Back by popular demand: the Delivery Room Dispatch. I apologize now that it has been a long, tough wonderful day, and I am struggling to piece together coherent sentences. Just as well, though, I don’t believe the combined genius of 100 poet laureates could come close to describing the joy and excitement that gripped us today. Acknowledging that I’m incapable of writing anything short, I commit to this: I will only send out a “brief” e-mail tonight but I promise that the blog (http://elleandbelleadventures.blogspot.com) will be updated regularly. Some may have already noticed that we “blogged” the baby’s birth.
For those in a hurry and don’t want to wade through the entire e-mail:
Name: Isabella McHardie (middle name not yet chosen)
Time of Birth: 1:40 p.m.
Date of Birth: Aug. 8, 2006
Weight: 6 lbs 11 ounces
Length: 19.25 inches
Fingers: 10
Toes: 10
Smile: Can light up a house
Whenever Lisa walks down the stairs at 9:30 p.m., it is never good. Normally it is because I’ve left the television on too loud. Last night she walked into the den, calmly looked at me and said, “I’m pretty sure my water just broke.” And broke it had, a dozen days ahead of schedule. When it comes to our daughters, they always go on their own schedules. We dialled Linda who promptly came over to look after Elle as we went to the hospital and we also called grand-papa and grand-maman because we would need overnight reinforcements.
Driving to the hospital brought back so many memories of Jan. 18, 2005. Although the seasons were completely different and we were driving at night versus first thing in the morning, there was this palpable sense of excitement. That sense of parental anticipation is as unique as it is overwhelming. Making our way to the Dr. Everett Chalmers Hospital was a bit more comfortable this time, riding in our new minivan and chatting about the news and the baby and not whether we were going to get caught in a snowdrift.
Because this baby is almost two weeks early, we hadn’t dropped off the pre-admittance forms at the hospital. So we sauntered into the emergency room, where the nurse took one look at the very pregnant woman and the doting husband loaded down with three bags and said, “Um, you want Labour and Delivery. Just go down that hall.” It’s like we had “expecting parents” tattooed on our foreheads. Once we were settled into our third floor room, we took our obligatory picture of Lisa on the bed, wired up to the machines and the one of Lisa and I taken with my outstretched arm. Shortly after our little routine was out of the way – and as we expected – we were sent home. The water had clearly broken but there weren’t any contractions.
Jump ahead about eight hours, Elle is at the sitter’s, grandparents are in Fredericton and we’re now back in the hospital, but two rooms down. (Sandwiched in between the room we were in the night before and the one now, is the one Elle was born in.)
The clock had just hit 9 a.m. when we waltzed in the door and within 90 minutes, Lisa was induced. Oh the memories. Contractions, they always start slowly and – from what I’ve been told – almost bearable. As the minutes ticked by and the contractions were still unreliable, the dose of oxytocin went up and up. Two centimetres dilated at 10:30 a.m., by noon we were up to around 4 centimetres. To put our progress in this delivery into perspective compared to Elle for those who are visual learners, imagine standing on the goal line of a soccer pitch, cast your eyes to the same spot on the other side of the field, now quadruple that. This was great, Lisa was breathing well, I was coaching well, the nurse was nursing well. We were all well. Then the fun started.
It wasn’t long after I blogged the noon update when I knew my life was about to get crazy. The inducing drugs were really ramping up and the contractions were surging in severity and narrowing in any sustained reprieve. True to herself, Lisa soldiered her way through the pain with the assistance of some painkillers. There was some comedic relief in the Great Laughing Gas Debacle (trademark pending) but that is another story. What happened next will live with me for the rest of my life. I’m staring at the little green numbers that rate the contractions, I didn’t need to see those digits soar past 60 to know that the pain was escalating, my hands were being nearly ripped off. Seriously, but for the grace of God are my fingers still attached. It was touch and go for awhile there. At this point, the nurse was trying to get a doctor, Lisa was asking for the epidural but by the time the specialist showed up it was too late. The baby’s head was about to come out. Only 15 minutes ago, she was at five centimetres dilated.
Still no doctor. It’s Lisa, the nurse, myself and a baby who has decided that she wants a taste of some real oxygen. Without boring you with a lot of additional details, what I will mention is this; I started feeling a little dizzy when the nurse looked panicked, tried calling a doctor and all I could see was movement happening when I didn’t think it should. One second I was watching my wife pushing out our child the next thing I had been transplanted on the set of “I Dream of Genie” or some similar ‘60s sitcom. Staring down at me were four nurses all in matching floral uniforms, calling my name in unison as if I were some rock star or cult like figure and in the background was this pale pink paint that really didn’t appeal to me. I looked around wondering to myself how lucky could I be that these four nurses were all shouting my name, but then I would refocus on the pink, it clearly needed to go. Then it hit me, I was in a hospital and I had just collapsed. Apparently I owe the Gap some major props because the only thing that saved me from clanging my noggin on an oxygen tank is my nice pair of Gap khakis. How long I was out for, I’m not 100 per cent sure. But when I stood up, a doctor was running into the room and that baby was seconds from birth. Sheepishly I took a seat beside my wife, who was now not only being my rock of support but delivering a child. I held her hand, it was the least I could do, actually at that time, it was the most I could do too. Five minutes later, out came our little daughter. Yes a daughter. As I’m sure we will tell her many times throughout her life, we were so sure it was going to be a boy. We are absolutely ecstatic as you can guess, although we are both sharing in our joy sitting down. I stumbled onto my feet long enough to cut the umbilical cord before those stars started reappearing. A few minutes later, I managed to snap a few photos as she was being cleaned up and examined. That was a stroke of pure genius because I almost reacquainted myself with that ‘60s sitcom again trying to find my chair. This is particularly humbling considering I prided myself after Elle was born for being strong and not becoming a stereotypically, weak-stomached man at the first sight of blood. It wasn’t to be my day.
Within minutes of being welcomed into the world, our new daughter was happily nursing. I will never, ever get tired of seeing that mother-daughter bond that develops instantaneously. It is a wonderful sight to behold. Our little baby girl was a little dopey after she was born, so she had to spend the next six hours – not consecutive – in the neo-natal intensive care unit, just to be monitored.
Jump ahead another 90 minutes and we are now about to introduce the sisters.
Bringing Elle to meet her little sister has been a worry of ours, well particularly Lisa, for roughly nine months now. Elle is a very independent and strong-willed little woman. She likes her world to unfold in a certain way and abhors any unnecessary disruptions. Well Elle, meet your new sister and your new match. The encounter went surprising well, although she is only 18 months and has very little idea that the little bundle of blankets with two tiny eyes poking out through the hole is actually coming home with us in a few days. I brought her into the NICU and told her we had to be quiet, so as she walked by any nurse who happened to be talking, she would squeal, “Hi!” and then bring her pointing finger to her lips and just as emphatically say, “Shhh.” She did that for about 10 minutes. Words cannot describe those moments or the time she first leaned over to kiss her sister and then to rub her blanket. I’m getting goose bumps four hours after the fact.
This was supposed to be a short e-mail, it is no longer. I’m ending the synopsis of today’s journey here. Lisa and Isabella are doing well. The blog will get more updates as there is news to share.
Stay tuned.
