*Disclaimer: If I, as the male, make any reference to discomfort, pain, or otherwise exhaustion, I make it in full realization that my wife experienced one thousand times worse and am in no way making comparisons.
We knew this one would be different. And it was. All of the training on how to determine when labor was actually happening and when to go to the hospital had to be refreshed. So when Sarah woke me up at 3:00 a.m. Tuesday morning with, “Al, I think it’s time,” I was surprisingly calm. Mainly because I knew we had time. So there we sat on the couch counting contractions. After a phone call to the birth center and one to the sitter, (thanks Laura!) we began this leg of what would turn out to be a journey nobody is ever prepared for.
When we arrived at the hospital around 5:30 a.m. we found out we were farther along than expected and this was exciting. Besides the pain of watching my beloved get stuck multiple times because for some reason IV’s had no intention of being in her body, the early hours moved by smoothly. This time the drug peddler came in peddling his wares on somewhat of a reasonable schedule. (See our last experience here.) I once again exited the room because of my extreme dislike for needles. This happened sometime between 8:30 and 9:30 a.m.
How can I jump four hours you ask? Because in the grand scheme of things it was fairly uneventful. Sarah was progressing on schedule and was able to use her first breathing technique all the way up to the epidural. “Breathe nice and slow and relax. Focus.” The mantra is mind numbing and that is the point. After the epidural we both got a “breather” and napped a bit.
Each hour ticked by as the electric clocks reset themselves to be synchronized. Regular checks by nurse and doctor showed little concern and there was even some nice joking going on whether or not we would interrupt their lunch hour.
But the lunch hour came and went… and so did her epidural. Now I as the male and the male anesthesiologist can say “It’s just going to take the edge off.” But I have learned my lesson that if my wife says, “It ain’t working!” then I will believe her. Yes, everything was still connected properly. Yes, the drug was losing its effect.
By 1 p.m. Sarah was completely uncomfortable and that was when it was time to try different positions to move things along a bit quicker. First the left, then the right side. What did you say? A potential nuchal cord? I thought I should be panicking because I actually knew what that meant. But I didn’t panic because the nurse didn’t. It must not be that serious.
By 2:30 p.m. the somewhat calm, normal delivery took a turn for the frantic. Not because it was time to push, even though it was. But because this pushing meant pushing out a 14 inch head. If only they had known. Push after push after push. It is always good news to hear, “The head is right there.” Except when that news is like a CNN broadcast, the same thing repeated over and over again on a regular schedule.
When we finally heard, “we have the head,” I breathed a sigh of relief. But my wife did not because she is medical. She knows. There was no sound. These next moments will forever be etched in my brain. “What’s wrong? Why isn’t he crying?”
My job was to remain calm and to calm my wife. For the moment I only felt calm. “Relax. They are doing their job. You do yours. Ready, push 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9…10…Breathe. Push….” In the midst of my repetition, more people began slowly pouring into our room and without warning people took on different roles. That nurse that was calmly encouraging the pushing suddenly was able to pounce on a belly, hold a leg and type into the computer all at the same time. The tug of war with a stuck child began. Unlike with rope and lots of people, this tug of war was for life and death and time was of the essence.
From that moment on Coach Strawn became Chief Protector. A scream from my wife that echoed like in a horror movie is my first unforgettable moment.
Amidst the tiresome yet fruitless pushes, the doctor and nurse finally won the tug of war & forcibly removed our child from the birth canal where there were no words of congratulations. No joy from the doctor. Just silence as the nurse carried motionless flesh to the warmer. I finally got up the courage to ask what we had. “He’s in God’s hands.” “He is God’s child.” “He is caring for him.” These were my words of faith, not words from a highly trained pastor. I truly believed those words, even though I didn’t know what to believe of what was happening.
Even though there was lots of commotion the only thing I could hear over my frantic spouse was silence. My eyes went from comforting my beloved to watching motionless love have his legs moved for him, his feet tapped, and other endearing actions back to my beloved with only the comfort of faith.
Then the oxygen, mask and bag and the longest four minutes of my life.
My next, and I pray will be my best memory, was the following hour and half, where our “built like a cement block” baby boy cried his lungs out constantly. For this moment was worthy of tears of joy.
It took several hours to actually decompress what all had taken place. The morning after was filled with fresh memories that I hadn’t previously recalled. That morning was also when I realized what his name must be. While sharing thoughts about what she does when this happens in their delivery room, my mother-in-law (an OB Nurse) stated, “When we realize their shoulders are stuck I simply say, “God, you have to help.” “We can’t do it and neither can this mother.” “God help.”
So we have Eliezer, “The God of my father is my help.” He has been all through this pregnancy and we know that God will be all the way into eternity.
