Happy 29th Birthday in Heaven

From an excerpt of my memoir, "Birth Pains: A Modern Day Scarlet Letter

“Death, taxes, and childbirth! There's never any convenient time for any of them.” 

― Margaret Mitchell, Gone with the Wind

Happy Birthday Sebastian

“I’m pregnant!”

I held up the white plastic strip; its’ two pink lines glowed like the morning radiant beams of sunshine that peek through our kitchen windows as if in solidarity of this wonderful news. The test instructions had advised it would take ten minutes, but those twin pink beacons announced my pregnancy within seconds.  Steve, who had been reviewing his prayer cards at the dining room table in our ugly 70s green rental house we had been living in for the past two years, jumped up, looked at the results, stared at me for a second, then pulled me into his arms and kissed me.

“We’re going to have a baby.” He whispered on my lips, and I could see tears streaming across his eyes.

“Yes!” I whispered back. My eyes were filling with tears as well.

“Can we call my mom and dad, or do you want to wait?” Steve asked cautiously.

We had been married for three years. 

Steve had found a second-year family practice residency program in Olympia, Washington, and so we packed up all our belongings and made a move from California.  He had completed the first year of his family practice internship in the Navy before the Gulf War had started, so he needed a second-year spot to open up; it meant someone had to drop out, and Steve was able to fill that vacancy. I had been able to procure a job as a nurse manager, running three outpatient departments at Mary Bridge Children’s Hospital thirty minutes north of where we lived in Tacoma.

“Let’s call them and tell them the good news.” Happy tears began to overflow from my eyes.

I actually knew the day I was pregnant in July, nine months earlier, when Steve and I volunteered to stay in his parents’ pop-up trailer set up in his sister’s backyard, in Corrales, New Mexico, during his grandmother’s weeklong 90^th birthday celebration.

Steve’s mom, dad, brother, and sister, along with their ten children who already lived in Corrales, along with all the family members from Grandma B’s nine children, came to celebrate the life of this much-loved matriarch.

I had been using a natural planning method to prevent pregnancy soon after we got married. I tried using the pill, but I had endured too many side effects and thus switched to this nonmedicinal form of birth control.  It worked great for us, because on July 5, 1993, at around 8 o’clock in the morning, while Steve’s immediate family was gathering for breakfast on the back porch of his sister’s house, I whispered to him that my cervical mucous was ripe and ready. He smiled and nonchalantly rose from the picnic table, and then we sauntered arm-in-arm back to the trailer under the cotton trees unnoticed, and while the rest of the family ate, our firstborn was conceived.

 Being pregnant was a strange feeling, and everyone around me was happy with it.  My past two pregnancies were wrapped in shame, doubt, scandal, sin, and guilt. I was never allowed myself to be happy about being pregnant.  I got through each of those nine months the best I could, placed my daughters for adoption in good families, and tried to get back on with my life.

Now, I could give this baby all those things I had hoped for in the past. Now I could celebrate this pregnancy; at first, I wasn’t sure how to do it.

Then, as if the Hoover Dam had ruptured, this unforeknown happiness exploded inside of me, and I started nesting in earnest.

I wanted everything to be perfect for our new arrival, and my creative juices continued to overflow as I began to sew our unborn child’s bedding, clothing, and diaper covers. I knitted matching tiny hats and mittens in the colors of baby ducks, and in the meanwhile, I started on the room decorations. Our spare bedroom walls, which had once been a dull grey now had been filled with scattered white prancing lambs jumping over wooden fences as if they were in this perfect, always sunny meadow of perfectly cut green grass. Primary felt shapes cut out of red, blue, and yellow graced delicate strings of a mobile I had created and hung over the crib I found at a nearby garage sale; I painstakingly sanded and repainted every four-inch slat of its sides enamel white, and it stood shining as if at attention, a silent sentinel in the corner of this manmade sanctuary, next to my handmade curtains, waiting for its imminent newborn occupant.

***

I felt this sudden large gush of fluid explode from between my thighs and run down my legs, and I stared down, eyes and mouth wide open, at the clear blood-tinged puddle pooling on the dull grey carpet around my bare feet.

I had been waiting fourteen years for this moment…

“Steve!” I yelled from our bedroom.  I remained like a statue, hoping I could somehow control this unrestrained trickle of warm secretions from dripping. I could not.  I glanced up at the grandfather clock, its pendulum softly swinging back and forth the seconds on the wall by our bed. It had recently coo-cooed ten times thirty minutes ago. Steve was showing our new house to his parents, whom he had just picked up from the airport a few hours early; we had moved to Vancouver, Washington, two months ago after Steve took a job at the local hospital, and they had not yet visited.  They had wanted to wait and help us after Sebastian was born. 

“Steve!” I yelled again, my voice rising higher.  I could hear him bragging to his mom and dad about all the things I had done and made for the baby. They were chuckling about something.  “Could you come here please? Now?”  I said a little louder. The chuckling stopped, and I heard Steve’s muffled footsteps down the hallway.  I hoped his parents stayed where they were. I didn’t want his parents to know yet until I told him.

“What’s the mat—” Steve never finished his sentence as he stopped abruptly at the door and looked down at the burgeoning lake splashing over my toes.

“I think we’re having our baby soon.”

***

As much as I prepared, I can’t entirely put into words how I felt the day our son finally arrived into the world. 

I didn’t go into the hospital right away after my water broke. I decided to sleep at home because I knew I wouldn’t be able sleep in the hospital. So, I waited. There are side benefit’s when your husband delivers babies for a living.

Actually, Steve wanted to go in; he was the one who was nervous. I wasn’t ready yet. My contractions were light and only every 15- 20 minutes. So, I padded our bed with towels to prevent the amniotic fluid from soaking into the mattress and slept on and off through each contraction until about 5:00 the next morning, on Sebastian’s due date.

Over the years we used to tease Sebastian that he was born two hours late.  I had even put a picture of that infamous pop-up trailer on the front cover of Sebastian’s baby book. He hated when I showed anyone that picture.  “Eww! Mom that is so gross.” He’d tell me anytime I pulled it out. I’d laugh and give him a hug, “You’ll be OK.” I’d say good-naturedly, then I rubbed his blond head back and forth, making it stand on end.

But once I arrived at the hospital, my stoic-non-sensical-matter-a-fact-attitude suddenly became overwhelmed with these unexpected, wonderful feelings that I had never allowed myself to feel, and I burst into a flood of uncontrollable tears as we walked into our hospital room.

My tears could not stop flowing, this dam of emotions had been breached, and every positive feeling I had been successfully keeping tucked away all these years burst from within me and poured down my face.  Steve began pacing back and forth in our small room like a lion in a cage; it was hard for him to be the father and not the doctor in this situation.

Our nurse gave us a brief tour of our birthing room. I wouldn’t have to share it with another laboring mother and their family. I climbed into the hospital bed, they were still uncomfortable from the first time I did this, and the nurse wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my right arm. I could feel my antecubital pulse throbbing once the proper pressure was obtained; the pressure relaxed, and the monitor announced my blood pressure was high. Nothing new to me; it was always high when I was pregnant. It’s a good thing I was having a baby today.

Steve stopped his pacing, looked at the monitor, frowned, and then he noticed my tears and asked, “Are you alright sweetheart? Can I do something? Is the pain bad? Can I get you something?”

The nurse began putting the fetal monitoring belt around my swollen belly just as another wave of contractions commenced.

I looked at Steve through my swollen eyes, waited for the contraction to pass, and said, “These are happy tears,” I snorted, my belly shook, and the monitoring belt jiggled. “Steve,” I whispered.  “I can keep this baby! No one can take him away from me.”

“He’s mine forever.”

Steve squeezed my hand. “Yes, he is, Sweetheart.” He leaned over and kissed my forehead.

I noticed our nurse wipe a tear from her eye as she left the room.

God was giving me a son. A brand-new beginning. If I had had a girl, I might have compared her to my other girls lost by adoption, and I probably would have wondered once again if I had done the right thing. I didn’t need to compare because there was no comparison. I was having a son, and God knew I needed a son.  It was as if, with this pregnancy and delivery, I was getting another fresh start. 

No one could take him away from me!

***

A few months before, Steve and I had gone to these “Christian” like Lamaze classes that came highly recommended by friends at church. They were like other childbirth classes, except you were supposed to quote specific Bible passages in between contractions. These would be followed by cleansing breaths, prayers, and more preselected Bible verses. I tried to do everything the teacher said to do; I tried to look into Steve’s eye and together recite, “Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord from the heavens; praise in the heights! Praise him, all his angels, praise him, all his host!”  Supposedly, that would “make the pain” better.  I really didn’t understand and or believe how that would help.  Steve loved rehearsing the verses, but I couldn’t stop laughing when it came to that part of the exercise. All the other participants seem to take this so seriously.  I couldn’t do it.  I thought the leaders might kick me out. I tried; instead, I snorted, trying not to laugh, every time I was supposed to praise God during my so-called contractions. Steve just smiled.

I had packed my hospital bag two months earlier in anticipation of this day. It was probably filled with more things than I needed. I had never packed a hospital bag, knowing I’d be bringing my baby home this time.  I pawed through the diapers, burp cloths, socks, and the new going-home outfit I had sewn for Sebastian and found some recent magazines my mother-in-law had snuck in before we left that morning.  I pulled one out and glanced at Princess Diana's beautiful profile, gracing the cover of the most recent edition of McCall’. She and Prince Charles had been separated now for over a year now. The cover read: Diana’s Life Alone: A Special Report from London. She looked beautiful, as she always did, but I knew, as did the whole world, thanks to the reporters from around the world that haunted her every move; her effervescent smile hid her pain. Her happily-ever-after was over, and she and her Prince were done.  She was truly alone.

I, on the hand, had my happily-ever-after. Not because I married Steve (who was a prince), not because I was finally having the baby I always wanted, not because I had financial stability, but because I finally understood who I am in God’s eyes. I am child of the King of Heaven, and that edict, it made me his princess. I had found true happiness, and no one could ever take that away from me.

I dropped the magazine on the bed, forgetting Princess Diana for a moment as another wave of pain hit, this time low in my back. I’d find out later Sebastian was positioned upside down in the birth canal, and with each new contraction, his spine would press deeply against mine.

I learned a new term that day: “back labor.”

Early on in my labor, Steve, the ever-attentive father, spent much of his time looking at the fetal monitoring strips that assessed Sebastian’s fetal heart tones and movements.  Steve read these strips all the time; he delivered babies almost weekly in his medical practice.  These monitoring devices can assess the beginning of a contraction, sometimes before the mother even notices. Kind of like how an animal can sense the imminent arrival of an earthquake.  During one of Steve’s many observations, he noticed one particular contraction beginning. I hadn’t felt it yet, and my eyes were closed; it was peaceful for a moment, except for the incessant beeping from all the monitors. 

Trying to help, and without realizing what he was saying, Steve excitedly announced to me, “Heerree  cooomes another one!”

I grabbed him by his green hospital scrub top and pulled him towards me, and said with my teeth clenched, “Don’t-ever-do-that-again. I don’t want to know.”

Steve smiled again, kissed my lips, and said, “Sorry.”

There was so much pressure on my back that instead of staying in bed, I stood and pressed my back against the hard cool hospital wall when the contractions began in an attempt to try to stop the pain. It felt so much better than lying down in that uncomfortable bed. And those “Christian” Lamaze classes, I never used them. Even though I was supposed to look into Steve’s eyes and recite a Bible verse, I instead focused on the bathroom doorknob, and with every contraction, through gritted teeth, I yelled out, “God Bless America!” To this day, I don’t know why I kept repeating that particular phrase.  Steve just laughed and kept squeezing my hands.

Two hours later, my doctor and Steve’s new boss came into our room to “check me” and see how far along I’d been progressing.  I had to get back into that horrid bed for this examination. The pain increased when I was on my back.

 “You’re going to be awhile,” Dr. Ruiz said in his doctorly voice. “I’m going to go to the cafeteria and get a cup of coffee. I’ll be back in an hour.” He waved and walked out the door.

I lugged myself back out of bed and resumed my position against the wall. Steve had brought a bedside stand in front of me so I could put my arms on it. I thought I might feel better if I could get into a squatting position and so I slowly slid down against the white wall; it snagged my hospital gown but felt cool against my hot skin.

“Oh my God, his head just came out!” I screamed at Steve, who was still holding my hand, helping me press against the wall. I had been squeezing his hands so hard his fingers had turned white.  I was now breathing rapidly through my clenched teeth, in and out, in and out, trying to stave off the contractions that were coming every two-three minutes; the pain in my back would not go away.

There was definitely something between my legs that wasn’t there a moment before.

Steve helped me stand up, and he assisted me back into that uncomfortable hospital bed.

“Let me take a peek,” Steve said, throwing aside my gown. No time for modesty now.

“Yep, there’s a head down there.” Steve’s voice quivered. “Where’s the nurse? Where’s Ruiz?” He shouted to no one in particular.  He left me for a moment and went to our door, flung it open, poked his head out, and yelled, “We need some help here, our baby’s coming NOW!”

Steve ran back to the end of the bed. Through my splayed legs, open wide for the entire world to see, I watched him frantically put on a pair of hospital gloves.

“Try not to push, just keep panting like a puppy,” Steve demanded.  “Let me see what’s going on.” My contractions felt like they were coming every few seconds, and I had this urgent need to push.  I started panting, trying to do what he wanted. I had to trust Steve.

A nurse rushed in, “I can’t find Dr. Ruiz anywhere.” She came next to Steve. “What can I do?”

“Well, he won’t make it anyway. The head is out. I just have to check the shoulder. He might be stuck.” Steve reverted into doctor mode and took over. It seemed like we were in a movie, and I was just watching him be the hero in our made-for-TV moment.

“Stand next to my wife and help her. I’m doing OK down here.”

The nurse grabbed my hand, and I squeezed it tight.

“Ok, Jackie, I want you to bear down as hard as you can,” Steve demanded.

I held my breath and pushed as hard as I could.

“Here he comes!” Steve said, his voice now shaking. I could feel his gloved hands on my thighs, pushing them open wider. “I got him! Don’t stop pushing! I got him sweetheart!”

Steve, his eyes now filled with tears, stood up and held up our swollen red-faced, blond-headed, screaming-at-the-top-his-lungs, beautiful newborn son.

Steve laid our son on my chest, and he immediately nuzzled in and latched onto my breast. I looked in awe at my son and whispered, “Welcome to the world Sebastian Edward Baker.”