Thursday, March 10, 2011

A Letter

Dearest Little Man,
Today you have been on this earth a year; 365 days with a lot of big changes.  But you and me, we've known each other even longer than that.  We've been kicking it old school for nine months prior to March 10, 2010.  At the very beginning you made your presence known through persistent nausea.  You were unappreciative of almost everything I (tried) to share with you.  You were particularly snobby about coffee - which is perfectly acceptable in small doses so no one call Child Services - forcing me to abandon a well-loved friend.  Not an auspicious start to our relationship, apparently no one had taught you how to make a good first impression.  And looking at your father and I, I'm not sure anyone will successfully teach you how to do that.

You grew.  You began riding on my sciatic nerve and on my hip (This explains a lot! How did I not put this together before now?!)  You began inviting your friends over for raucous games of "Kick the Rib," "Jump on the Bladder," "Kick the Rib Harder," and "OK, Now Everyone Jump Together, One! Two! Three!"  You began partying at 3 am.  And though I'm not a fan of losing sleep, I did get to know the Dan Patrick Show pretty well.  Besides you, that's the only good thing I got out of that pregnancy.

You grew some more.  You got really, really comfortable.  You decided you didn't really want to move out.  As much as I love you, and it is beyond paltry words Little Man, I would have done just about anything to make you vacate that cozy studio apartment with the spectacular view of internal organs.  I all but offered you up as a gift to the mid-wife if she would do some sort of birthing magic dance to make you come on time.  She evidently saw my desperation (psychosis) for what it was and scheduled your eviction.  God bless her and her appointment book.

March 9, 2010, we began moving you out.  You were not what I would call a fast start.  It took about five hours of fluids and Pitocin to get you to start packing your things.  And even then it was like an episode of Hoarders where the hoarder in question has 36,000 bags of assorted debris, and they insist upon going through the detritus piece by piece.  Little Man, you were missing the bigger picture.  You were so slow the mid-wife decided she had plenty of time to make the church social she thought she would have to miss.  And guess what?  She was right.

Finally, after about 12 hours of sitting around, doing kakuro puzzles (That's right, my dorkiness knows no bounds.  I took a puzzle book to the hospital.  I still have the puzzles I completed that day.), and illegally using my Blackberry, the fun really started.  In one truly weird moment, I attempted to sit up in bed and I both felt and heard an internal burst.  You had finally pushed the button to call for the elevator and my water broke.  It was honestly the weirdest thing I have experienced bodily.  For a split second I was pretty sure my eardrums had burst from the inside out.  It scared the bejeesus right out of me.  And that's when things went a little sideways.

I spiked a fever.  Which is obviously what would happen, because as we all know our bejeesuses regulate our body temperature.  And since mine had been so frightened by the breaking of the water ordeal, my temperature began to soar.  As this nicely coincided with hard labor and the wearing off of the epidural, I began to question your moving day technique.  Rightly so, because we soon determined you had jammed too much into the elevator on your way out and you were stuck.  The mid-wife called in the doctor.  The doctor took a look around and in the gentlest way started to tell me that you were going to need help with the move.  I cut her off right about, "I just don't see how this is going to happen natur-" with a response "That's fine. Do whatever needs to be done."  They applauded my ability to adapt to the situation.  I thought they were wasting time by talking and not wheeling me to the operating room.

My favorite person (the anesthesiologist) arrived and I was suddenly calm.  After much finagling and discussion of how quickly they assembled an OR team after midnight (not fast enough, Little Man, not fast enough), your dad came in wearing scrubs, a mask, and a bonnet over his bald head.  Incredibly handsome and brave, as hospitals aren't his thing much less watching surgeries, he held my hand while the doctor asked, "Sarah, can you feel any of this?" "Nope!"  Two minutes passed.  And then I heard you, Little Man.  And your dad was speechless.  And you were finally here.  And I realized I was wrong; though 90% of my body was numb, I could feel all of it.  And it was amazing.

Happy Birthday, Little Man.

2 comments:

  1. I remember that day also. I was at your home in North Carolina praying that Annie would let me help her when she needed it. She did a great job and we had a wonderful day. She even let me do her hair and give her a bath.

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  2. I don't know what it is, but I cry through everything you write! I think that may be the mark of good writing, my friend :)

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