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I'll start by saying that I can think of few better means of conveying the value of abstinence than visiting a maternity ward. It's a place of horrors- screaming, crying, blood and other unsavory fluids everywhere- and that's when things are going well. Kids today would do well to tour one every year or so, from age 15 onwards. But I digress.
Early in the morning of January 11th 2010, I went downstairs at 5am to find my wife, Beth, sitting at the kitchen table. "My water's broken," she said. "Huh," I replied. We called the hospital to alert them, gathered the relevant toiletries, and started our journey towards the facility. On the way, I had one thought foremost in my mind: my daughter's birthday would be 01/11/10. Symmetrical, and binary- I was so excited. Also, the prospect of having a child- an undoubtedly beautiful and obedient daughter- was nice, too. "This is going to be great," I thought, as we arrived at the hospital.
At this point it bears mentioning that our daughter was born in Germany. This was a practical decision on our part, as we lived in Germany at the time. Anyway, upon arrival at the hospital, we were shown to our room. We had paid for a private suite, so I could stay with Beth, and in the process guarantee that she wouldn't have to share a room with a potentially large and/or ill-tempered German woman. Things were looking bright indeed. As we walked into the room, the previous occupant was leaving- a woman who had delivered twins the day before. She looked tired and crestfallen. We introduced ourselves, and asked about her experience. "I needed drugs," she said, succinctly and sadly. There was no hiding the shame in her eyes- she had failed. Now, if you're an American reading this, you might be thinking "failed at what? Plenty of people have epidurals in America." You don't understand- in Germany, perfection and toughness is expected- nay, mandated. Her requiring medication was a clear sign of weakness, and as such, she'd probably be banished shortly, and her children confiscated by the state. We nodded grimly at her statement, fully understanding the implication of her pronouncement. "Too bad for her," we thought, "but Beth won't be needing any drugs, no sir!" We had a plan, and we were going to stick to it.
The plan was pretty simple:
1) go to hospital
2) have baby
3) go home
I was excited, as it looked like I was needed only for steps 1 and 3- I could kick back and relax during 2. Beth, wouldn't be relaxing, of course- but that wasn't my problem.* Beth was determined to have a completely natural childbirth, unaided by medication of any kind, so it wouldn't be easy for her, but she was convinced it was best for all, and I wisely agreed, having already learned the most important lesson of marriage for men: you can agree now, or give in after hours of arguing about it.
Things started easily enough- we were told to stay in our suite until the contractions were five minutes apart. We had arrived at the hospital around 7am; that evening, we were still in our room, measuring the time between contractions. Beth was intensely interested in this. Every time Beth had a contraction, I'd dutifully record the time, and perform a quick analysis of the frequency of these events. That wasn't so bad, for the first dozen or so hours, but I was getting tired, and the contractions were remaining distantly spaced- couldn't Beth see how hard this was on me? Why couldn't she record the times? Huh? My involvement in the task was unnecessary, and I had that thought often- increasingly so as we approached one o'clock in the morning. But again, exercising seldomly-used discretion, I kept my mouth shut, and eventually, my eyes followed.
The next morning, there was still no progress. I was heartbroken- now my daughter would be born on 01/12/10, which was neither symmetrical nor binary. Also, I was getting mighty bored. Beth had been in labor 24 hours, which is the point in America where they induce or deliver via c-section. But, remember, we were in Germany, where they typically let women labor for the better part of a month before any action is taken. So, the hours ticked by, and relatively little happened, save for a soft moan from Beth whenever she had a contraction. This comment bears further mention- my wife is extremely concerned for other people's comfort, even when she herself is in the throes of agony. So, after each contraction, she'd apologize for making noise. That she did so is a testament to her character- my reaction would have likely been more along the lines of screaming and cursing- but there she was, alternating between quiet groans and profuse apologies. I would have found it amusing, if I wasn't starting to get worried.
About 34 hours in, Beth still hadn't had any sort of medication, but something had to be done. They gave her pitocin, which is a drug invented by communists to make already-horrific labor pains instantly worse by several orders of magnitude. It's also supposed to coax the baby out, or something, but the only effect we noticed was the former- labor got a whole lot worse, and the baby wasn't coming. It was around this time they noticed meconium.
I was (and am) very ignorant on most aspects of the birthing process, but unfortunately, I knew what meconium was- our neighbor's son had inhaled meconium during his birth some years before, and had nearly died, requiring a months-long hospital stay and suffering mild (but permanent) health conditions as a result.** When the doctors told us about it, they said they'd have to do an emergency c-section. Then they all left. All of them. I was alone with my wife in the room, more scared than I'd ever been in my life. Beth had been in labor for 35 hours now, and had not eaten anything in that time. She was so tired breathing became difficult. The baby's heart rate would drop every time Beth's breathing slowed, and I'd have to gently encourage her- "Beth, honey, breathe. Breathe. That's good- good. The heart rate is going back up. Hang in there. It won't be long."
I told Beth it wouldn't be long, but I soon started questioning myself. The minutes ticked by- where were the doctors? What about the emergency? What about my child? Fifteen minutes passed- thirty. Forty. Lord, please don't let my daughter die. Where were those doctors? I'd steal away from Beth every few minutes to scan the hall for someone- anyone- to help. When I saw a doctor, I'd ask in my limited German about the situation. "Yes, it's an emergency. We'll take care of her soon." Where your child's health is concerned, forty minutes is not soon. In fact, it was, without question, the longest forty minutes of my life. Praying, pleading, worrying, all while trying to be encouraging to Beth. She was, at this point, so exhausted that she seemed as though she was giving up. I may be exaggerating, but it didn't seem like it at the time. Finally, at the forty-five minute point, they came in, and brought her into the operation room.
I was still terrified, but it was kind of fun to put on scrubs. Oddly, though I was fully decked out, they didn't make me (or let me) wash my hands- this will be important later. They led me into the room, and put me right by Beth's face. They then put up a curtain, with strict instructions, issued in heavily-accented English, for me to stay where I was. I needed no convincing- I had no desire to see my wife's organs once they cut her open. Beth had been given a spinal, and was euphoric when I sat down. "Oh, this is wonderful," she said, as they cut into her and (apparently) started removing her organs. "Oh- I feel tugging!" she giggled, and they (probably) placed her stomach on a nearby table. I remained on edge- we weren't out of the woods yet.
The one time you want to hear your child cry is when they're born, as silence can be the sign of many bad things. Delightedly, we heard Natalie loud and clear then they pulled her out. She was clearly resentful of being forcibly removed from her cozy arrangement, and would take it out on us by screaming for the better part of the next two years, but I didn't know that at the time. All I knew was that my daughter was out, and she was okay. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you. Beth was okay, Natalie was okay, all was right.
They carried Nat past me to the adjacent room for cleaning and weighing, and when they were ready, they let me see her. A dark-complected baby with a head full of black hair looked up at me, glaring, clearly angry for the aforementioned reason. But I didn't care. This was my little girl! "Hi, Nat," I said, not really knowing how else to kick off the conversation. I reached towards her and- wait a minute. They didn't let me wash my hands. Shoot. I don't want to contaminate her, or something. I was sad, but contented myself with gazing down at the marvelous creation before my eyes. Kids aren't pretty when they're born, but you don't think that until later- you look down at the tiny wriggling mass, and, like me, think "wait a minute- where'd she get that dark skin and dark hair?" Her mother and I are both light-skinned; I'm a ginger, and Beth has light brown tresses. Was something amiss?
As they brought the baby to Beth, I let her have a few moments of joy before asking the tough question. "Beth," I said, haltingly, "why does Nat have black hair?" "I don't know," she replied, but then paled. "Do you think we have the wrong baby? Did they switch her with another baby?"
It's time for another digression. Pregnancy hormones do things- horrible things- to otherwise rational women. The stories I have from our first pregnancy could fill a mildly entertaining novel***. In this particular instance, I'll leave out most of the details, save for a few. Since Beth was concerned about baby-switching, to calm her down, I asked a passing nurse. "See our new baby?" I asked, hopefully, following with "doesn't she look like us?" The nurse squinted her eyes and scrunched her nose- "no, she doesn't look like either one of you." Uh oh- that backfired. My wife was rapidly approaching panic stages, and calmed only after forcing me to produce a crude attempt at a building schematic, which I used to show her that it was highly unlikely that a switch could have occurred based on the arrangement of the rooms alone. Nat had been taken to a room adjacent to the operation room, and both rooms were sealed from the outside world. A switch would have had to have been premeditated, with a second baby concealed in a drawer or something. It seems ridiculous to discuss now, but yes, we did have conversations like this.
I could drone on for hours about the birth, but it's time to close for the night. Everything was fine with the baby, and both Beth and I settled down considerably as the months passed and her skin and hair more closely resembled our own. Now, three years later, we have a beautiful blond-haired, blue-eyed, fair-skinned daughter who looks a lot like her mom. And, I might add, is every bit as stubborn today as she was on that first day, when she refused to enter the birth canal. Happy Birthday, Natalie. You were worth the wait.
*Yes, I'm kidding, settle down, people. Sheesh.
**of inhaling meconium, not staying at the hospital
***maybe someday, they will. Bwahahahahaha.
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