Blair Taffan. Nov. 25, 2000.
As I prepare to write this chronicle of events surrounding the birth of my son, I am beset on all sides by emotion. In fact, I almost neglected to write anything at all because the emotions are so powerful and confusing that I don’t think that I am capable of an accurate verbal description. It is such a wonderful and unfamiliar feeling, I think it may defy mere words. Truly, it can only be experienced. Nevertheless, for the sake of posterity (and at the behest of my mother), I shall try.
My beautiful wife is nine months pregnant, but you’d never know it. She isn’t that big in the belly. She is emotionally more stable than ever before, and she is as active as can be. She does have a glow and I know the event is imminent.
The past nine months have been,...well,...uneventful. The pregnancy was healthy and smooth. We have both gone through an array of emotions, but have not had much time to reflect on them since I have been working ridiculous hours while she tried to tend to our domestics. Nine months ago I received the ‘the call’ from Jenn. She was out of town and I was, as always, at work. We had been trying for two years without any luck and were somewhat discouraged. We didn’t want too many years between Rory (now 4) and his sibling. You can imagine how excited we were when it finally happened.
I knew I had a lot to learn, but I wasn’t so afraid as everyone assured me I should be. Unsolicited free advice is in no shortage when you’re ‘expecting’. I was excited, full of anticipation,...joy,...fear,...Oh God, it was overwhelming! The nine months dragged on and in the end, we were both just surviving her physical state. I was still thrilled, but there was work to be done and nine months of anticipation would have killed me. I suppose I subconsciously forgot about it so I wouldn’t go crazy. The occasional kick from Jenn’s belly gave me butterflies all over again...just a reminder every once in a while.
I did some reading, listened to people and talked to Jenn. One thing I have learned: the list of things which you need to prepare is much smaller than the books, the advice-givers, et al will suggest. A lot of people seem to think that having a baby is a trauma to be managed and feared. I have found nothing to support that theory. No matter what you bring to the hospital, baby still comes when baby wants to come, and the little details become insignificant and remote compared to the full-fledged miracle in your arms.
It is November 22nd, 2000. Jenn’s due date is officially November 30th. The house has slowly begun to accumulate paraphernalia solicited primarily from the generosity of relatives. Decor now includes a crib here, a baby monitor there, diapers in the cupboard, and more. Jenn drops me off at work at noon for what promises to be another long, boring day. At 1:30, she rushes back in announcing that her water has broken and that I’m leaving. Still uncertain about how real the situation is, I actually ask her if she’s sure this is really it. She strongly assures me that it is for real. I make a few frantic phone calls and I’m out the door.
We decide to stop at home for some down time before leaving for the hospital. At about 3:30 our anticipated 5:00 departure time is bumped up, and once again, I’m out the door. I can only sympathize with the contractions she’s describing.
Pre-registration allows us to stroll right up to the labour-delivery ward where we found our room much nicer than expected. Jenn is very quiet and beginning to feel a lot more discomfort. The time of labour was officially five hours but it seemed like a flash. Jenn’s contractions are becoming stronger and her ‘no-painkillers-unless-necessary’ plan is quickly disposed. I suspected as much.
By now, a team of nurses have flocked around Jenn with unintelligible tasks and jibberish. “Effacement”, “contraction”, “five centimetres”, “phenazenazol”....What language are they speaking?!? I feel awkward and in the way. They assure me I’m not. The doctor takes forever to arrive with Jenn’s anaesthesia and in fact, I had to inquire after her more than once at Jenn’s request before she arrived.
Jenn looks scared and in pain. The butterflies in my stomach have grown to the size of pterodactyls and I feel faint. The nurses suggest I sit down. Their pace is even more frantic now, but they all seem so calm! Jenn’s contractions become apparent to me because every time she gets one, she abruptly plants the nitrous-oxide mask on her face and squeezes my hand. I can’t imagine what she’s feeling. Slowly we build up to it. Her contractions (and my hand squeezes) become stronger but her pauses between are very long (up to 60 seconds) in which she is surprisingly placid and calm. Even the nurses comment on it.
Jenn wants to start pushing now. I can see she’s eager to get going and get it done. The nurses agree that she’s ready and the games begin. At this point, my memory becomes confused. I remember Jenn screaming louder than ever before. With some coaxing, she moves off her side into the birthing position. She looks at me during the birth and begs me to stop the pain. I feel helpless and useless....and faint. I’ve never seen her in so much pain and I desperately want it to stop. Jenn looks at me so meekly and whispers, “Dave”, for me to come closer. I’ve never felt so needed in my life. I stay right by her head telling her, “It’s okay, it’ll be over soon, she’s doing great”. I’m lying because I’m guessing, but as it turns out, I was right. My hand has gone numb from squeezing. Eventually I have to adjust my hand position because she’s squeezing so tightly, my wedding ring cuts into my hand. She starts screaming again and it looks to me like she’s going to blow the baby through her neck. I’m pushing on her head to keep her chin to her chest where the nurses want it. She’s fighting me with screams and she has become remarkably strong. I keep holding her.
The baby is two thirds out and from where I’m now standing I can see most of it. Another couple of seconds and nine months of unrevealing ultrasounds are answered all at once. It is a boy......a 6 lb., 6 oz. baby boy. He is tiny...and looks just like Jenn!
Now the emotions hit me but I somehow manage to maintain composure. Jenn seems alright so I stand curiously behind the nurses as they cut the umbilical and fuss about the baby. In moments, he’s in my arms and pictures are flashing. The irritating sound from the baby warmer that the nurses had trouble turning off (it sounded like our alarm clock), the quick visit from Mom with Rory.....they all seem like surreal memories during her labour.....distant and foggy. I feel scared, proud, excited, joyous like never before. I can’t believe this little guy exists! He’s real! He’s in my arms. Oh God, I love him! I know I’m grinning from ear to ear. He’s perfect. I checked. All fingers and toes intact and just beautiful.
The nurse hands the baby to Jenn and she smiles at me. They look so serene together. I remember chuckling because the baby looked like a glo-worm: a shining, round, bald head perched atop a tightly wrapped bundle of blankets. Somehow, Jenn looks more beautiful than she ever has before and I am overwhelmed. Three pages later, I re-iterate that there’s no way to describe the feeling.....it’s just great!
Within an hour most of my phone calls are done and I’m in the car on my way to McDonald’s for a very hungry Mommy. Jenn has bounced back with her usual resilience and you’d never know she even gave birth. I’m in the car crying and laughing simultaneously. When I figure out why, I’ll tell you.
Epilogue:
In retrospect, I can only laugh at my own egocentrism. I generally think of babies as loud and ugly, but every sound Blair makes is like a beautiful symphony, and every expression a work of art. He’s so gorgeous when I look at him, my heart fills with love and feels like it will burst right through my chest.
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