What better way to kick off a blog about fatherhood than telling you about the birth of my son, heir to the royal throne, Dominic Victor.
My wife, Kerry, and I really wanted to have a child. Unfortunately, her OB/GYN told us our odds were about the same as Aerosmith’s chances of writing a decent album after they stopped using recreational drugs. Anyway, Kerry’s doctor told us that we might as well try because it wouldn’t hurt anything. What the doctor failed to factor in is that I come from a long line of extremely potent alpha males. Two months after our first attempt (first attempt without birth control, not first attempt ever), my wife was pregnant. After we each had a brief panic attack because neither of us thought it would actually happen, we got excited. However, on some level, it still wasn’t real.
I’m sure I’ll write about all the fun stuff in between conception and birth eventually, but in the interest of space, I will now skip ahead to the day before Dom’s birth. I have no crazy story about my wife’s water breaking or getting a police escort to the hospital. Kerry was induced, so we had a nice leisurely ride to Akron General. Upon arrival, we were assigned a private room and settled into a Golden Girls marathon while we waited for the Cervodil to kick in. That Blanch is kind of a whore, but I digress. We sat there watching the Golden Girls and listening to Dom’s heartbeat on the monitor. It still wasn’t real.
After the most uncomfortable night in the entire history of human sleep and one too many comments about Kerry’s beautiful cervix, we were moved to a birthing room and she was given Pitocin to get the show on the road. It still wasn’t real.
After an hour or so, Kerry started to have really painful contractions. I went out to the nurses’ station and asked if they could give her something for the pain. This 300 year-old nurse came into the room and had the audacity to tell my wife that she should “embrace the pain because it represents the trials of motherhood.” I promptly demanded a new nurse who wasn’t a natural-birth-supporting whack-job. The new nurse hooked Kerry up with some mystery pain pills. Fast forward another hour or so. Kerry’s pain was getting really intense again and her contractions were getting closer and closer together. The new, pro-medication nurse called the guy in to give her an epidural. Let me tell you, my friends, that needle was the longest, scariest thing I’ve ever seen (at least up to this point in the story). The first epidural was apparently shot through my wife’s spine and had no effect. Mercifully, the second one worked as advertised and she proceeded to sleep through an hour’s worth of contractions. As I watched the little heartbeat and Kerry’s contractions on the monitor, it still wasn’t real.
The contractions were finally close enough for Kerry to start pushing. I waited in anticipation for her to scream something like, “you did this to me!” or better yet, for her to poop on the table, but that defining moment that would have been comedic gold never came. She took the whole thing like a champ. Well, almost. She did tell the nurse to get the mirror out from between her legs because being forced to watch her crotch wasn’t making it any better. I on the other hand had no choice. It was like staring into the sun. I knew I shouldn’t look, but I couldn’t look away. Somehow, it still wasn’t real.
She pushed for two more hours. She played all the little birthing games with the nurses to no avail. Dom was caught in the birth canal and he wasn’t budging. Before we went to the hospital, Kerry gave me two procedures to avoid: (1) no heart monitor screwed into Dom’s head and (2) no forceps. The doctor came into the room and promptly told us that he was going to screw a heart monitor into Dom’s head because he couldn’t get a good reading while Dom was stuck. He then proceeded to recommend the use of forceps. My wife is strong-willed, but at this point she was pale as a ghost and exhausted. No words were exchanged, just a head nod from each of us. The doctor reached into a cabinet and pulled out what looked like two katana blades. They even made the shhhhhhhing noise that you hear every time Leonardo pulls out his swords to battle the evil Shredder. At that moment, it became very, VERY real.
I started welling up because I knew Kerry was scared, but also just because I was so damn proud of her. I guess I expected the forceps to take awhile since she had already been pushing for two and a half hours, but in an instant I heard the happiest noise ever to grace my ears. I started sobbing. I didn’t know whether to stay with Kerry or run over to my son. Again, without a word, she nodded at the little table where the doctors took Dom. God I love her. I leapt to him and started taking shaky pictures while trying to pull myself together. Then I stopped trying to pull myself together and just sobbed. It felt really good. Until that moment, I didn’t believe in “tears of joy.” Say what you want, but I’m so glad I let myself go. Never before and never again will I feel such a wonderful rush of pure joy. While I’d love to write about the crime scene that is the after-birth, the horrors of a stage III episiotomy, and the anxiety caused by high bilirubin counts, I’m going to leave those for a future entry. I’d much rather leave you with the image of me, a self-proclaimed smart-ass, weeping tears of joy at the birth of his precious son. I will never be the same, and I’d never want to be.
May 14th, 2009 at 1:02 am
This is fantastic. Now I wish I could be a dad. But the doctors tell me that I don’t have the right parts, and that I am actually a female. Also, it shouldn’t surprise me, but you really like pooping, huh?
May 14th, 2009 at 1:31 am
Great story. We went with the vacuum-assist rather than the forceps. I was really disappointed when they wheeled out a boring medical-looking device rather than a Hoover or at least a reprogrammed Roomba.
May 15th, 2009 at 9:14 am
Whoever invented the epidural deserves a Nobel prize, imo. I also applaud the use of TMNT references in a post about the birth of your firstborn.