Honestly, I longed for the good old days my grandmother told me about when a woman would go into the hospital to have a baby and wake up two days later with memories of vague hallucinations and a child in her arms. But apparently that option is no longer available, thanks to the marvel of medical advances.
And since I was so certain I wanted no part of any kind of natural childbirth pain, I didn’t see the need for Perry and me to waste any time going to those free childbirth classes the hospital offers. Why would we do that when it was Trista’s season on The Bachelorette and it looked like she might have a real shot at lasting love with Ryan, the cute fireman? (And, by the way, they’re still together, so I think it’s clear I made the right choice.) Not to mention I was spending all my free time catching up on every episode of Alias, and clearly Sydney Bristow and Vaughn and the takedown of SD-6 were way more important than learning how to breathe through the childbirth pains I was sure I wouldn’t experience.
(There may have been a week when I seriously tried to convince Perry that we should name our child Sydney Bristow.)
(I also suggested the name Owen, for unknown reasons. But quickly scratched it off the list when I remembered we were having a girl. Plus Perry always said “Owen” like the Momma character in Throw Momma from the Train.)
The only thing I did to prepare for childbirth, other than fantasize about having arms that looked like Sydney Bristow’s, was to take the official tour of the hospital. This is when I learned a critical piece of information: there is no guarantee that you get a private room after delivery. The nurse giving the tour to our little band of seven or eight expecting couples ended our tour by whispering in a confidential tone, “The best advice I can give you if it’s really important for you to have your own room is to remember that the squeaky wheel gets the grease.” And I vowed then and there to be the squeakiest wheel Methodist Hospital had ever seen.
After a day of on-and-off contractions and furious unpacking of boxes, around 5:00 p.m. on Saturday, August 2, I finally called the doctor’s answering service and told them I thought I was in labor. The on-call doctor returned my call, and I informed her that my contractions were about seven minutes apart. She agreed it was probably time for me to head to the hospital. Perry and I gathered our bags and my assortment of pillows and loaded them into the Ford Taurus that I’d insisted my brother-in-law, Chris, vacuum out for me earlier in the day because I can’t bring my baby home in a dirty car.
(I was a joy to be around.)
(Kind of like a rabid cat. I may have even hissed.)
As Perry drove to the hospital, my contractions began to get stronger and harder. I might have said some words you’ll never hear in Sunday school, unless you go to one of those churches that is trying SUPER hard to be relevant to today’s culture. Perry began to pray for me as he was driving—that God would give the doctors and nurses wisdom, that it would be an easy delivery, that I would not be afraid. And then he looked at me and said, “This is the last time we’re going to be alone for a long time.”
It was his attempt at humor, a way to lighten the moment. But I sucked in my breath, looked at him, and burst into tears. I think it’s times like this he wishes he’d followed his original life plan to live on a remote ranch and spend his days hunting and fishing all by himself. “What? What did I say?” he questioned.
“This is it,” I replied. “We won’t be alone again for eighteen years. At least. And our lives are about to totally change, and there is no going back.”
He looked at me with a straight face and said, “Yes, it’s called parenthood. We signed up for it nine months ago.”
I knew that. But in that moment I felt overwhelmed by what was about to happen and how much our lives were about to be turned upside down. I was terrified of labor, in more pain than I’d expected from contractions, and desperately wishing I’d gone to at least one of those classes that would have taught me to breathe like “Hoo, hee, hoo” while focusing on a spot on the wall.
We drove around the hospital parking lot looking for a parking place and resisting the urge to yell out the window, “Hey, black Suburban, we’re about to have a baby. I hope you need that parking spot more than we do.”
After we finally parked and unloaded our stuff, we began to make our way to the hospital entrance, but I had to stop in the middle of the sidewalk because I was overcome by a contraction. All those episodes of Alias were not helpful in that moment.
Perry left our bags and hurried to get me into the hospital while I called out to anyone who appeared to be official hospital personnel, “I would like a private room, please! Can I get a private room?” The little candy striper in the elevator removed her arm from my death grip and whispered, “I’ll see what I can do, ma’am, but I’m just a volunteer.”
Eventually I made it to a room and was given a hospital gown to change into with instructions to get in the bed and wait for the nurse to come check me. I lay there as Perry held my hand, just knowing that the nurse would probably determine I was at least six centimeters dilated. How else could they explain the pain and frequency of these contractions?
Several minutes later Nurse Louise entered the room. And I immediately knew, the way you know when the milk has gone bad, that she didn’t subscribe to the warm and fuzzy method of labor and delivery. She walked in, surveyed the room, and wrinkled her nose like she had just smelled weakness and it made her stomach turn. I tried to make polite small talk as she checked me for signs of labor, and I only half-jokingly asked, “So, when will the anesthesiologist be here?”
Nurse Louise looked at me suspiciously and replied, “You’re only one centimeter dilated. I don’t know if you’re really even in labor, and you certainly don’t need the anesthesiologist.” Like I was some kind of drug-seeking patient who had come to the hospital looking to get an epidural for recreational use.
One centimeter dilated. Well, that was certainly disappointing. All that pain? All those contractions? For one lousy centimeter?
My sister, my mother-in-law, and Gulley had all followed us to the hospital, and once Nurse Louise declared that a birth wasn’t imminent and it was possible I was faking the entire thing, they sent my brother-in-law to pick up McDonald’s for dinner. They all began to have social hour while eating their cheeseburgers, and they placed bets on what time the baby would arrive. It was all fun and games until a major contraction hit me, and I may or may not have said in a forced tone, “I’m going to need you all to be quiet and take your french fries outside.” I’ve never seen people jump so quickly to meet my french fry demands.
I spent the next several hours in increasing pain, hooked up to a monitor that clearly indicated I was having healthy contractions, yet Nurse Louise continued to insist I didn’t need the epidural yet. Perry believed differently, especially after I wrenched his thumb out of its socket during one particularly intense moment.
Then the doctor on call came in—a very nice woman, I’m sure, but she wasn’t aware of my master epidural plan. She was concerned that my labor wasn’t progressing. (Really? Because it felt like progression. It felt like an alien was about to burst out of my stomach holding my intestines.) She also decided I was measuring small for a full-term pregnancy, so she sent me off to have an ultrasound.
As they wheeled me down the hall, I clutched Perry’s hand like it was my personal lifeline, but they stopped at the door to the ultrasound room and said he couldn’t go in with me. I was taken into a small, dark place with no one I loved around me, filled with worry and fear that something might be wrong with our baby girl. I lay on the hospital bed as the technician rubbed cold gel on my stomach, and the tears began to fall. It was all too much. This was way too hard. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so alone.
Then I heard a voice whisper in the darkness: “You’re not alone. I’m here.” And I began to quote what I remembered of Psalm 121 to myself:
I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
where does my help come from?
; My help comes from the LORD,
the Maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber;
indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.
The LORD watches over you—
the LORD is your shade at your right hand;
the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by night.
The LORD will keep you from all harm—
he will watch over your life;
the LORD will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore.
Peace began to wash over me, and I knew it was true: I wasn’t alone. I didn’t know if everything was going to be okay, but I knew with all certainty that Jesus was right there with me in that scary hospital room as the ultrasound technician moved the wand back and forth across my stomach.
I think there are times in life when he takes away all those earthly things we look to for comfort and security so we can feel him better and love him more. This was one of those moments for me. In my coming and going, he was with me.
Chapter 7
Straight from Heaven
The doctor met Perry and me back in the labor and delivery room and announced that everything was okay and our baby girl appeared to be in the healthy seven- to eight-pound range. Then she left the room, and I didn’t see her or Nurse Louise for a few hours while I continued to wonder what they had against epidurals and if they secretly hated me because I’d been so belligerent about the whole private room thing. Maybe the squeaky wheel gets the private room but not the epidural? Chalk that up to things I wish I’d known earlier.
As we found out much later, there was an emergency C-section in the next room with major complications. The hospital was short staffed because it was a Saturday night, and my “routine” labor got lost in the shuffle. When Nurse Louise finally showed up to check my progress around midnight, she got a stunned look on her face and immediately paged the doctor, who came in and announced I was fully dilated. They both acted shocked and surprised.
You know who wasn’t surprised? Me. I’d been in so much pain in the last few hours that I couldn’t believe women ever had sex again after one round of childbirth. I looked at Perry and hoped he’d be satisfied living the life of a monk because there was no way I was going to do anything to risk this kind of foolishness again.
Nothing in life had prepared me for this kind of pain. I realize this is extremely comforting for those of you who might be reading this while pregnant with your first child. But bear with me. It will be okay. Just make sure you yell for your epidural before you holler about getting a private room.
When the doctor told me I was ready to go, I wailed, “What about my epidural? I wanted the epidural. Please. Get. Me. The. Epidural.” I may have growled that last part. She immediately paged the anesthesiologist, and I was so relieved I hadn’t missed the “epidural window” I’d heard so much about that I began to sob.
A few minutes later my knight in shining armor came sweeping through the door with a tray of bliss. As he scrubbed my back and helped me sit up on the table, I whispered, “I’ve never loved anyone more.” And at that moment I absolutely meant it. Forget Perry. He was the one who’d gotten me into this mess in the first place.
The medicine began to take effect, and I came back to my real self, as evidenced by the fact I called for someone to bring me my lip gloss TOOT SUITE and told everyone to gather around me for a group picture. By this time several more of our friends had arrived, and they were all a little cautious as they approached me, mainly because I’d been one split pea soup incident away from The Exorcist only five minutes earlier.
After a few photos, the doctor announced it was time to push. At that moment some latent competitive urge rose up in me, and I determined that I was going to be the most efficient pusher Methodist Hospital had ever seen. Maybe they’d even put up a plaque in my honor: Hardest Pusher. Nurse Louise offered to bring a mirror around the end of the bed so I could see what was going on, but I declined. There are some things you can’t unsee, and I felt like a baby coming out of my business end fell wholly in that category. Let’s not go there.
After several pushes, between which I announced loudly how I’d really worked to keep my core muscles strong during pregnancy, Perry saw some things I desperately wish neither of us had to know about. But then I decided it probably helped the case I was going to make for why we should never experience marital intimacy again.
Finally I heard the doctor say, “I see her head,” followed shortly by, “She’s here!” And in that brief moment, life changed. There was a seismic shift where things went from being about me to being completely focused on the tiny, little creature who had just entered the room at 2:14 a.m. on August 3. I held my breath as the nurses carried her to a little incubator to check her out and take her vitals, and I finally breathed out again when the doctor announced, “She’s a healthy little peanut.”
And she was a little peanut. Only five pounds, eight ounces, but healthy and pink. They wrapped her up and handed her to Perry. He brought her to me, and I stared in wonder at this little pink gift, this tiny person fresh from heaven. It was as if I could still smell the angels on her, like I was looking straight into the face of God. A God who had just blessed us with so much more than we ever could have imagined.
How amazing that he brings life this way. Through pain and hurt and the ugly things inside us we try to keep hidden away. The things we don’t talk about. In that moment, as I looked at my little girl lying in my arms, I realized this whole process was such a striking picture of how Christ works in us. He takes our disappointments, rejections, and hard times, and he makes something beautiful. He creates life and shows us what beauty looks like in places where we look and see nothing.
He blesses us beyond our imaginations, in spite of all the broken roads we’ve walked. In fact, maybe he blesses us so lavishly because of all the broken roads we’ve traveled. As if to remind us that he sees us—really sees us—not just for who we are at any given moment, but for what we could be one day.
That’s how I felt when I looked at Caroline Tatum Shankle for the first time. Overwhelmed, humbled, grateful. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have any eyelashes yet, which caused her to look a little like a frog-baby, or that Perry, as he admitted later, was looking at her thinking, Well, at least we’ll love you and think you’re cute. I looked at her and saw perfection. And love. And mercy. And grace. I had never seen the hand of God more clearly in all my life.
Our friends came back in the room, and we passed Caroline around to each one of them and took a million pictures. I called my parents on the phone because they were still trying to make their way to San Antonio from Houston, thanks to Nurse Louise’s proclamation that I wasn’t really in labor, and told them Caroline had arrived and couldn’t wait to meet them.
And then Caroline was back in my arms, staring at me with those wide, brownish-blue eyes with no eyelashes and a look that seemed to say, So you’re my mom? I hope you’re up for this, sucker. She never made a sound but stared without blinking at everything going on around her as if taking an inventory of the world and trying to figure out if it met her standards. Like she might want her money back or something.
After a while the nurses announced it was time to take Caroline to the nursery to get cleaned up. They took her away, finished doing some stuff to me that I really didn’t ask about, and told me they were going to take me to my private room. Praise you, Jesus, for the private room. At least that part of my birth plan was intact.
As they wheeled me down the hall, we passed the nursery, where my parents had arrived and were looking through the window as the nurses took care of Caroline. I heard my dad say angrily, “It seems like they don’t need to be that rough with her. I hope they know what they’re doing.” I called out to them as I rolled by, and they all waved at me briefly before turning back t
o give their total and complete attention to the baby. All of a sudden I was just the vehicle that had provided them with a grandchild. Nice.
Once I arrived in my sweet nine-by-six private room that we paid extra for, an angel disguised as a nurse came in to check on me and said I should get some sleep before they brought the baby back in. Everyone came into the room to tell me good-bye and said they’d be back first thing in the morning. Then Perry and I tried to close our eyes and sleep.
We were both exhausted yet so hyped up on new-parent adrenaline that it was hard to wind down. I just wanted to see my baby girl again and make sure she was real. This whole thing was starting to seem like a dream. Of course, it helped that I was still totally numb from the epidural, as evidenced by the fact that I kept trying to move a pillow on the bed that turned out to be my own leg.
Around 6:30 a.m. they brought Caroline in to me. They said she was struggling to stay warm since she had so little body fat. (A problem she didn’t inherit from her mother.) So I dressed her in one of the six gowns I’d brought to the hospital, marveling at her tiny toes and chicken legs and praying I wouldn’t break her. The nurse showed me how to wrap her up like a little burrito, and then I held her while I formally introduced myself. “Hi. I’m your mama,” I said. “Welcome to the world, little monkey bean.”
My parents and my sister, who had been dying to get their hands on the baby, were finally able to hold Caroline for the first time. I knew they’d always been proud of me, but I felt like I’d just given them the keys to a magical kingdom filled with rainbows and unicorns. Or in my dad’s case, a kingdom where no one has to pay income tax and there are no bad drivers who neglect to turn right at red lights. They looked at her with so much love. It felt like life had just come full circle right there in that tiny hospital room.
Sparkly Green Earrings Page 4