The Birth of William

 

I'm sitting in a room watching a monitor with a rolling green graph. A large wave periodically moves down the horizontal axis.

"Ok," I tell my wife, Christine.

She grimaces in anticipation.

"This really hurts," she says pragmatically.

The second baby is far less scary, but Christine assures me it's just as painful. I tell her that's because of that apple fiasco in the garden. She laughs, but only briefly as another wave makes it's way down the axis. I wonder what the units are on the graph. The horizontal axis is clearly time. The vertical is probably "misery."

When our first was born I was scared, tired and relieved in that order. Christine was the usual shambles a woman is after giving birth. She had a bunch of people tending to her. As they wheeled Baby #1 out of the birthing room, a nurse said,

"Hey dumb ass. You go with him."

My loyalty was still with my wife. I had to be told to follow the new addition. I don't think she really said, "dumb ass," but that's what I heard. The nurse person in her goofy, mismatched clothes brought the two of us to a quiet, dimly lit room with a rocking chair. I held Baby #1, minutes old, and told him about his room, our John Deere tractor, the horses that graze around the fields in front of our house. I even told him his name, "Aidan." He opened his eyes and stared at length into mine. I was sure he was putting a face to the muffled voice he heard over the past months.

I'm in the delivery room with Christine who clearly would like to get this over with. Baby #2 is moments away. A few weeks early which raised some concern, Baby #2 is big so he must be ready otherwise he would've stayed put. That makes sense. I'm prepping for my repeat performance. This time I know the drill. I'm experienced. I see him for the first time. He looks identical to the first. It all unfolds on script even though we were off schedule.

They measure and weigh him and assess his Apgar score then everything abruptly changes. There's a distinct distress when a newborn is struggling to breathe that reflects in the Apgar and scrambles the medical professionals. Baby #2 is swaddled, briefly shown to Christine, who is told he needs to be transferred to the "Neonatal Intensive Care Unit." NICU for short. I inform the nurse making all the decisions that I am going with him. She's surprised then hesitant. I insist.

I'm on my way to the NICU when in the hospital hallway I suddenly feel very cold. I wasn't going to sit in a chair and rock Baby #2 in a dimly lit space. I wasn't going to tell him the color of his room or about his brother. As I watched him convulse with tiny gasps of air, I thought that he doesn't know his name. The nurse uses her badge to get us into the NICU.

A swarm of medical personnel surround Baby #2, hooking him up to monitors, an IV, tubes in his nose to help him breathe. I'm standing up against the wall, out of the way. A nurse shows me a new screen for me to stare at. She points to a number, telling me what it represents, pulse oxygen which is too low. I'm transfixed on the display as the number rises and falls.

How could this happen? He was four weeks early but seven pounds, eight ounces, bigger than the first. Not your idea of a preemie. We were at my best friend's house for dinner which was luckily near the hospital. Christine felt something coming on so she wisely chose not to eat. Woman have instincts especially when it comes to life. Men, we're all about basic things like mowing the grass and keeping the furnace running. Women ensure the species flourishes while men ensure the lawn looks good. Back in the NICU, I convince a nurse to let me hold him.

"Look, I watch a lot of Lifetime. I know he knows my voice. If I put my hands on him, his stats will all go up," I say authoritatively.

She is reluctant to let me get my man mitts in there but eventually agrees. After scrubbing my hands, I surround Baby #2 then check the monitors. Surely all his vitals will soar. Nothing happens.

"He's struggling to breathe," the young medical professional says.

"What about the power of touch?"

"Look dumb ass. You should go check on your wife."

That's a good idea. By now it's late into the night, and most of the hospital is dark and quiet. I'm making my way through the dimly lit hallways as the lights pop on. I'm following in reverse the yellow line path I noticed earlier to get back to Christine. She had jettisoned her contact lenses before delivery so she couldn't see past the end of her bed, but when I finally find her, she somehow knows it's me.

"He's doing fine," I say.

"Don't lie to me Robert!"

I should've known she'd have an instinct for that too.

"He's having trouble breathing."

It's comforting to be with her. In Baby #2's room I was helpless, in the way. At least here I could hold her hand and reassure her. After a while I went back to the NICU. I'm walking the long walk down the dark hallways which are eerily quiet. I'm buzzed into the NICU. As I near Baby #2's space, a nurse intercepts me.

"We're taking blood, and your presence upsets the nurses so wait here."

I dutifully wait for the blood draw to be over. Now I'm pretty sure I look like an unshaven zombie, and the medical staff just wants me to find a place to sleep it off so they can do their job. I sit in a comfortable chair, but I can't sleep. The nurse returns,

"There's no change."

"I want to see him."

She escorts me to Baby #2. He's laying on his back with tubes and wires emanating from his body. I sit at the edge of a chair and watch the pulse ox wave up and down. On the way up, I'm elated. Down, I worry. I want to rid him of the tiny convulsions, but this was something that I could not do. An hour passed before I make my way back to Christine.

"Still no change."

The crushing weight of my words is evident on her face. She's attempting to express milk so that her baby will have something to eat. There is nothing more comforting than seeing a baby taking his mother's milk. I know some people are squeamish about breastfeeding in public, but you have to understand that's what those things are made for, and if that bothers you, get a warm glass of bovine milk and a fig newton, sit in the corner and shut your garbage chute.

Christine is tired and falls asleep. I'm talking to her quietly as she rests. I whisper to her that he will be fine and will be ready for her when she wakes. He will give his mother a big hug, and ask her what his name is. After sometime, I returned to the NICU. I don't pay attention to the yellow line on the floor and get lost in the dark hospital. Alone and tired, I wander about looking for a sign or the yellow path. Eventually I regain my bearings and am buzzed into the NICU. I'm met by the the nurse who brought him here from the delivery room. She's smiling as she ushers me to Baby #2.

"Look!" she says

He is sleeping on his side, breathing normally. They backed down on the oxygen as his lungs cleared. He's calm and content. I sit next to him and just watch his tiny chest move rhythmically up then down. I check the monitor. His pulse ox is nearly normal. My senses are heightened to everything around me. Although tired, I can't sleep until I know this state is permanent. A long time passes before I have the sense to return to Christine.

I'm entering her room. Christine is awake and being attended to by a nurse. I'm smiling broadly.

"He's sleeping comfortably."

"Really!" she exclaims.

"Yes."

"I want to go see him, but there's no one who can push a wheelchair on duty this early."

"There's one in the hallway. I'll go get it."

"You can't do that, dumb ass. You're not qualified to push a wheelchair," the nurse says.

"I'm going now," Christine declares. 


Aidan Meets his Brother

Now Christine delivered Baby #2 by an unscheduled Cesarean section five hours earlier. She said her insides felt like they would spill over if she wasn't careful. That doesn't stop her. She flips the covers from her legs then swings her feet carefully off the bed. She looks to me.

"You coming?"

I nod hesitatingly.

"Well get over here and help me."

Truth is, I'm waiting for the nurse person in her silly, conflicting flower pattern outfit to tell her to get back into bed, but no one stops a mother on a mission to feed her baby. I help her to her feet, and Christine begins shuffling along. We follow the yellow line to the NICU and are buzzed in. We pass several abandoned wheelchairs which I'm incapable of properly operating so my wife, who had recently birthed another human being, walks instead. I'm sure the hospital's insurance company, the authors of this bureaucratic nonsense, is unaware that any of this is taking place.

The medical professionals in the NICU treat an appearance by a birthmother like a sacred event. There's none of this "hang ten while we finish our sharp needle procedure." A nurse guides Christine to her child. She sees him for the second time. All the tubes and wires are upsetting. I immediately start my TEDx explanation of the data monitor, and how he is actually doing way better.

"Look, his pulse ox is spot on," I note.


Christine and William

Christine sits down, unable to hold him as the sun outside the window lifts into a new day. I need to take Aidan to school. We left him at our friend's house when Christine went into labor. After picking Aidan up and filling everyone in, I spirit him to school only to repeat the story, then I make my way back to the hospital. When I arrive at the NICU, Christine is feeding him.

"He knew just what to do," she says.

I'm relieved. That was the toughest five hours of my life. I don't know how parents soldier through extended stays in the NICU. It was exhausting.

"They're talking like he'll be out of here tomorrow," Christine continues.

When he finishes, I ask,

"Can I hold him?"

Christine hands off the awkward mess of tubes, wires and baby. My arms surround him, them I softly say.

"Hey little boy. We have a room all ready for you. It's green. We have lots of trains. You have a big brother. I think you'll like living with us."

Christine smiles.

"Oh, yeah, one other thing. Your name is William."

Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 16, 2017, one day after William's sixth birthday and three quarters through the year of the blog.

The Birth of a Family

My wife, Christine, and I remained childless for seven years after we were married. She never spoke, even once, about children, until we nearly completed a renovation of our first home. Out of the blue, she said,

William and Aidan

"Now that we have a house with all these rooms, we should fill them up with, you know, people."

"You mean babies?" I asked.

"Of course, what did you think?" she responded.

I was relieved that she was open to the idea of children. For a moment, I thought she was talking about homeless people.
 

Now, a routine doctors visit led to a test which came back with very bad news. A condition my wife had meant that we were not likely to conceive without help. It was one of the two times in life I saw my wife cry. Even if we were not going to have children on our own, I wanted a turn at bat. Thirty days later, much to the puzzlement of the medical experts, she was pregnant.

With a baby on the way, I started reading articles about how it's normal for some men to take a few months to love their newborns. We don't carry them so their birth is a step change for us. I remember thinking,

Aidan

"Who is this stranger coming to invade my life with my wife?"

Three weeks ahead of schedule, I was painting the oil tank when Christine went into labor. We had gone through several false labors including one trip to the hospital, all resulting in a gentle pat on the head as we were sent home. Now, I was covered in a thick mess of black, tarry paint. We had a routine appointment scheduled for the next day so I said with a certain conviction,

"I'm going to clean up, and we're all going to bed. We're gonna ignore this, and we'll deal with it in the morning."

Even though I hadn't a clue what I was talking about, it worked. The labor pains vanished. All three of us went to sleep. The next morning, just before we left for her appointment her water broke. Now, for those of you in the medical profession, mid wives, and with a stitch of common sense, you all know when the flood gates open, where do you go? To the hospital, dumb ass. We had this appointment in our heads so that's where we went. When we arrived, we were early so we sat in the waiting room. I looked to Christine and said,

"I think we can go right up there because, you know, you're in labor."

Seemed logical to Christine so she did that pregnant walk up to the counter, then stated,

"I'm in labor."

The nurse receptionist person who was wearing that odd mix of goofy medical person clothes said,

"Sure, you are, honey. Go sit down. We'll call you in a minute."

She sat back down next to me.

"What did they say?" I asked.

"They told me to sit down."

Now, I'm not a doctor, but I've watched a lot of medical shows on TV so I was pretty sure we should just go right in. I went up to the counter and said,

"My wife's in labor, and her water broke."

So they reluctantly agreed to take her in right away. The nurse person in her mismatched outfit of scrubs and flower patterns escorted us into the examination room very slowly and casually, but things changed once she examined Christine.

"Oh my God! You are in labor and your water broke. You have to get out of here!" exclaimed nurse person.

Nurse person looked directly at me and scolded, "Why didn't you take her straight to the hospital dumb ass?"

I don't think she said "dumb ass," but that's what I heard. She did have a valid question and getting more valid by the minute. I wasn't going to go over the earlier, multiple labor scares that were dismissed on the phone. Sure, it made sense now that nurse person was giving me the stink eye, but I didn't have time to discuss all that. I was collecting up my wife to drive carefully to the hospital. On the way out of the office, nurse receptionist person hit me up for a copay. In the medical business nothing is ever so urgent that we all can't stop, calm down, pull out a valid credit card and pay up. Turned out Christine had another twenty hours of labor to go. We watched the finale to Survivor, Pearl Island, Season 7, and Home Alone through it all. It was a long day and a longer night.

When Aidan finally arrived, I held him as I sat in a rocker and told him about all sorts of things we would do, the color of his room, the big tractor we had, the horses in the fields surrounding our house. Christine needed minor surgery six weeks later to correct that condition and that was that.

When Aidan was an infant, daycare wasn't for us. The idea of someone else comforting our child didn't work for my wife. I never expressed my view because she was having no part of it, and that was that too. We had picked up a lot of relevant education the seven years we were childless, and it worked out for both of us. She became a top person at a Fortune 500 company, and I had a good job in the software industry. When it came time to decide who would leave their job, the choice was obvious. My paycheck looked like a banking error compared to hers. So I left my exciting career as a software engineer for a minimum wage job, that is, nothing per hour.

If this was my life now, I was going to learn how to be the best at it. I got me a subscription to Parenting magazine. There was a wealth of information in that periodical on how to get stains out of things. There was also tips on how to get your kids to say "please" and "thank you." There was an article about "Toddler Tantrum Tactics." There were other pieces about recovering from pregnancy, what to do about postpartum syndrome, and taking the all important "me time." It didn't take me long to figure out that Parenting magazine was focused on moms. Just the moms. They didn't even hide it. Many of the articles were entitled "What Moms Do About..." or "Moms Speak Openly About..." They might as well write an article entitled, "Dads, Who Gives a Shit?"

I read a piece about my post pregnancy body, how it has changed, and how my spouse should accept me the way I am. I looked in the mirror. Looked the same to me. I wasn't into warm baths with candles and chamomile tea to steady my nerves either. My "me time" usually involved some ongoing house renovation replete with multiple trips to the hardware store. Apart from getting a stain out of the carpet, I didn't find the magazine all that useful.

I discovered that most of what you need to know about keeping a child warm, fed and secure is already prewired. It was actually pretty easy and a lot of fun. Much easier and way more rewarding than nodding off in some status meeting listening to Ted explain why he's six weeks behind an eight week project that he's been "working his ass off" on. Or sitting in a cube farm near the men's room and mentally noting that half your male colleagues don't use the sink after you hear the toilet flush. When my little boy was sleeping, I spent my time thinking. Taking care of a baby is a lot like being on sabbatical. You have no deadlines, no pending presentations, no projects to complete. It was very freeing. Leaving work offered the opportunity to freely think like I did when I was a kid. I still had some demands on my time, but holding that boy, making him laugh, feeding him, pushing him on a swing, even changing his diaper, never seemed like work to me.

And so I freed my head which started me thinking about recursion, a computer science concept in algorithms. I would do my heavy thinking while mowing the lawn. This led to a paper and a presentation at a prestigious software conference. My wife flew out to meet me in California after a well received presentation. As the saying goes "absence makes the heart grow fonder." Now, at the time we were in our 40's, and it didn't look like anymore children were likely. You can plan your life, but you can't plan your family. Sometimes, it just works out the way it does. Many women lose babies, and when you're an older parent, you just don't have time to try again. I'm fond of saying that I'm glad my wife and I listened to the doctors when they said we couldn't have anymore children. No more worrying about birth control. But life breaks free. Life expands to new territories. Painfully, maybe even dangerously. Life finds a way. There it is.

On that trip to California after a successful presentation in which I published the concepts surrounding my now world famous algorithm, Christine, against all the odds, biology and the cosmos, became pregnant once more. I guess when you think about it, your body doesn't know how many times it's been around the sun. So many people were simultaneously dumbfounded and happy for us. They all figured we went to a fertility specialist due to our forty something age. One friend said,

"We know how much hard earned money you invested in this, the sacrifices. We're so happy for you."

She actually used that term, "sacrifices." Christine was patient zero at her OBGYN. She was the first patient they had seen when they opened their office twenty five years ago when they were all fresh out of medical school. When she called to tell them she was pregnant, the nurse receptionist person put her on hold, then went to find her doctor. He took over the call,

"Are you sure?" her doctor asked.

"I'm sure of it," Christine announced.

Incredulous, her doctor yelled into the office, "Hey Ted! You'll never guess who's pregnant?"

"Margret Thatcher," Ted summoned.

"No, Christine Languedoc!" he exclaimed.

No pregnancy since Jesus elicited so much joy from so many people than our small, random miracle that was on his way. I used to ask Christine what she was going to do with all that frankincense and myrrh? She warned me not to tempt fate, but I knew we were already past that. Christine became the poster mom for women trying to have babies in their 40's.

I said to a friend once that kids are great because they ensure you won't be alone when you're old.

"There's no guarantee they'll come back," he schooled.

In our case, they wouldn't have left yet.

This time around, I was very concerned that I couldn't love a second child as much as the first. It just didn't seem possible. I wondered,


William

"Who was this stranger coming to invade my life with my wife and son?"

My friend, Bill, and his wife, Julia, have two girls, Caitlin and Allison. When I discussed my concern with Bill, he told me,

"Julia and I can't imagine life without Ally. You'll find you have an infinite capacity to love."

Bill was right. The moment William was born, I was in love again. It was like William was always with us. He was just waiting for his time to come.

William and I are renovation buddies. He's always up for a trip to the hardware store, and he's quick to help with any home repair project. He's also intrinsically funny and enjoys a good belly laugh. Once, I was exiting the bathroom, William asked,

"Did you go poopies, Daddy?"

"Yes," I answered. To which, William exclaimed,

"Way to go, Daddy! Good job."

Recently, I was reading William a bedtime story when he announced,

"I have to go to the bathroom," then he asked, "Can you pause that?"

We both laughed heartily. A lot of kids William's age are very stoic. They're quiet, shy, on the other side of a shell. I often think stoicism is an inability to make someone laugh. There's none of that in my house.

I think of the circuitous route that led us to where we are now. A long courtship, a marriage, education, a first born, a job, time to think, a white paper, a conference, another child, wise friends, laughter. They seem all disconnected, but they're not. They're blazes on the trail, marking even the path least taken. I believe now, more than ever that these events are all connected. Some more obviously than others. I'm not sure of all that much, but I am of this. Life is not meant to be abided.

It's to be journeyed.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on October 18, 2016.