered, and away we went, with many bags packed and many things forgotten. When we arrived at the hospital we went into the emergency entrance and as soon as they told us where to go Monica was seized with a contraction that spelled out "Let's hurry, the hour is upon us", in a most direct way. The receptionist said, "Do you need a wheelchair?" "Yes, that would be wonderful." And away we scampered down the hall, Monica in the wheelchair, and me limping along trying to push the thing down an endless corridor with one hand, while carrying what seemed like a dozen bags in the other. On and on the halls stretched, Monica silently laboring while I narrowly missed cleaning people, doctors, and patrons of the hospital with the front wheels. Move people!

But I was cool. I was floating on clouds. I had taken a full dose of NyQuil the evening before. So when I finally found the Maternity nurse's station I tilted my head up and said, "Yo! Word to the Nurses! I've got Ms. Monica Black here, ready for delivery." OK, I didn't say exactly that, but it made the story funner didn't it?

"I'm sorry Mr. Black, but all of our rooms are full." My eyes got rather large until she said, "so we'll have to put you in one of our newly remodeled rooms, just freshly painted. Will that be all right?"

"Well, yeah it'll be alright!"

And wow what a room! Wood walls (mahogany or something), a huge tub for water births, and a large spacious area for the man of the house to do his pacing. Our last two babes were delivered at Northside Hospital, the infamous baby factory of the South where practically all of Atlanta delivers their chilluns, and this room was nicer than the Northside birthing room had been 4 years ago (this time around we were delivering at the much smaller but more natural-birth inclined North Fulton Regional Hospital).

I whipped out my trusty electric hand-held percussion massager, plugged it in, and went to work on Monica's back during each contraction. Allow me to provide some unsolicited advice: if you're pregnant you must get one of these things. Monica shut her eyes and didn't make a sound for several hours, although a few times she did motion frantically for me to target my efforts more appropriately.

And then the fun started. It was determined that Kaylee was breached, and Would Monica like an epidural? She was doing so well with the massager and some extra-spiffy pain medication they had given her to "take the edge off" that for a while she was undecided, but finally decided since Kaylee was breach it would probably be a good idea to go ahead and get one.

I don't like epidurals. Perhaps because I've read about them. And I looked at a diagram of one. Don't ever do that. They actually slide a wire thingy into the space between the spinal column and the backbone, and a little slip of the hand or whatnot can cause all manner of problems (better left unsaid). Understandably, the anaesthetist always instructs the patient to be perfectly still while they do the dirty deed, which is pretty difficult to do when you're in labor. Much less at the exact moment of birth. Which is what happened to Monica as she hunched over, trying in vain not to push while the anesthetist urged her not to move! No one was ready for this! They had checked her 10 minutes ago and she was "only" 8 centimeters (10 = baby is here) dilated! Later Monica said she didn't know how she did it. I was in torture and I was just an observer.

Mercifully the procedure finished and the midwife and a few nurses prepared to wheel her into the OR in case Kaylee needed to be delivered by Cesarean. The midwife was holding Zoe's head in, trying to keep her from being born (yeah, really). My eyes were like saucers. One of the nurses said, "Everything is fine Dad" as they wheeled my wife down the hall and away. Someone tossed me some blue surgical garments and a facemask and told me to put them on. I could hear my wife crying out somewhere down the hall.

How do you get these shoe covers on?

You mean this face mask has two strings I have to tie?!?

When I got to the door of the OR I could see my wife on the OR table. She did not look comfortable. The doctor was yelling to a horde of nurses and preparing quite a nasty array of surgical implements. A nurse scurried past me and said, "You wait over there, past the double doors. They don't have your wife ready yet." I was thinking, "Why does that matter? I'm her husband!", but I was in a super-compliant and dazed frame of mind, and so I wandered obediently over to where I was directed. As soon as I passed the doors they closed automatically behind me. And there I stood, waiting and listening to the sounds of labor. Chaos and confusion.

God, please let everything be OK.

The doors swung open and a nurse said, "You can come on now". I wasn't quite prepared for the sight of my wife laid out on an operating table, bright surgical lights shining down, with her arms stretched out on boards to either side, rather like she was being crucified. A baby was crying and several nurses were busily cleaning it up. I was ushered to a stool by her side and grabbed her hand and she looked at me with a pained expression, but her mind was clearly occupied elsewhere.

The doctor was still yelling orders. Get me a tube of this, a thingy of that, and call so and so, and do it now! He turned to me and proceeded to explain that Baby B (Kaylee), who would be born breached (feet first), might not be breathing, and that CPR may need to be performed. My eyes got big(ger) and a What's gonna happen next? expression crept across my face. When life delivers excitement it brings it in spades don't it?

At each contraction the doc pulled a little more on the feet that were emerging, slowly rotating a little at a time while explaining the procedure to the midwife standing by. Moments later Kaylee popped out, held upside down by her ankles, as white as a sheet and spattered with blood. Her eyes were closed, she was perfectly still, and it didn't look like she was breathing. I wasn't either. Time slowed to a crawl, and I could hear my heartbeat like a drum in my ears.

But no one seemed concerned, and a few moments later I heard a little cry. She was whisked away to be warmed and cleaned up by the flood of nurses swarming about, and a relieved doctor continued shouting orders while the room was slowly vacated.

Someone handed me a baby and I stood their dazed. It was just after 7:00 AM, but adrenaline had cleared my head of any leftover NyQuil. The other baby lay under the heat lamps crying, but my hands were already full. I wondered how we would ever be able to handle two at once.

After the birth of each of our children I get a burst of renewed respect for my wife. Childbirth is traumatic enough, but then comes the agony of nursing for the first few weeks, and then sacrifices for years to come: keeping a watchful eye on free-range two year olds, homeschooling, disciplining, counseling, and on and on.

She should get a medal or something.

Mayhaps one day if the Lord tarries, she'll see her children all grown, walking and talking the Christian walk and talk, raised on home-cooked meals and healthy Bible teaching, and she'll discover her medal. A medal you can only get by raising kids for the Lord. Something she can look on with secret pride and delight; a reward no other mother can share.

Her children.