LJ Idol - Week 14: Precognition
LJ Idol - Week 14: Precognition
At stupid o'clock in the morning on a Friday in April of 2005, I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could and roused tartqueen from a brief and fitful night's sleep on the couch. I made coffee and filled as many thermoses as I could find because if there's one universal truth in this world, it's that hospital coffee is lousy. We drew the pre-dawn out as long as we could before waking my wife, trying to give her as much sleep as possible. It would likely be a long several days. We packed the coffee, the jump bag, and a small assortment of entertainment options into the car and together we shambled like zombies into the hospital where dawny_darko would be induced into labor. Her pregnancy had gone longer than our doctor preferred. Not yet too long, in any sense of the word, but long enough. In spite of our reluctance to intervene, the baby would be more firmly prompted to come.
Once we were settled in at the hospital, a number of calls went out and we were joined by our closest family for the event. At 6:30 or so in the morning, pitocin was administered and Dawny's water was broken. We all hoped for a short, easy trip through labor.
We might as well have wished for a paid vacation in Magical Fairy Land. Labor went long and hard and while I'm sure it's an exaggeration, a nurse seemed to come in every fifteen minutes to administer more pitocin. And while it might sound like an exaggeration, things ramped up exponentially each time more pitocin was administered. Yet the baby, our son, wasn't cooperating. Labor was described as "productive" but he wasn't coming out. Sometime around noon one of the nurses warned us that a C-section was being discussed. Hours later, in what we thought was an unrelated point, we learned that our doctor had traded shifts with someone so she could be there with us as long as she needed to be. We were pleased at her obvious dedication, completely oblivious to the set-up.
We didn't want surgery. There wasn't any specific reason discussed other than a natural reluctance to be cut open and a healthy fear of recovery complications. It just wasn't how we wanted the day to go. The nurses were very understanding. I'm pretty sure they didn't actually laugh satanically when they cranked up the pitocin, but they might as well have, given how the contractions and discomfort increased so much each time. Things got even longer and harder, but we kept pushing, we kept breathing, we kept joking, and we kept trying to draw our son out as naturally as we were allowed.
The hours passed and things only got more intense. The labor continued and it was exhausting even for me, who was only there to breathe and be supportive. It came to the point where Dawny and I were actually napping in the seconds between contractions. After some fifteen hours of hard labor, we were informed that our doctor was on her way in and she had determined that a C-section was probably necessary. We tried to resist but an exam revealed that our son's head was wedged in, not aligned properly, and he just wouldn't come out naturally.
We made brave faces at each other, we might have cried even, but things happened quickly from there. In short order, Dawny was wheeled out in her bed and TartQueen and I were left in the room, also making brave faces at each other, while Dawny was prepped. All of a sudden the day had taken a terrifying turn. I didn't want surgery, I didn't want her to go into that room. I knew, I knew with everything I had, what would happen.
"If she goes into that operating room, only one of them will come out."
I was watching the end of my life as I knew it rolling out of the room and down the hall, and I couldn't bear to even mention it because I was afraid it would somehow be more true if I uttered even a word. That perhaps I would close the door myself on any chance of everything going smoothly. I drew myself up as much as I could and I hurried off to tell our families, huddled in the waiting room.
"He's not coming out. They're prepping Dawny for surgery."
"When?"
"Now. I have to go."
I hurried back and quickly changed into a set of scrubs that were provided and waited until it was time to join my wife in the operating room. The world looks different when it's crashing and burning and no one else knows it. Lights are brighter, sounds reverberate more, and colors are more vibrant. You can feel an electrical current bleeding out of the confines of the omnipresent wires that guide it, bouncing off of walls and dancing between people. There wasn't any sensation of time slowing, though. It all went so damned fast.
My brave face included an easy smile and as many comforting words as I could muster. I held her hand and I stroked her face. I told her I loved her and we talked easily about the procedure as though everything was going to come out alright. As though the world wasn't falling to pieces. No one else seemed to realize how close everything was to exploding apart and I'd be damned if I was going to be the one who gave it all away.
But something amazing happened.
The doctors did their jobs swiftly and competently. What complications arose were dealt with with grace and aplomb and nothing horrifying happened. In time my son was drawn out of my wife's stomach, though because of how he was wedged in there was somewhat of a struggle to pull him out. He was swept across the room to a cleaning station and I quickly followed, my eyes always flitting back and forth between him and my wife. Both of whom appeared healthy and well, my son screamed in a strong and beautiful manner until I finally got to hold him in my arms. I carried him over to my wife and for the first time we were all together as a family. Rather, for the first time I was with them and could share in their physical bond.
My son was covered in bits of blood and horror and there were doctors still rooting around inside of my wife, but we were together.
For everything that went against plan, for all the struggle of the prior sixteen hours, we were together. I have never been more happy to have been so wrong. It shouldn't have been a surprise, really. Postcognition is hard enough for me, some days.
This is the third consecutive week of writing with a partner, our fates intertwined. This week I had the honor of working with kittenboo, who's entry for this week can be read here.
At stupid o'clock in the morning on a Friday in April of 2005, I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could and roused tartqueen from a brief and fitful night's sleep on the couch. I made coffee and filled as many thermoses as I could find because if there's one universal truth in this world, it's that hospital coffee is lousy. We drew the pre-dawn out as long as we could before waking my wife, trying to give her as much sleep as possible. It would likely be a long several days. We packed the coffee, the jump bag, and a small assortment of entertainment options into the car and together we shambled like zombies into the hospital where dawny_darko would be induced into labor. Her pregnancy had gone longer than our doctor preferred. Not yet too long, in any sense of the word, but long enough. In spite of our reluctance to intervene, the baby would be more firmly prompted to come.
Once we were settled in at the hospital, a number of calls went out and we were joined by our closest family for the event. At 6:30 or so in the morning, pitocin was administered and Dawny's water was broken. We all hoped for a short, easy trip through labor.
We might as well have wished for a paid vacation in Magical Fairy Land. Labor went long and hard and while I'm sure it's an exaggeration, a nurse seemed to come in every fifteen minutes to administer more pitocin. And while it might sound like an exaggeration, things ramped up exponentially each time more pitocin was administered. Yet the baby, our son, wasn't cooperating. Labor was described as "productive" but he wasn't coming out. Sometime around noon one of the nurses warned us that a C-section was being discussed. Hours later, in what we thought was an unrelated point, we learned that our doctor had traded shifts with someone so she could be there with us as long as she needed to be. We were pleased at her obvious dedication, completely oblivious to the set-up.
We didn't want surgery. There wasn't any specific reason discussed other than a natural reluctance to be cut open and a healthy fear of recovery complications. It just wasn't how we wanted the day to go. The nurses were very understanding. I'm pretty sure they didn't actually laugh satanically when they cranked up the pitocin, but they might as well have, given how the contractions and discomfort increased so much each time. Things got even longer and harder, but we kept pushing, we kept breathing, we kept joking, and we kept trying to draw our son out as naturally as we were allowed.
The hours passed and things only got more intense. The labor continued and it was exhausting even for me, who was only there to breathe and be supportive. It came to the point where Dawny and I were actually napping in the seconds between contractions. After some fifteen hours of hard labor, we were informed that our doctor was on her way in and she had determined that a C-section was probably necessary. We tried to resist but an exam revealed that our son's head was wedged in, not aligned properly, and he just wouldn't come out naturally.
We made brave faces at each other, we might have cried even, but things happened quickly from there. In short order, Dawny was wheeled out in her bed and TartQueen and I were left in the room, also making brave faces at each other, while Dawny was prepped. All of a sudden the day had taken a terrifying turn. I didn't want surgery, I didn't want her to go into that room. I knew, I knew with everything I had, what would happen.
"If she goes into that operating room, only one of them will come out."
I was watching the end of my life as I knew it rolling out of the room and down the hall, and I couldn't bear to even mention it because I was afraid it would somehow be more true if I uttered even a word. That perhaps I would close the door myself on any chance of everything going smoothly. I drew myself up as much as I could and I hurried off to tell our families, huddled in the waiting room.
"He's not coming out. They're prepping Dawny for surgery."
"When?"
"Now. I have to go."
I hurried back and quickly changed into a set of scrubs that were provided and waited until it was time to join my wife in the operating room. The world looks different when it's crashing and burning and no one else knows it. Lights are brighter, sounds reverberate more, and colors are more vibrant. You can feel an electrical current bleeding out of the confines of the omnipresent wires that guide it, bouncing off of walls and dancing between people. There wasn't any sensation of time slowing, though. It all went so damned fast.
My brave face included an easy smile and as many comforting words as I could muster. I held her hand and I stroked her face. I told her I loved her and we talked easily about the procedure as though everything was going to come out alright. As though the world wasn't falling to pieces. No one else seemed to realize how close everything was to exploding apart and I'd be damned if I was going to be the one who gave it all away.
But something amazing happened.
The doctors did their jobs swiftly and competently. What complications arose were dealt with with grace and aplomb and nothing horrifying happened. In time my son was drawn out of my wife's stomach, though because of how he was wedged in there was somewhat of a struggle to pull him out. He was swept across the room to a cleaning station and I quickly followed, my eyes always flitting back and forth between him and my wife. Both of whom appeared healthy and well, my son screamed in a strong and beautiful manner until I finally got to hold him in my arms. I carried him over to my wife and for the first time we were all together as a family. Rather, for the first time I was with them and could share in their physical bond.
My son was covered in bits of blood and horror and there were doctors still rooting around inside of my wife, but we were together.
For everything that went against plan, for all the struggle of the prior sixteen hours, we were together. I have never been more happy to have been so wrong. It shouldn't have been a surprise, really. Postcognition is hard enough for me, some days.
This is the third consecutive week of writing with a partner, our fates intertwined. This week I had the honor of working with kittenboo, who's entry for this week can be read here.