There is absolutely nothing funny about a Cesarean Section. Sure, it’s a funny enough word, but the actual experience is not something to joke about. To be honest, if it were not for Luke’s birth, the entire experience would have been miserable. As it happened, everything up until the point of his birth was a miserable experience. This is a two-part story of the miracle of Luke’s birth. The miracle of it – the miracle of any birth for that matter – is that we all lived through it. Fortunately, I had a little help from my friends.
During the months prior to this birth event I had been taking notes from friends of mine who have also miraculously lived through birth. As you will see, I listened to them about as well as I usually have while they were giving my this helpful advice. Their advice I have included as “Lessons for the Miracle of Birth” for those who may need them down the road. Take note…
… 6:00am on June 14, 1995 Deb woke me up. She was watching Scooby-Doo, and I thought at first she just wanted to make sure I didn’t miss a single episode – even though I’ve seen them all about 100 times. Not much after Deb woke me she had – what appeared to me – a contraction. I had not actually seen one before (except for TV ones, which are fake) so I asked her if she was having a contraction. Bad move.
Lesson #1: Do not ask your wife if she is having a contraction if she looks in pain.
Deb was very polite about my lack of awareness – as she always is. Her response to my question was that I, “might want to do a few things, like pack the hospital bag.”
I’m not quite sure what my problem was that morning, but I was moving really slow. Almost as if this whole birth thing wasn’t going to happen. Maybe it was the false alarm that Monday, maybe I wasn’t awake yet, and maybe this was my way of trying to be late for our first child’s birth. I just don’t know. But I did not seem to be in a hurry at all that morning.
Lesson #2: Be Prepared.
I got dressed first; threw on a T-shirt and some shorts, inhaled some cereal, then started getting ready. At least that’s what I though I was doing. To Deb, it probably looked like I was wandering around our apartment trying to look busy. In actuality, that’s what I was doing.
I was prepared in every way possible, except mentally. Bags were packed, camera was ready, insurance card and cash present, and even a small birthday gift for the new to be born. Yep. I had thought of everything. Everything, that is, except the actual event of birth. And I was nervous. Would I be a good coach? Will I faint? How do you fold cloth diapers? What if my socks don’t match? These questions and many more were running through my head, and I had no answers for any of them.
So here I am, wandering around the house looking for what, I’m really not sure. It must have seemed I knew what I was doing because Deb didn’t tell me what we needed to do, as is often the case in a crisis. Of course, she was having contractions, which seemed to be frequently interrupting her way toward the door.
Lesson #3: Don’t ask how far apart contractions are. Figure it out for yourself.
I was wearing my watch, it did have a second hand, and it was set for the right time. But I could not for the life of me figure out how far apart the contractions were. I looked at the time when each one started, but somewhere between having my hand squished and losing my mind at the thought that it was really TIME I completely forgot when the last contraction occurred.
So I asked. Bad move. Deb looked at me, looked at my watch, looked at me again and (while experiencing another contraction) said, “I don’t know.” in the tone of voice that made me very appreciative that I could never experience the physical miracle of birth.
Lesson #4: Don’t make her laugh.
Humor is my defense. It’s not always my best one, however, and this was not a good time for it. Not that Deb wasn’t laughing or wasn’t in the mood to laugh. She was just having too much pain to laugh.
After the bags had been packed and we were ready to go, we were at the top of the steps when Deb allowed herself a small chuckle in between pain sessions. Being the wife that she is, she politely suggested that before going out in public I might want to “put some pants on.”
Here I was with supplies in hand, ready to get the show on the road, comfortably dressed in a light T-shirt and my fish boxer shorts. Whoops. Now I remembered what it was I was looking for. Funny how the simple things are so often overlooked in times of crisis.
As I remember, I was telling you about how I was ready to leave our apartment not completely clothed. After putting on some pants, Deb and I raced to the hospital, and went directly to the 3rd floor. (With one short pit stop for a contraction). Our trial run proved successful. I avoided all stoplights, and ran every stop sign in sight without getting busted. And, I got us there in record time. From there, things did not go precisely as planned.
Lesson # 5: There is absolutely nothing funny about a C-section.
The miracle of birth. A wonderful time that everyone should experience at least once. Fortunately for you, the reader, I can readily relate this experience, as the images of that wonderful time are permanently etched in my memory. Unfortunately for me, the writer, I will never forget this experience as the images of that wonderful time are permanently etched in my memory.
Yes, the end result was wonderful. It was every bit as cracked-up to be as everyone who had gone through it told us it would be. Yet it was also a very stressful and at times even (almost) horrific; as everyone who had gone through it told us it would be.
Part Two of this two part adventure takes into the thick of delivery, and provides additional advice for the spouses of the soon to give birth.
If you remember, I learned a lot during this pregnancy. But even if I had learned 10 times what I had already learned, it would not have prepared me for the actual events which took place. What I did ultimately learned – which was a difficult lesson I might add – was that there is absolutely nothing funny about a C-section.
Everything was going great! As important things progress, this is usually how it starts. Deb’s contractions were close together, she was dilating quickly, (almost too quickly) and a mere 2 1/2 hours from when she woke up with labor pains, Deb was ready for the actual birth event. Maybe “event” is not the right term. Makes it seem sort of Olympicish. Can you even imagine that scene?
… And in this corner, representing the United States of America in the light blue hospital gown, dilated to three centimeters, Deborah Schroeder…
So Deb is ready to push, the doctor just shows up, and we’re anticipating baby to arrive shortly. Remember Murphy’s Laws? That’s what happened next.
Lesson # 6: Don’t ask questions you’re not prepared to hear the answers to…
There is a lot about medicine I don’t know. There’s even more about the human body and it’s collective functions that I know even less about. On both these topics, I didn’t want to know anymore than I already did. Considering this lack of knowledge and lack of desire for more knowledge, to say I was unprepared for childbirth, then, would have been enormously correct.
There was ALOT that happened during the labor and delivery that I wish I hadn’t witnessed. Most of it if described even generally, would send shivers up your spine. Shivers to those of you who haven’t actually given birth, that is. It is understandable that those who have actually given birth are relatively unaffected by discussing the birth process. (Calling it a process doesn’t sound quite right either
… Step 1. Have a contraction. Step 2. Use proper breathing…
Anyway, those who have given birth seem to be so unaffected by discussing their experiences that for some bizarre reason it seems that those who have given birth also have a need to talk about the experience in detail with other who have given birth. That would be okay if there weren’t people like me present when the conversation ensued. (“People Like Me” are defined as those people who have not actually given birth who become sick to their stomach upon hearing the word “episiotomy”)
These Old War Stories, as I call them, should be avoided at all cost by people like me. If they cannot, it is best to avert your attention from them and try to concentrate on something else. Also, DO NOT, under any circumstances ask questions, regardless of how apparently simple they seem, or even if they are close ended questions. By asking, you – one who has not actually given birth – are inviting an onslaught of discomforting images and descriptions. Trust me.
Lesson #7: Don’t Listen.
I learned in psychology class about how smells and sounds can trigger a lost or forgotten memory. At the time, I thought this was pretty cool; hearing an old song, and being able remember something fun that happened as a child. Now, however, I wish this phenomenon did not exist.
Remember that things were going so smoothly we though we may have a new world record time speed delivery in the making. Well, not only did that not happen, but also the things that did happen were not pleasant for Deb or for myself. Suddenly, the birth was not going well at all.
Luke (we didn’t know him by that name at the time) was positioned in a way that made it very difficult for Deb to deliver him. He was coming the right way, but his head was facing the wrong direction during this very important time. (remind you of anyone he’s related to?) The nurses called it “posterior”. I didn’t remember what that meant so I violated lesson # 6, and asked. Bad move.
I received a quick lesson on positioning and childbirth and all those icky charts and foreign terms that don’t even sound pleasant were paraded before my eyes. The lesson actually wasn’t that bad, but then the nurse and doctor explained what they might have to do in order to deliver Luke. Complete with sound effects.
So as if I didn’t suffer enough through childbirth classes, the nursing staff gave me a summary of what we learned (or should have learned) in class – only they skipped over the fun stuff like breathing exercises, and went over the icky stuff, which I will not discuss here.
Again, I heard way more than I wanted to, and think at that point I was feeling worse than Deb was. Although at that point, she would contend there was NO WAY POSSIBLE I could be feeling worse than she was. And, of course, she was right. (I really do mean that)
Again, details of the subjects covered are too delicate for some of the reading audience. You’ll just have to trust me you don not want to hear it.
Lesson #8: Don’t Look.
I didn’t obey this lesson very well either. My darn curiosity outweighed my aversion to negative experiences. After plan A and plan B to deliver Luke had failed, they decided to move on to the Cesarean section; appropriately named Plan C. At this point, I was wondering if they were going to call in the Cat in the Hat and let Little Cat Z VOOOM away. As it all turned out, I think I would have preferred that.
Because the delivery had progressed so smoothly and quickly, Deb had dilated too far too fast to be given any pain medication at this point. Deb was in pain, and was not shy in letting everyone know it. (Thus making it very tough to obey lesson number 7)
So she’s in pain, and all the sudden she gets mobbed by nurses as the doctor slides out the door. One nurse is drawing blood, another giving a shot of something to make her body shake – which isn’t really what it’s for, but that’s what it did – one is taking blood pressures, one temperatures, and one more getting fingerprints for the birth certificate. If I was she, I probably would have said ‘forget this’ and got up and left. She was a trooper though – as usual.
Then, when the attack was nearly complete, the doctor who would be doing Plan C came in and is read over a document for her to sign to give consent for the operation. This kills me. There you are, laying in bed in extreme pain, and a doctor is reading a waiver to you. Yeah, as if you’re going to say, “No thanks. I don’t want to receive pain medication, and have you deliver this baby a painless way, I’d rather suffer some more and try to do it the ‘natural’ way.” What even funnier about this, is Deb had been given that medication to make her muscles shake (it actually did have some purpose) and she still had to sign the waiver this doctor read to her. Keep in mind this entire attack is taking place without any concern for the several contractions she was experiencing. (Caring facility, my hamstring)
Finally they were ready to wheel us to the operating room. This of course was on the basement floor, and Deb had to be lifted to a gurney and brought downstairs. The elevator stopped on every floor on the way down – of course – but our arrival was basically uneventful. Except for a couple more contractions.
When we got to the basement I had to go my way to scrub up for my debut as an assistant surgeon (cutting the umbilical cord) as Deb went hers to be further mobbed by hospital staff.
I wasn’t allowed to enter the operating room until after they had the pain medication in, so I waited outside; pacing back and forth all nervous and such. While pacing, I heard Deb scream in pain while they were trying to get the pain medication needle in. A bit later I heard her scream again. Miss number two. Now I’m getting mad. Another scream – indicating attempt number three – almost sent me through the door to put the darn thing in myself. If I had been allowed in I probably would have taken over after the first miss. That’s probably why spouses aren’t allowed inside until everything is ready to go.
By the time I got in to see her, Deb was feeling much better. Because she wasn’t feeling much. They had a hospital sheet over her except for where they needed to do the operating, and the sheet went over Deb’s face (but was elevated slightly) so that she couldn’t see what was going on. Lucky her. I got to sit at the head of the table so I could talk to her, but had full view of the operation. This concerned me, and I ducked down as close to Deb as I could. Not necessarily for wanting to be close to her, but more so to get out of view of the operation. (Sorry Deb)
Plan C was going well. Deb’s pain was gone, Luke was soon to be born, and we were ready to be a family. All was finally going fine. Then the nurse said, “Look, they’re suctioning [his nose and mouth] your baby.” I looked to see the head of Luke, our beautiful mucus covered baby, coming out between an incision made in Deb’s tummy. A moment later they pulled him out, and he was born. That sight – as wonderful as it was – still has a somewhat haunting air to it.
I know I saw what I saw – reminding me of that movie “Humanoids From the Deep” – but something in my brain had learned something this day, and what I saw did not fully register in my collective conscience. (I fear, although, it’s lurking in there somewhere just waiting for me)
Lesson #9: You Are Who You Are
I really didn’t have any desire to cut the umbilical cord, but I prepared for my debut as surgeon as if all eyes would be on me while I cut. I knew they would be since this father cutting the cord to symbolize baby’s release from mother is so blasted idolized.
For some reason unknown to me, its almost every dad’s dream these days to start the bonding process by cutting the cord. For me, it seemed not very necessary. I knew I would have my bonding time for many years to come, I didn’t need to make a production of this moment of his birth. But that’s just me.
However I caved in under peer pressure. Not coincidentally from the same nurse that made me look at Luke’s head sticking out. So they took Luke over to an infant table thing that I didn’t really notice, (remembering lesson #8) and a nurse gave me a scissors to cut this cream colored coily thing. I did so without applause or fanfare or any significant feeling of accomplishment. It had all the importance of clipping my toenails – symbolic or not.
It hit me later upon reflection that cutting the cord was pretty much pointless anyway, since the doctors had to have cut it after delivering him so the nurses could take him 30 feet away to the infant table thing. At least I don’t remember stepping over a 30-foot cream colored coily thing on the way to cutting it, so that must have been the case. Well, so much for my debut as surgeon. Guess I better just stick to humor newsletters.
Summary of the event.
Setting all humor aside for a bit, I can honestly say that, All in all, I would go through it again at the rapid lowering of a sombrero. (the drop of a hat)
The experience was grueling, but that also made it extra memorable. Everything from getting ready to leave in my boxer shorts to Deb having kept her socks on throughout the entire birth. (She was interrupted by a contraction while slipping into the hospital garb, and didn’t quite get around to removing socks. She also forgot the bouquet before walking down the aisle at our wedding, so this is par for her. Actually, I think she does these things on purpose to make these experiences more memorable – as if they weren’t already)
When you look at who we got out of the deal, it’s very difficult – if not impossible – to do any complaining whatsoever. (He’s so cute)
Heck, who knows, I may even be able to laugh at some of this down the road. Despite the fact that there is absolutely nothing funny about a C-section.