A Birth Story

September 27.

Your birth was scheduled. It took time, but I finally came to terms with that.

I found out the hard way with your sister that I was unable to have babies the way I had hoped. My pelvis is simply not the right size and shape to serve as a baby passage.

My doctor told me I could choose a date for the surgery. I launched into an internal over analytical calendar frenzy. It felt like the heaviest burden to choose a person’s birthday. For someone who believes that babies come when they are ready, on a specific day, when the moon is right, and all that other witchy shit… There simply was no way to choose the “correct” day. Because the correct day wouldn’t be chosen at all.

The day came to actually schedule the surgery. As I stood at the counter staring at my phone calendar, ready to commit to my chosen day, the lady told me that the Women’s Center would call me with a date after consulting the OR schedule and the doctor’s schedule.

I left feeling really disappointed and somewhat relieved. The weight of choosing your birthday was no longer on me. The universe stepped in after all.

The Women’s Center called later that same day. September 27 - It was the day I had chosen, but didn’t get to choose.

Ezra, the wait was nearly longer than your mama could bear but, as I suppose they say - and as I type this with you here napping in my arms - you were worth it

Everyone has a story, dear Ezra. This is yours.

——

The night before you came, we were up late. Your dad had a night flight and family was arriving from Tennessee. I went to sleep around midnight and my alarm went off at 4:30am. While everyone else was sleeping, I took a bath and washed my pregnant body in the weird soap the doctor gave me to use before surgery.

Before leaving, I checked the hospital bag one final time. I had packed it weeks in advance under some delusional belief that you’d be arriving before we reached our scheduled delivery date. But - you know - ships sail.

We left before sunrise, without waking the slumbering family members. Though there was no sign of daylight, the main road on post was closed for PT. We waited for the guys with the glowing batons to motion us across the closed road while soldiers laden down with ruck bags trudged back and forth in front of us.

We were taken to our room once we arrived, where I changed into a gown and waited for the procession of nurses and doctors to begin coming in. The anesthesiologist came and introduced himself. After him and your dad finished discussing Tennessee football, we discussed the spinal I’d be getting. I expressed concern over my blood pressure dropping, which is common in spinal blocks. I already have low pressure, just while living. He assured me they’d be monitoring everything and that in the event that it did drop, they’d give me something through my IV to raise it.

A nurse placed an IV in my hand. I was nervous about this part, having received a monumentally shitty IV when Violet was born. It went smoothly. She was completely done and had secured it with tape when I promptly lost consciousness. Something called a vasovagal response, which I have a history of.

“A sudden drop in heart rate and blood pressure leading to fainting, often in reaction to a stressful trigger.” It’s basically a fainting episode with some twitching/convulsing thrown in. Oh, and loss of bladder control. Real fun.

Fortunately, your father knew something was about to happen to me before I even knew. When I regained consciousness, I was out of sorts and confused. My vision was very blurred and all I could see was neverending orange. As things came into focus, I realized it was his Tennessee shirt, as he was poised over my hospital bed telling me to breathe.

The aforementioned slumbering family arrived, including the eager big sister equipped with a disposable camera in hand. She had to be taught the primitive click-and-spin action. The nervous moments before being taken to the OR were filled with the nostalgic sound.

Surgery was scheduled for 9am and my doctor punctually came and retrieved me. Your dad and Aunt Sissy came with me. They were given scrubs to put on and asked to stay outside the arena while I was prepped and given the spinal.

After my expressed concern of my blood pressure bottoming out, and then it happening already that morning over much smaller matters, they simultaneously pushed something to raise my blood pressure as the spinal was administered. As I laid back and felt warm, tingly numbness creep up my body, my heart rate began to drop. So then I received an intravenous cocktail for that too. Everything leveled off eventually, but not before I thought my lungs were going numb rendering me unable to breathe (they weren’t).

They executed a series of tests to ensure my spinal was successful and that I couldn’t feel anything other than some pressure. With my first c-section, I was told I would feel lots of pressure. I felt nothing.

Your father and aunt were brought in as the procedure began. I couldn’t see much because of the drape in front of me, so I relied heavily on listening to what was happening. A nurse called out some times to be recorded. Spinal administered at 9:00. Incision made at 9:08. Things were moving efficiently.

The procedure had seemingly just began when the doctor announced that it was almost baby time. The head nurse - by that I mean the nurse who took up residence at my literal head - told me to get ready to feel lots of pressure. I scoffed at this internally, after the great nothingness I felt last time. The noggin nurse was right. So. Much. Damn. Pressure. I thought they were ripping my body in half, honestly.

I could tell they were pulling, aware that my body was being jostled about on the table. Then Dr. Scott instructed everyone to stop. He repositioned himself to push/pull from a different place and there were mumblings from the team about you being big. Your father swears Dr. Scott’s feet came off the floor with the effort he had to put forth to get you out. Someone said, “There he is!” and I heard the doctor exclaim, “Good grief!” Then I heard your wonderful screaming cry. 9:16 am.

Tears stung my eyes as they immediately held you up for me to see. You looked like a steamed dumpling, wrinkly and loud. Then Dr. Scott turned you towards your dad and said, “Look what you made!” I had an appointment just the day prior and after feeling around on my belly he had predicted you’d be a good 7 lbs. I told him you felt bigger. He admitted that Ben was a large guy, but didn’t think we’d have a knuckle-dragger. As I lay on the operating table, Dr. Scott told me I hid you well. Later on, he told me it was your cheeks giving him the trouble of getting you out. When they weighed you, the whole room reacted as the scale read 9lb 0oz. You were 21” long.

Your weight at your gestational age fell within a range that warranted a check of your blood sugar. It was normal. You were truly just big, and not diabetic. Should I have another baby, I will surely take up smoking.

I should also mention my relief that you were born toothless, for I dreamed multiple times that you were born with all your teeth. We could have skipped all the teething woes that way.

Violet’s first observation about you was that you were “very smooth.” I nursed you as the lactation assistant stood ready to help. She ended up leaving as soon as she came, saying that I clearly had it figured out. You did too.

Welcome to the world sweet Ezra, our world anyway. We’re so happy you’re here.