The nurse stuck her head in and said the Doctor would stop by and break my wife’s bag of waters before he went to dinner in Pearl City. I wondered which one- the only place I could think of was the Monkey Bar, and that didn’t seem right, or maybe Buzz’s Original Steakhouse on the hill overlooking the harbor. I sort of wished were going along. Instead, I asked if the nurse could explain the workings of the Fetal Monitor next to the bed.

It made mysterious beepings and little pens jumped over the graphed paper like a lie-detector.

She patiently explained th which one monitored the uterine contractions and which one was he baby’s heartbeat. The one on the right was climbing through a little peak that resembled the profile of the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains.

“Let’s do the breathing,” said my wife through clenched teeth, and off we went. Heh-heh-hoo was the rhythm they taught at Lamaze, and like the Little Engine That Could, the extended miracle began.

The slow-chest breathing was what we started with, and it seemed to work pretty well. She used my face for a focal point and the machine told us how far along we were in the contractions. She had nice strong ones. During the next half hour we got settled into the routine. The Doctor arrived to break her waters, and I was unceremoniously thrown out into the waiting room again.

He must have ducked out the back door for his dinner engagement, as the next thing I heard was from the Nurse. “Baby seems to be in distress for some reason. There was a bowel movement in utero, and the amniotic fluid is discolored. We don’t know what that means yet, but it is probably O.K. We’ll just keep a close eye on things.”

I did not find that tremendously re-assuring and my heart sank. “Probably O.K.,” ran over and over in my mind. Things were totally out of my hands and the sensation of being powerless was not at all pleasant. I had no idea what my wife was thinking. Keep it together. Be upbeat. Keep it together.

To add to the mix, a report came up that the Mother-in-Law was being held in the ER for additional testing., and they announced that with the mild fever she was running, there was no way she could be permitted to come up to the OB/GYN floor.

I was starting to become dimly aware that it was going to be a challenge to juggle two women committed to different part of the hospital when they let me back into the labor room. First things first:

“Hi, Babe. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Oho, here comes another one!”

The next six hours passed with bright lights and beeping monitors. The contractions ere coming strong and regular, but my wife was not making much progress. She was brave and collected throughout, insisting first that we get her mother from the ER and back to the house so she would ‘relax.’ The Docs claimed she had a mild case of diverticulitis, and should immediately get to bed and take it easy.

Once we made a flurry of phone calls, a pal volunteered to pick her up, and we were able to get back to the matter at hand.

The Doc had finished his dinner and returned about ten-thirty. He gave my wife a pelvic exam during a contraction (a procedure not calculated to gain friends and influence prospective parents) and announced that we had not made significant progress in dilation since arrival. Still at two-three centimeters. My wife looked downcast. This looked like labor could go on for a week.

The Doc is a tall Texan who could have been sent from Central Casting for a role in General Hospital. He is an enthusiastic proponent of ‘natural birth,” and had guided a gal through a thirty-two hour labor the week before. He took off his gloves and sat down on the counter next to the bed. “The baby isn’t moving down,” he said with a West Texas drawl. “That could be because he is too big, or your pelvis is too small. Or he could have a cord wrapped around him that is keeping him up high.”

“So what do we do,” asked my wife apprehensively.

“Well, I’d give you about one chance in a hundred of delivering vaginally.”

“So you are recommending a C-section?” I asked.

“I think that is the way to go. Since the baby has already shown some signs of distress, I recommend we go ahead and do it. Of course, it is up to you. You can keep trying for a while if you want, but I don’t think it is going to be effective. We can have a team here by midnight and have your baby out by twelve-thirty.”

He went away to let us confer.

“Would you be disappointed if I had a C-Section?” she asked.

“Hell no. Besides, I don’t think we have any alternative. The longer you work on this thing the more stress on the kid. Let’s just go for the Caesarian.”

“O.K.,” she said, then her face clenched. “Oh, here comes another one.” The needle on the graph began describing a little Pike’s Peak. She got through the contraction cycle and we called he Doctor back in to give our consent for surgery.
That started a flurry of paperwork and we were inundated with forms and releases and surrounded by unidentified medical personnel.

One lady brought in a mysterious pre-packaged kit crafted of sterile injected polystyrene. It included all the materials for an epidural anesthetic, from the iodine bath to some ominously large needles. Everything seemed to come pre-packaged, including little hand washing kits. I had no idea things could be so organized.

I looked down and she looked up. “In for a penny,” I said.

She nodded. “In for a pound.”

Copyright 3015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303