THE DELIVERY & MICROWAVE BRATWURST
DECEMBER
It was a routine visit. Another morning appointment of fetal heart testing and then the ultrasound. We had gone from once a month visits at the University of Chicago to once a week.
Everything was routine, the same techs, the same parking spot, the same Au Bon Pain, the same wonky results.
But this time, this ultrasound missed a beat - a rhythm in the technician's comments, her stance, her facial expression. I asked her what was wrong. She said nothing really but she wanted to get the doctor.
In walked Doctor Ishmael (the man is a Godsend who specializes in high risk pregnancies.) He looked over the ultrasound screen and looked and looked.
Lizeth was okay, she was calm but either she took my hand or I took hers.
The doctor told us the embryonic fluid was getting too low. He said they may have to extract the baby.
I said, "when you say, 'extract the baby,' what do you mean?"
He said, "deliver early."
I said, "when you say, 'deliver early,' what do you mean?"
He said, "deliver early."
We rode home with fear again.
LATE DECEMBER
It was after Christmas but before New Year's Eve. We had routinely been going up to the hospital.
We had gone from once a month to once a week to once every three days. Each time was a fluid check of the womb and an understanding that each visit could be THE visit. Each visit we went packed with clothes and hope.
And fear.
At night, some late night in late December, I was either playing the Xbox or reading or writing. I looked over and Lizeth was rubbing her stomach. Because of the lowered fluid, she could not feel Orlando moving, she had lost that sensation that had brought her so many sleepless nights, urgent bathroom trips and sheer joy. I asked her what she was thinking.
With eyes so big that only the tears of a frightened mother could fill them, she looked at me and said, "I can't feel him."
Then Lizeth asked, "What if he's dead inside me?"
I looked up for divine strength.
Then I looked her in her eyes. "Honey, if you want, we'll go straight to the hospital right now but the doctor said that they would find the same results. The baby is fine. It’s just the fluid."
She eventually went to sleep.
I had continued to play the role of support, the role of 'everything was going to be alright.'
But, as night crept along, my status as daddy was an occupation that required me to sing hope even when I was plagued with terror. It was an occupation that only required me to feel powerless.
I wondered where the line was between hope and delusion, faithful speak and spoken lies?
JANUARY
THURSDAY
Orlando had made it this far. Through Lizeth's constant drinking of water, she managed to keep the fluid levels high enough that he would be a one month preemie instead of two.
Another visit.
The University of Chicago.
Another half-day at work, another race home, another race up the expressway to the same parking garage, the same techs and the same anxiety.
Our baby was becoming distressed. My wife was getting ill.
While this visit showed acceptable fluid levels, it brought a new concern into play - Lizeth's blood pressure was high, very high.
The doctor and nurse would talk to her with a sing-song in their voice; a "everything is okay" sound but when they spoke with me in hallways and outside of examinations, they spoke a serious truth that was only growing more dire each day.
Worrisome.
They told us that Lizeth's blood pressure would have to be taken every few hours. They wanted regular phone calls to keep track of her evolving preeclampsia, a rise in blood pressure during pregnancy.
THURSDAY EARLY EVENING
We got the blood pressure checked at a local doctor's office. Five minutes and a co-pay later we were heading home.
From the car, Lizeth called University of Chicago and spoke with our doctor's nurse. She told her vitals to the woman on the other end of the phone. Karen, I believe her name was, asked to speak to me in sing-song. My wife gave me the smart-device and I answered with an up-tempo sound to my voice - my own sing-song.
Karen had no song for me. She said "Chad, you need to get her up here immediately."
I sighed and nodded. "Do we have time to pack?"
FRIDAY
We had been in the hospital since Thursday night.
I had gone off on a nurse who was terrible. All others were amazing. Professional, attentive and on their game.
Orlando and Lizeth were in the best hands on Earth.
I often just waited. Or I watched. Once again, fatherhood was an exercise in futility.
It was early in the morning and they had tried to induce labor the day before with almost no result. They tried the Pitocin drip to get little man to arrive but there was no luck.
At 6:45am in the morning, a group of doctors and doctors-in-training entered the room and began to tell us about the need for an emergency C-section.
In addition to them bringing dawn itself with them, according to the staff of white coats in the room, they were bringing less than desirable news. Lizeth was not dilating at all. Her blood pressure was skyrocketing and Orlando was getting restless. If they did not get involved, Lizeth would hemorrhage to death trying to deliver and Orlando would suffocate.
This was all extremely important to know.
Unfortunately, while this crack team of healers was telling us of almost impending doom, I had to pee. Like really pee. These doctors had cut me off from that morning pee that we all take, that one that you've been holding all night and find great relief from when you hit the bathroom in the morning.
But I hadn’t had that chance. I had to pee. I was not able to pay attention.
I actually said, "Excuse me, this is super important information but if I could just go to the bathroom so I can pay attention..."
Their demeanor changed, they were like "Sure, sure, sure...!" and they left the room.
After I finished my business, I called the doctors back in and said, "Okay, let's pick up at the doom and gloom and how we're going to avoid all that..."
SATURDAY MORNING
More testing. More hoping.
More waiting.
Most likely, it would be a C-section later this evening.
I was going to head back to Indiana for a shower, repacking our bags and to mail out some bills. There was a several hour window and I was going to use it.
As they wheeled Lizeth off for more tests, I told her I would be back very soon.
She grabbed my arm and said "Honey, if they make you choose, you choose the baby."
The staff looked at me and said, "That will be up to the doctor."
I thought, "I was about to choose Funyuns or a Kit-Kat, not which member of my family was going to die. What.the.hell!"
Hot water. Fresh clothes. I knew that if I didn't change my wardrobe soon, the hospital was going to burn my stuff. Partially for smell, partially for look and most likely for health and safety reasons.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
I looked at the phone. It was Lizeth calling. I answered the phone.
"Honey? What's up? What's going on?" Rather than a greeting or a question, it was instantaneous inquisition all in one breath. I swear the invisible lines of cell towers rattled and leaned from my stress.
"Baby," she answered, "They're taking me into surgery. They're going to wait for you as long as they can."
I looked at my mom and I knew my eyes were guest-plate big. My normal coffee brown tone had bled out to something in more of an eggshell or bone-white.
"They're going to get him out," I said to my mom. And my words were a hush but felt like a storm within.
My mom looked at me and had a mixture of smile on her face and concern. She knew the dangers of the C-Section but, more so as a parent, she knew the speed and ferocity of which I would be driving. She knew the rocket hum and the billowing clouds forming beneath my feet like any high-speed vehicle prepping to shatter speed limits and even gravity.
"Drive carefully, baby," she said.
And then I was gone.
###
Cline Avenue, 80/94, the Bishop, 90/94, 365 and 24/7 - all just numbers that I FLEW down, by and across. I am very certain that any angel that had free time on their hands was assigned to get me to the hospital in one piece. I ain't gonna lie, I sped like a bat out of hell. Once again.
I was getting far too good at hell-bat driving. Maybe they had a group or an association I would be joining. Maybe even a hell-bat Triple A?
Move over Meatloaf, I had a kid coming into this world and I was going to be there to greet him.
I swear I pulled into the exact same parking spot I had the day before. At this heightened level of adrenaline-riddled performance, I was unparalleled. Seriously. I was hitting the mark in terms of weaving through traffic, beating lights, finding parking, catching the elevator, running flights of stairs, moving through security - the last time I was that put together was the night when I sped to Michigan City and once again, it was her and him motivating me to red-line.
But that's what fathers do.
I hit the Nursery like lightning. And then it was paused lightning because the doors to the nursery were locked and you had to hit a button and then identify yourself and wait. And then wait a little bit more. Then there was a buzzer and the doors slowly opened automatically, so....
.... yeah, you see where I'm going with this. All that furious lightning stuff was stopped cold. I would have laughed had I not been so damn nervous.
The nurse greeted me with a coolness that further removed the anxiety from the moment.
"So, like..." she started, "You must be Dad."
I think she may have given me elevator eyes. I'll stick with the idea that she did so I can feel like I still had it going on.
"Yep," I answered, "That's me."
"Okay, go put this on and we'll take you to the room." I was handed a quick-dress scrub set that I could tell was designed for daddies-to-be. It was almost idiot-proof.
I walked out with my scrubs barely on but my Timberland boots poking out from my lime-green pants.
I told the nurse I had tried to put the shoe covers over my boots. No go.
"Sorry, I can't get these over my shoes."
"That's okay," she said with half-opened eyes. She was either automatically seductive or very sleepy. "Go on down that hallway and put on your mask. Congratulations, daddy."
Soon as I reached the room at the end of the hallway, I began to put my mask on.
My fingers were like lead. Dumb unresponsive lead.
I turned as another nurse entered to retrieve me. However, her initial response to me was not a positive one.
"Uh-uh," she began, "You need to put on those shoe covers."
So, I struggled but got them on over the Tim's.
Then I couldn't get my mask tied behind my head.
The nurse took the mask from me and turned me around. "First time dad?" she asked as she fixed the protective covering.
I laughed nervously. "That obvious?"
"Uh-huh," she agreed.
###
Sleepy Nurse had gotten me to Sassy Nurse.
Sassy Nurse was taking me down a long hall with dim lighting. I expected blinding white lights and, I don't know, like a line of babies moving past me but that wasn't the case. Hallway after hallway, door after door, I followed blindly, growing eager with every step.
Sassy nurse led me to a doorway and there I was - in the operating room.
Lizeth was laid out on a table with a plastic hair bubble thing going on and a blue curtain about mid-way down her body. If you've never been in an operating room, there were very bright lamps in the room, several metal cases of instruments and medical paraphernalia and a side room...well, off to the side. Wheeled machinery sits next to people waiting in the wings to spin things into place for emergencies and there are about ten medical personnel on deck. There's beeping, there's hissing and there's whirring sounds.
And there was chemically-gleeful Lizeth.
"Hoooneeey!" she said with a giant smile. "You made it!" She was in a very, very happy state of being.
I looked at her and then the doctors. "You guys gave her the good stuff!"
They nodded in agreement.
"Hey baby!" I said, "Yeah, I made it!"
"I love you," she said. "We're about to have a baby!"
"Yes, we are, " I answered.
The lead doctor, a female whose very presence was order in the room, gave me a look that was composure, assuredness and welcoming.
"Dad, what end do you want? Which side of the curtain?"
Someone behind me asked "Are you squeamish?"
I looked at the anesthesiologist. He was literally half my body size. He shook his head. "Yeah man, because I wouldn't ever try to catch you if you start to go."
I nodded to him. I could dig the honesty.
"No, not squeamish," I answered, "But it's up to her."
Lizeth smiled. "I want you down here with me."
And there I stayed.
###
They began. There were medical terms. And a consistent check on Lizeth's well-being. I touched her hair gently so as not to be in the way of the experts monitoring her.
There was a smell of burning. I'm pretty sure it was the laser removal of any hair that could be in the way.
I looked at Lizeth who was still on Cloud Nine if not Ten by now. Suddenly, there was a noise like a cat royally irked by something.
And they held up our son – Orlando. And it was Roots, the Lion King and some other movie where people held up a baby. And I could hear it, feel it, yeah, it was all circle of life, Kunta Kinte in there. I felt a connection to something greater than me – a line – a presence, a collection that charged me down to my bones.
There he was. In all his little naked, bloody glory - Orlando.
He was so small, too small. I swear that nothing that small could be real. My heart swelled and dropped at the same time - he was so small. So not-large and so God-awful vulnerable.
"...honey...!" Lizeth said, her pain leveling not an issue. I thanked the anesthesiologist who wouldn't have caught me. It was so good to see her not in agony, unlike holding her hands when they threaded the spinal tap or attempted to induce with that pill.
"...What's he...look like? Is..that him? Is he okay?" Lizeth asked.
I took a good look and then looked back to her. "Kind of like microwaved bratwurst."
A nurse looked at me. "Did you just tell her he looks like bratwurst?"
I shrugged.
My wife told me to go be with him. And he was wailing, no, he was screaming angry. Good Lord, I couldn't help but kind of laugh at the sheer defiance of this boy already.
I stood next to the staff as they cleaned him and prepped him and tested him. I had memorized stats of APGAR (Appearance, Pulse, Grimace, Activity, Respiration) testing and phrases to listen for about fetal and newborn health.
He had all his fingers and toes.
And at the peak of his crying, he looked up at me with these giant black eyes.
One of the nurses said, "Here's your daddy."
And I said, "Hey boy..." And my words were soft because I swear to God I was scared I would have broken him just by speaking. He was so small.
He looked at me.
Just like that, baby Orlando stopped crying.
I held his seemingly microscopic hand.
Then they made me cut the umbilical cord. I didn't want to. A pair of scissors, a ridiculously small baby and a penis and belly thing all along with a shaky handed dad did not seem like a great idea.
They insisted. And I did it.
Cutting an umbilical cord is nothing like they make it seem on TV. That thing is like rope. You damn near have to saw it. I apologized if in anyway this was hurting him.
He just looked at me and blinked those big dark eyes. He knew who this giant fool was and somehow, it's like he approved of me.
God knows I was beyond approving of him. The strongest, biggest smallest thing I had ever loved.
About five pictures later, they wheeled him away to the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.) He was healthy they said, with a little low blood sugar. A NICU visit was mandatory for preemies.
They began post-op on Lizeth.
And in an aged hallway of the University of Chicago, I stood alone absorbing it all.