I wish to write my view of the later pregnancy and birth in detail before I forget. So if you seek only an update, you can skip this and go to the update right below.
(Future-)Mom was ordered to bedrest on September 25, at 21 weeks gestation. For almost three weeks, she was at home, but got out of bed a few times a day. I helped as much as I could, but still went to work. For me, this was tough, but manageable.
On the afternoon of October 12, just as I was leaving for a walk, her water broke at only 23 1/2 weeks gestation. We rushed to the hospital in a panic. I carried her to and from the car, and placed her into a wheelchair at the hospital entrance. At this time, I was sure that we were losing the pregnancy, but of course did not say so. But I did not know then that labor can often be delayed through drugs and total bedrest. The staff gave Mom a couple injections, and her contractions gradually stopped. While there, Mom was in an unpleasant condition, with her head full of drugs and her body stuck in bed. She is a real hero for tolerating that.
I spent most of my waking hours there and was using all my available time and energy to support her. However, because we live so close to the hospital, I felt comfortable going home for brief breaks and to sleep. At the hospital, we were told all sorts of stories about labor being delayed for weeks. I told Mom that's what we could do, but in reality I was not quite so optimistic.
After five days, Mom felt worse, with more frequent pains in her belly. I spent the night there. The next afternoon, while on a break at home, I called my mother, who agreed to come here to help. Just a few minutes after ending that telephone call, I received one from my wife. "I think you should come back now," she said. On the way over, I gave a call to our friend Sarah, who had agreed to provide support during the delivery.
When I arrived in the room, it was chaos. Five or six staff members were busy preparing Mom for the Caesarian section surgery. Although we had previously been told that we would have a few hours notice before the surgery, she was being rushed in. It turns out that she had been having contractions for almost a day, but these were not being picked up by the monitor, and she was fully dilated. I was given a set of "scrubs," the loose clothing to wear over my clothes during surgery.
A quick aside on my mental condition: My greatest fear when I had learned that my wife was pregnant was not about being a father. It was about becoming a father. I was convinced that I would feint during the delivery, leaving Mom alone and sending a potentially symbolic message about my abilities or presence. But in the hospital, we had quickly learned that a C-section would be needed. "Well, at least I won't need to be in the delivery room," I had said, assuming that Mom would be under complete anesthetic and I would wait outside. She corrected me: It turns out that she would get a spinal anesthetic, be numb from the chest downward, and remain conscious. And I would be there during the surgery. This was even more intimidating.
Thus, while waiting outside the operating room, I told a few of the attending staff that I may feint. Inside, I took a seat on a stool next to Mom's head. There was a curtain at her chest, so we couldn't see the action on the other side. The anesthesiologist kept an eye on me, and had an iPod on shuffle, starting with Amy Winehouse. ("You Know I'm No Good.") It was very reassuring to see Mom's regular obstetrician, who had been called in despite not actually being "on call" at the time. I held Mom's hand and stroked her hair. Her body shook from the anesthetics and the nerves. Fortunately, I was able to tune out the voices and sounds of the surgery, and to focus on her. And my adrenaline must have been flowing, as I was not the least bit dizzy.
After only about 15 minutes, I was told to walk to the corner to see my new son. I had no idea what to expect: I had never seen a preemie, and was worried about significant physical problems. While it is obviously a thrill to first see one's child, I was a bit shocked. His flesh was bright pink. He was quite long but very skinny. He made no sound. His head was large compared to the rest of his body. And most disorienting was that, as he breathed his first breaths, with his lungs not yet ready for air, his thin chest pumped far upward and then inward, as if he had no ribcage. While these characteristics were all normal for his stage, I had not seen them before. I must have looked like a mess, as I all the staff kept offering me a chair, and asking me to sit on the floor. But I was not light in the head whatsoever, instead just an emotional whirlpool.
A few minutes later, I followed our new baby and several staff up to the neonatal intensive care unit, leaving Mom behind. On the way, I saw Sarah, and grabbed her. I needed company. Once in the NICU, I watched as the new little guy was cleaned up. A bit in shock, a nurse took my hand, said, "You can touch your son," and placed it against his tiny head. I then moved my hand downward, and he held the tip of my finger.
I knew that his world had been turned upside down, sooner than he perhaps had expected. Because I wanted him to know that we were still there, I asked if I could play his music box. A gift from Holland, we had been playing its melody of "One little, two little, three little duckies" on Mom's tummy a couple times each day. As I turned the handle, all the action in the room seemed to stop. I was a crying mess, and I think a couple of the staff members were tearing up too.
I stepped outside the small room while they stuck him with IVs and tubes. After chatting with Sarah a while, the doctor came out. "Everything seems fine, but his chin is shaped funny." Chin? That was about the last thing I expect to hear about. Besides, his health was a greater priority in my mind than his appearance.
Back downstairs, Sarah, our friend Laureen (who just arrived), and I chatted with Mom in the recovery room. A couple hours later, she was wheeled up to the NICU on her bed to meet her boy.
