A Blast from Christmas Past

Christmas 2002

The Petite Filet and I awoke Christmas Day knowing we were going to be parents sometime the next day. Her doctor said it was safest to induce labor, because in their best opinions our wee one was getting large too fast. His original due date – Jan. 1, 2003 – was a week away.

We got out of bed to an empty house – something we knew would be a rare treat come the next day. We opened our presents, had a leisurely breakfast, and then decided being cooped up in the house all day wouldn’t be the best plan. We knew we’d just sit around and THINK about the next day.

Those of you who’ve been married know that once you’re engaged, people start giving you unsolicited advice about love and life. Once you’re expecting a baby, even more people come out from the woodwork to hand over their opinions on child-rearing, on natural ways to induce labor, etc. One doesn’t have to be an old wife to subscribe to and spread old wives’ tales.

Well, it was December, so we weren’t going to find a good watermelon. And we didn’t feel like driving a bumpy road for hours on end. So we did the other things that we were told to do when you want to summon the fruit of a woman’s loins:

1. We had Mexican food. (To fulfill the Spicey Food Prophecy)
2. We took a brisk walk in the park.
3. We, um, had marital relations that night. (This is less dirty than it is cartoonish ... it’s hard to have sex with a pregnant woman; we also knew it would be the last time we’d have such pleasures for a loooooong time).

While not part of any baby-launching plan, we also saw a movie. Normally I have had a real problem with movie theaters being open on Christmas Day – and movies opening to entice theater traffic. What happened to Christmas magic ... a day off with family, etc. etc.? Last year, however, we were happy for the distraction. We saw a light comedy (Two Weeks’ Notice with Sandra Bullock and Hugh Grant ... not as bad as it sounds).

After all that, no baby. So on Dec. 26, about 6 a.m., we roll up to the hospital. We’re prepared and packed up with everything she could possibly need. We are scheduled to be there. Blissfully, and by the grace of God and good timing, we are literally the only people in the maternity ward.

They prep the Filet, marinate her with a potocin drip, refuse to give me the drugs I desperately want at that time, and we wait it out. Hours pass. Her labor pains start hitting, and they become more regular. Eventually, the Filet’s parents arrive from Oklahoma and can spell my bedside-watching duties. It becomes clear, after many hours of labor and little dialation of her particulars, that the baby’s not going to come out on his own. He is apparently stuck sideways and can't find the exit.

It’s time for a C-section.

The Filet starts to cry, mainly because it’s a new roadblock to being parents and she felt her body was letting her down. In the past, her surgeries have been slow to recover from, and she was scared of that, too. We didn’t plan for it, although we took the birthing/parenting classes the hospital offered. That included some what-to-expect instruction on C-sections and a tour of the entire maternity ward. I remember the surgery chamber being cold and blue. I was about to scrub up and inhabit that scary room.

My wife’s doctor told me it wouldn’t be long. “You’re about to be a daddy,” he told me. “Anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a daddy.” We’ve been through a lot with that doctor, from my wife’s diagnosis of endomitriosis (a nasty female disease) to a miscarriage a year before. His words meant a lot to me.

I was given some way-too-big scrubs to put on. The Filet was wheeled into the room and prepped while I got ready. They led me into the room, where the drape was in place, the anesthesiologist was trying to work his magic, and the tray of instruments reflected the bright light above. I took slow, deep breaths in order to keep my composure. I didn’t want to pass out, not because of hitting the floor or bruising with embarrassment, but because that would put undue pressure on my wife.

The numbing drugs weren’t working, so the doctors made the decision to put her under. That meant I was kicked out of the delivery room. It was standing-room only, and the important actors in the procedure were more important than my presence.

I stood outside the door and listened without watching. Fainting was still an option at that point, and my nerves were like steel marbles rolling around in my stomach.

Not until I heard the doctors’ and nurses’ murmur of approval, and a loud, piercing scream from my newborn son, did I relax a bit. Just a bit, though.

They cleaned up the little fella a bit, did some preliminary tests on him, weighed him, wrapped him up into a burrito, stuck a hat on his tiny head, and brought him out to me. The moment I saw his face, my heart grew to five times its former size. The nurse handed the bundle to me, and led the both of us to the hospital’s nursery.

My parents had arrived an hour or so before, and with my in-laws, waited near the nursery. They peered at the little guy’s face, beamed with grandparental pride, and then watched as I entered the empty nursery. The nurse in there did the routine tests, measured him, poked him with things, and said he was at 40 weeks – full term despite the original due date a week later. He weighed 7 pounds, 6 ounces, which by no account is “too large.” But I was certainly glad he was on the outside now.

The grandparents even liked the name we picked out, although it wouldn’t have mattered.

I stood by the Petite Filet's bedside as she came out from under the heavy drugs. She asked me about the Cutlet, and I told her the truth: "He's healthy and he's cute! He looks like the best of both of us." She would finally see him about half an hour later, still hazy from the drugs.

The rest is not only history, but it's our present and future.

We are blessed, and we don't deserve it. He is a happy, healthy, intelligent little boy who is advancing and growing to be all that in a larger size. It’s hard to imagine a time he wasn’t around, much as it is when you find a significant other. Sure, there were years you lived before you met that person, but was it really living?

I was a complete person, but my family makes me more complete. And having them, if anything ever happens to them, I will be broken.

May the season and coming year bring you the people and situations that make you happy. It has been great getting to "know" a few of you out there, and I look forward to becoming better friends.

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and God bless.