by Josh Conley
The familial cluster huddles near The Door on well-worn sofas. One mother works feverishly to finish
another baby blanket, while the other mother sits with a neglected magazine on her lap. The dads sit
stoically side by side. One wrings his hands while the other taps out an unheard bassline with his foot,
their eyes fixated on a wildebeest migration on the TV. The brothers update their Facebook statuses
again and re-check college football scores. Aside from the occasional, limp reaction to the TV glow, no
one talks. They haven't eaten or slept. Their necks are sore from craning around to see who opened
The Door this time. And then...
I walk in. Their mouths drop open in anticipation as I beam from ear to ear.
"It's a boy," I say. They rush over for a multi-family group hug, and everyone's eyes fill with tears as I
congratulate the newly-anointed uncles and grandparents. Then I walk them in to meet the first of a
new generation.
Maybe I watch too many 80s movies or was just plain naïve, but I really thought that's how it would
happen. Never mind the bi-coastal families and other logical oversights, I was just sure this was my
destiny.
My wife woke up at 6 a.m. one morning with cramps. This was not unusual at 32 weeks pregnancy;
we had read all about Braxton Hicks contractions and I was chalking it up to those and trying to return
to dreamland. She got up and nearly peed the bed. This, also, was not a huge revelation to my semi-
comatose self. We had been meaning to get a waterproof cover for the mattress after a friend told us
she ruined hers in this manner. But we still had plenty of time to take care of this. I mean, where was
the fire? We still had two months, right?
Despite being a marathoner, my wife isn't exactly renowned for her pain tolerance, so we waited a
bit. Our birthing class teacher had stressed to us to be sure you were in labor before coming to the
hospital; otherwise, you're likely to make a half-dozen trips in vain. My wife called the doctor, who was
utterly non-committal about us coming to the hospital. She then called her mom, who convinced her
we should go. I grabbed a watch and tried to count the time between these "contractions," but it was
complicated by the fact that we hadn't gotten to that chapter in the birthing book yet! She was still in
a lot of pain, and it seemed to be getting worse. What if something really was wrong? Going through
a miscarriage at seven weeks was hard enough; I couldn't imagine it at seven months. We got dressed
and got in the car.
An excruciating half-hour in morning rush traffic later, we arrived at the hospital and went to the ER.
They sent us up to the birthing floor and got us in a room. There was mass confusion--we didn't know
what to tell them, there didn't seem to be a doctor around, and the more my wife screamed, the slower
people seemed to be moving.
A nurse came in with a barrage of questions. How many weeks are you? Did your water break? How
long have the contractions been strong? What is your pain level, on a scale of one to ten? This was not
helpful. We wanted answers, not questions!
Finally a resident came in and took a look down there. Her eyes showed a bit of panic, despite her
consistent reassurances.
What did that mean? Was that a lot or a little? Was she in labor? What was going on?
"I can feel your baby's head. You're going to give birth."
What? Now?! No no, there must be some mistake, doctor. We were just here for cramps. That baby
is still cooking in there. We have two more months, don't you know? We don't have a stroller or a car
seat or diapers let alone a finished nursery! And I can't even spell Lemaze (sp?)! Isn't there something
you can do? Some way to affect the timespace continuum in our favor? Or at the very least, the finest
pharmaceuticals available?
"I'm going to give you a steroid shot for your baby's lungs. We're going to try and delay labor as long as
possible. We may be able to get another 48 hours."
That's funny, doctor, because I was thinking more like 48 days, not hours. Okay, regroup--at least we
have 48 hours; I can call the family, go get a change of clothes, buy some diapers. We still hadn't seen
a doctor yet, though, and I was definitely holding out for a second opinion. Where was she? I tried to
remain calm while my wife writhed in pain, but this proved impossible. It was exacerbated by the post
office-like atmosphere--lots of people moving around, seemingly doing nothing, when all you want to
do is pick up your package!
I went out and pestered whoever I could find until the doctor finally arrived. She was a cool customer,
as doctors tend to be, especially considering the news she was about to deliver.
"This is the baby's butt, not its head." Great, a butt-head--not the best start for the baby's self-esteem,
I mused. I was already borderline delirious, but she quickly snapped me out of it.
"Prep the delivery room," she said. What?! was suddenly my new go-to phrase. What about the 48
hours? It's only been 32 weeks, didn't you read the chart? Can you deliver a baby at 32 weeks? And
just because maybe you can, like driving a car backwards, does that make it a good idea? What are the
chances of survival? And assuming it does survive, is it going to be impaired or hampered or delayed? I
didn't know where to start, but my wife's kick reminded me it was time for my rehearsed speech, in my
best John Wayne.
"Okay, listen up, doc. We want a natural birth. No pain meds, no epidurals, and no funny business."
"Oh, no," the doctor said patiently. "This baby is breech. We're going to have to do a C-section right
now."
And just like that, our birthing journey took a serious detour. We had packed and prepped for the
bumpy bus ride--long and uncomfortable, but worth the scenery--only to be reassigned to the two-
hour mundane flight. My wife was upset, but it wasn't really presented as an option, so that made it
easier somehow. Perhaps it was even a blessing in disguise.
The rest of the birthing story pretty much was how I had imagined, except for one awkward question
from the resident, as they removed the baby.
"Oh, do you want to know what it is?" Nah, that's okay. We've waited this long, we might as well wait a
few more months and really milk this gender-neutral thing for all its worth. Yes, please, tell me! It was
a boy. His name is Elliot, and he was a whopping 4 pounds, 9 ounces--a little bigger than a football, but
with nipples. I don't know why the nipples caught me off-guard, but they did. And just like that, our
lives would be forever changed.
Now it's an eerily hollow feeling leaving the hospital a parent without a child, and certainly not how
you envisioned things playing out. The next four weeks were a bleary, numbing kind of limbo that I
can best describe as part-time parenting. Premature babies stay in the NIC until they can master that
elusive 'Suck, Swallow, Breathe' technique and otherwise pass muster. And while sleeping through the
night and optional diaper-changing sound nice, it's impossible to take any joy from them knowing your
newborn is sleeping alone at the hospital, the only reality he has known.
But rest assured that the grueling routine of the hospital visits, the highs and lows of the nurses'
updates, the guilt of leaving every time, and the general sense that you've somehow already failed as
parents will all pass. It won't be fun or easy and there are very few people who can truly empathize
with you. And though nobody likes to do it, this is the time to ask for help. Lean on your family and
friends and never refuse an offer. If you don't know what to ask for (and most people don't know what
to offer), ask for food. Having meals come to our home to eat or freeze was the greatest gift people
gave us.
Then one day it will all be worth it. I'll never forget the feeling I had of leaving the hospital on that brisk
autumn afternoon. We'd just been told our son could come home and I was walking to the car to pull
it up and drive my family home for the first time together. I felt a tension in my shoulders I didn't even
know was there release. The wait was over and the weight was lifted. Breathing real air and the car
ride were just two of so many firsts to come his way, and I wanted to experience them all with him. For
the first time, I genuinely felt like a father.
copyright (c) 2011, FatherMag.com
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