By no design or intent, our son was supposed to be born on 11-11-11. We were told many times by friends and relatives (and, as is the lot of the expectant couple, by loose acquaintances and strangers) that we ought not to expect the baby on the due date itself. First-born babies especially, we were cautioned, are notoriously unpredictable. We nodded along to this, then continued filling in our datebooks and calendar almost indifferently. A month before the due date, I thought myself the model of paternal responsibility. After all, I had turned down a gig on 11-11-11, and hadn't accepted any other work until the 14th! I presumed that while predicting childbirth wasn't an exact science (something along the lines of, say, predicting the weather or sports scores) our son would be born within a few days before or after his due date. And by "a few days," I meant "the day before or after." After all, he would be the firstborn child of two fastidiously punctual firstborns. How could he dare to be late?
I was more worried about a performance with the BPO on 11-8 than anything else, and once that was over I breathed an easy sigh of relief. 11-11-11 came and went, and we stayed at home. The weekend passed, and I returned to school uneasily on Monday, 11-13. On Tuesday, I began to be nervous. I'd been hired for a full philharmonics week at RPO, plus the attached Symphony 101 services on Friday and Sunday. J, who'd been home on maternity leave for a full week, was beginning to get restless. She said that she now understood what was meant by the baby "dropping."
She still hadn't experienced much in the way of contractions, pretended or otherwise, and we began to wonder if the due date was wrong. On Thursday night I played my first concert of the week, with my cellphone (turned down to silent) perched on my stand. One down, three to go. That night, I felt a tap on my arm. Groggy, and still half asleep, I rolled over to see that Julie was waking me up. As far as I can remember, the conversation went like this:
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What do you think?
Roy: Are you sure?
Julie: Yes, I've been timing them.
Roy: For how long?
Julie: At least since midnight.
Roy: Sorry, what time is it now?
Julie: It's about 2 AM. Do you think we should go to the hospital?
Roy: Has your water broken?
Julie: No, but sometimes that doesn't happen until later. What should we do?
Roy: Well, let's call in and see what they say.
Julie, who I should politely and impartially note was in the throes of labor, remembers the conversation like this:
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What do you think we should do?
Roy: What?
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What should we do?
Roy: What?
Julie: I'm having contractions every five minutes! What should we do?
Roy: I think we should go to the concert.
Julie: What? That's not what I asked! Should we call the doctor?
Roy: What time is it?
Julie: It's 2 AM.
Roy: How long?
Julie: 2 AM
Roy: How long have you been having contractions?
Julie: Since at least midnight. What should we do?
Roy: Your water hasn't broken?
Julie: No, sometimes that doesn't happen until later. Should we call?
Roy: <falls back asleep>
Clearly Julie does not remember this early morning adventure very clearly, but we do both remember that we eventually got up and called the on-call doctor. They asked us to come in, and by about 2:30 we were driving into Strong, hospital bag in tow. I don't think either of us really expected the baby would be arriving that night, but we wanted to be responsible. We had failed to be responsible parents earlier, and had never gotten around to visiting the hospital or taking the recommended tour. We did, however, find it without difficulty and get checked into triage.
Julie was measured (if you don't know, you don't want to know) and though her contractions were seeming more and more "real" she wasn't dilating at all. We waited around and attempted to stay awake for an hour or so, and then were sent home with compassionate smiles. No baby yet.
Thankfully, I didn't have LCS the following morning, but was able to sleep in for a 9:30 RPO rehearsal. I drove to Hochstein, parked, and sat down for rehearsal. What good would come from telling anyone about visiting the hospital the night before? We just needed to make it through another 72 hours, and then the baby could come anytime he wanted. At the rehearsal break, I checked my voicemail. Julie said it was going to happen today. Her contractions were still every five minutes apart, and they were much more intense. This time it was genuine. I reassured her I'd be home soon, and went to find the principal trumpeter. Awkwardly and apologetically, I told him I thought my wife was going into labor.
He conferenced with the personnel manager (who was also awaiting an imminent delivery from the principal bassoonist's wife) and they found another sub to put on call. I assured them that I would do everything in my power to make the concert, and they (wonderfully) assured me that family came first, and to look to my wife's interests. I drove home, picked up Julie, and drove again to the hospital and the triage room. We waited longer this time, but the news was the same. Julie was not dilating. This time we didn't linger for a second measurement, but just wanted to go home. We were both disappointed, and Julie was starting to be in considerable pain. A kind doctor wrote her a pain prescription, and we had it filled on the way home. It did some good for her, but our nerves were being worn thin.
Neither of us had slept properly for some time, and with the hubbub of the previous night we were both spent. The afternoon was spent in nervous puttering (I had called off of LCS, having thought I'd be in the hospital) and we waited for any changes in Julie's condition. Her pain medication did slightly slow the contractions, but that magical moment (the breaking of her water) still hadn't come. Early in the evening I called into the orchestra and told them I'd be at the concert. I came, I fretted, I played. Two concerts down, two to go. Still no baby.
On Saturday, 11-19, we wandered in the wilderness for 40 years. Really we just wandered about our living room, and really it was just me wandering since Julie had hurt her back earlier in the week. She tried to nap while I paced and read, and we waited, waited, waited. We both started to think about the word "induce," but held off a little longer yet. Oliver was on call for me at Gates the next morning...but I had nothing to tell him. There was still a sub lined up for RPO, but nothing to report. The evening came, and I drove in (in some early snow) for the last Philharmonics concert. Three concerts down, one to go. Still no baby.
After another sleepless night, I drove into CPC on Sunday morning, and reported to my disappointed choir that there was still no news. I drove home, and found Julie exhausted on the couch downstairs. She had been, whatever the "type," in labor since Thursday night, and her contractions continued now as fiercely as ever. The date for induction had been set at Tue. 11-22 by our personal obstetrician, but we both knew that we couldn't wait that long. Whatever we would gain by waiting for labor's natural onset would be lost by the continuing toll of the contractions. If we waited any longer, she simply wouldn't have any stamina. We called the hospital, and they told us to come in at 4 PM. My last concert was at 2. I drove in, and as I'd done all week, played with my phone on my stand. It finished at 3 PM, and I had kept all of my foolish promises.
With the Bills being manhandled by the lowly Miami Dolphins on the radio, Julie and I drove into Strong. Having caught the nursing staff on a shift change, it was about 5 PM before we were checked into our birthing room and officially initiated. (I don't think it's official until you're wearing an uncomfortable plastic bracelet.) This, we told ourselves, was it. Our son was being born today. We let our parents know, and prepared to get things started.
The nurses set up a drip and (after fussing with the very expensive looking machines) gave Julie pitocin, the "inducement" drug. It worked. On the lowest possible setting, her contractions immediately increased in frequency, intensity, and duration. We were visited by staff members, (including an ultrasound technician who gave as an ever-so-brief glimpse of a face) and given vague assurances that we could speak to an anesthetist anytime we wished. We'd decided to play the anesthesia decision by ear, and I still think Julie could have delivered without any drugs if her labor had come on more quickly. Between her exhaustion, however, and the additional intensity of the pitocin-induced contractions, we decided to ask for an epidural.
Around 10 PM an anesthetist arrived. She spoke in a thick and menacing-sounding Russian accent, but gave us nothing but encouragement. The procedure was quick and easily done, and all of a sudden Julie was a new woman. My parents stopped by to visit us, and were even kind enough to bring me dinner. (From McDonald's the only place open at such a late hour...I was that hungry.) The epidural continued its magic, and Julie was convinced she might even be able to sleep for a bit. I agreed, and made myself as comfortable as I could in the "spouse chair" next to her bed.
Here again, our stories diverge. The next thing I remember is someone saying my name and telling me that I was missing my son being born. I was, at this point, quite sleep-deprived, and I apparently went down hard when I fell asleep. Julie had also fallen asleep, but apparently woke up around 2 or 2:30 AM, and without the slightest clue as to where I was. She was positioned away from the chair where I slept, and when she couldn't crane her neck back to where I was sleeping the in the darkened room, or elicit an answer to her calling my name into the dark, she presumed that I'd stepped out for some reason. Her contractions started up quite intensely again, and then she told her nurse it was time to push.
With me still asleep, doctors and students were assembled, and the pushing phase was begun. After fifteen minutes or so, Julie asked again where I was. A student asked, "is that this guy asleep in the chair." Julie instructed that I be woken up, which I was, and in considerable confusion. I immediately leapt to my feet and had the following thoughts:
-I think I'm dreaming...Julie's asleep with the epidural, and we're still just waiting for her to reach 10 cm.
-I don't know any of the people in this room
-My stomach is reminding me why I never eat fast food
Eventually I came into consciousness and realized what was happening. Julie proved to me over the next hour that everything that's ever been assumed about men being tougher than women is nonsense. She was a heroine, and while I was queasy and near-fainting at her knee, she was, incredibly, moving our child closer and closer to life. The doctors showed me his head, and confirmed that he was "sunny-side-up," which would complicate his delivery.
They gave wonderful encouragement to Julie while she was in the midst of pushes, but then promptly demonstrated that it wasn't to be trusted when the supervisor said "Push, Julie! He's almost here!" and then turned to a colleague and remarked "Okay, looks like that woman in 17 is about to deliver. I'll be back in a bit." Julie, however, outpaced their expectations. At the critical moment, only one other doctor and myself were in the room. The others were quickly called, and we saw that the baby was about to emerge.
If you don't know what an episiotomy is, please, do not attempt to find out. I saw that a doctor was about to inflict one upon my wife, and then was when my already unsettled stomach gave out. (Disclaimer: Not that that was anything compared to what Julie was going through) Someone saw me turn white and said "Sit down, Dad, get him out of the way." I remember sitting down and holding a bowl, and as soon as I did I heard a new sound, and then excitement. I stood up, and all of a sudden there was a human being there.
I was beyond amazed. He was a real person, and he was bleating, and looking up with wide open eyes. Julie was attempting to look at him, but couldn't see, and there were several people talking to me at once. I heard someone ask, "what's his name?"
I answered "his name is James" and realized that I was sobbing. There was a pair of scissors in my hand, and I cut his cord, and then his eyes met mine. His cries were just soft mews, and someone had put a cap on his full head of dark hair. He looked like us. I could see my eyes and Julie's ears, and the shape of my face. That a baby was coming had been my all-consuming thought for the past weeks, but I was somehow completely taken by surprise that he would be a person. I held him, and Julie held him, and we loved him. A child was born to us at 4:30 that morning, and his name is James.
I was more worried about a performance with the BPO on 11-8 than anything else, and once that was over I breathed an easy sigh of relief. 11-11-11 came and went, and we stayed at home. The weekend passed, and I returned to school uneasily on Monday, 11-13. On Tuesday, I began to be nervous. I'd been hired for a full philharmonics week at RPO, plus the attached Symphony 101 services on Friday and Sunday. J, who'd been home on maternity leave for a full week, was beginning to get restless. She said that she now understood what was meant by the baby "dropping."
She still hadn't experienced much in the way of contractions, pretended or otherwise, and we began to wonder if the due date was wrong. On Thursday night I played my first concert of the week, with my cellphone (turned down to silent) perched on my stand. One down, three to go. That night, I felt a tap on my arm. Groggy, and still half asleep, I rolled over to see that Julie was waking me up. As far as I can remember, the conversation went like this:
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What do you think?
Roy: Are you sure?
Julie: Yes, I've been timing them.
Roy: For how long?
Julie: At least since midnight.
Roy: Sorry, what time is it now?
Julie: It's about 2 AM. Do you think we should go to the hospital?
Roy: Has your water broken?
Julie: No, but sometimes that doesn't happen until later. What should we do?
Roy: Well, let's call in and see what they say.
Julie, who I should politely and impartially note was in the throes of labor, remembers the conversation like this:
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What do you think we should do?
Roy: What?
Julie: My contractions are every five minutes apart. What should we do?
Roy: What?
Julie: I'm having contractions every five minutes! What should we do?
Roy: I think we should go to the concert.
Julie: What? That's not what I asked! Should we call the doctor?
Roy: What time is it?
Julie: It's 2 AM.
Roy: How long?
Julie: 2 AM
Roy: How long have you been having contractions?
Julie: Since at least midnight. What should we do?
Roy: Your water hasn't broken?
Julie: No, sometimes that doesn't happen until later. Should we call?
Roy: <falls back asleep>
Clearly Julie does not remember this early morning adventure very clearly, but we do both remember that we eventually got up and called the on-call doctor. They asked us to come in, and by about 2:30 we were driving into Strong, hospital bag in tow. I don't think either of us really expected the baby would be arriving that night, but we wanted to be responsible. We had failed to be responsible parents earlier, and had never gotten around to visiting the hospital or taking the recommended tour. We did, however, find it without difficulty and get checked into triage.
Julie was measured (if you don't know, you don't want to know) and though her contractions were seeming more and more "real" she wasn't dilating at all. We waited around and attempted to stay awake for an hour or so, and then were sent home with compassionate smiles. No baby yet.
Thankfully, I didn't have LCS the following morning, but was able to sleep in for a 9:30 RPO rehearsal. I drove to Hochstein, parked, and sat down for rehearsal. What good would come from telling anyone about visiting the hospital the night before? We just needed to make it through another 72 hours, and then the baby could come anytime he wanted. At the rehearsal break, I checked my voicemail. Julie said it was going to happen today. Her contractions were still every five minutes apart, and they were much more intense. This time it was genuine. I reassured her I'd be home soon, and went to find the principal trumpeter. Awkwardly and apologetically, I told him I thought my wife was going into labor.
He conferenced with the personnel manager (who was also awaiting an imminent delivery from the principal bassoonist's wife) and they found another sub to put on call. I assured them that I would do everything in my power to make the concert, and they (wonderfully) assured me that family came first, and to look to my wife's interests. I drove home, picked up Julie, and drove again to the hospital and the triage room. We waited longer this time, but the news was the same. Julie was not dilating. This time we didn't linger for a second measurement, but just wanted to go home. We were both disappointed, and Julie was starting to be in considerable pain. A kind doctor wrote her a pain prescription, and we had it filled on the way home. It did some good for her, but our nerves were being worn thin.
Neither of us had slept properly for some time, and with the hubbub of the previous night we were both spent. The afternoon was spent in nervous puttering (I had called off of LCS, having thought I'd be in the hospital) and we waited for any changes in Julie's condition. Her pain medication did slightly slow the contractions, but that magical moment (the breaking of her water) still hadn't come. Early in the evening I called into the orchestra and told them I'd be at the concert. I came, I fretted, I played. Two concerts down, two to go. Still no baby.
On Saturday, 11-19, we wandered in the wilderness for 40 years. Really we just wandered about our living room, and really it was just me wandering since Julie had hurt her back earlier in the week. She tried to nap while I paced and read, and we waited, waited, waited. We both started to think about the word "induce," but held off a little longer yet. Oliver was on call for me at Gates the next morning...but I had nothing to tell him. There was still a sub lined up for RPO, but nothing to report. The evening came, and I drove in (in some early snow) for the last Philharmonics concert. Three concerts down, one to go. Still no baby.
After another sleepless night, I drove into CPC on Sunday morning, and reported to my disappointed choir that there was still no news. I drove home, and found Julie exhausted on the couch downstairs. She had been, whatever the "type," in labor since Thursday night, and her contractions continued now as fiercely as ever. The date for induction had been set at Tue. 11-22 by our personal obstetrician, but we both knew that we couldn't wait that long. Whatever we would gain by waiting for labor's natural onset would be lost by the continuing toll of the contractions. If we waited any longer, she simply wouldn't have any stamina. We called the hospital, and they told us to come in at 4 PM. My last concert was at 2. I drove in, and as I'd done all week, played with my phone on my stand. It finished at 3 PM, and I had kept all of my foolish promises.
With the Bills being manhandled by the lowly Miami Dolphins on the radio, Julie and I drove into Strong. Having caught the nursing staff on a shift change, it was about 5 PM before we were checked into our birthing room and officially initiated. (I don't think it's official until you're wearing an uncomfortable plastic bracelet.) This, we told ourselves, was it. Our son was being born today. We let our parents know, and prepared to get things started.
The nurses set up a drip and (after fussing with the very expensive looking machines) gave Julie pitocin, the "inducement" drug. It worked. On the lowest possible setting, her contractions immediately increased in frequency, intensity, and duration. We were visited by staff members, (including an ultrasound technician who gave as an ever-so-brief glimpse of a face) and given vague assurances that we could speak to an anesthetist anytime we wished. We'd decided to play the anesthesia decision by ear, and I still think Julie could have delivered without any drugs if her labor had come on more quickly. Between her exhaustion, however, and the additional intensity of the pitocin-induced contractions, we decided to ask for an epidural.
Around 10 PM an anesthetist arrived. She spoke in a thick and menacing-sounding Russian accent, but gave us nothing but encouragement. The procedure was quick and easily done, and all of a sudden Julie was a new woman. My parents stopped by to visit us, and were even kind enough to bring me dinner. (From McDonald's the only place open at such a late hour...I was that hungry.) The epidural continued its magic, and Julie was convinced she might even be able to sleep for a bit. I agreed, and made myself as comfortable as I could in the "spouse chair" next to her bed.
Here again, our stories diverge. The next thing I remember is someone saying my name and telling me that I was missing my son being born. I was, at this point, quite sleep-deprived, and I apparently went down hard when I fell asleep. Julie had also fallen asleep, but apparently woke up around 2 or 2:30 AM, and without the slightest clue as to where I was. She was positioned away from the chair where I slept, and when she couldn't crane her neck back to where I was sleeping the in the darkened room, or elicit an answer to her calling my name into the dark, she presumed that I'd stepped out for some reason. Her contractions started up quite intensely again, and then she told her nurse it was time to push.
With me still asleep, doctors and students were assembled, and the pushing phase was begun. After fifteen minutes or so, Julie asked again where I was. A student asked, "is that this guy asleep in the chair." Julie instructed that I be woken up, which I was, and in considerable confusion. I immediately leapt to my feet and had the following thoughts:
-I think I'm dreaming...Julie's asleep with the epidural, and we're still just waiting for her to reach 10 cm.
-I don't know any of the people in this room
-My stomach is reminding me why I never eat fast food
Eventually I came into consciousness and realized what was happening. Julie proved to me over the next hour that everything that's ever been assumed about men being tougher than women is nonsense. She was a heroine, and while I was queasy and near-fainting at her knee, she was, incredibly, moving our child closer and closer to life. The doctors showed me his head, and confirmed that he was "sunny-side-up," which would complicate his delivery.
They gave wonderful encouragement to Julie while she was in the midst of pushes, but then promptly demonstrated that it wasn't to be trusted when the supervisor said "Push, Julie! He's almost here!" and then turned to a colleague and remarked "Okay, looks like that woman in 17 is about to deliver. I'll be back in a bit." Julie, however, outpaced their expectations. At the critical moment, only one other doctor and myself were in the room. The others were quickly called, and we saw that the baby was about to emerge.
If you don't know what an episiotomy is, please, do not attempt to find out. I saw that a doctor was about to inflict one upon my wife, and then was when my already unsettled stomach gave out. (Disclaimer: Not that that was anything compared to what Julie was going through) Someone saw me turn white and said "Sit down, Dad, get him out of the way." I remember sitting down and holding a bowl, and as soon as I did I heard a new sound, and then excitement. I stood up, and all of a sudden there was a human being there.
I was beyond amazed. He was a real person, and he was bleating, and looking up with wide open eyes. Julie was attempting to look at him, but couldn't see, and there were several people talking to me at once. I heard someone ask, "what's his name?"
I answered "his name is James" and realized that I was sobbing. There was a pair of scissors in my hand, and I cut his cord, and then his eyes met mine. His cries were just soft mews, and someone had put a cap on his full head of dark hair. He looked like us. I could see my eyes and Julie's ears, and the shape of my face. That a baby was coming had been my all-consuming thought for the past weeks, but I was somehow completely taken by surprise that he would be a person. I held him, and Julie held him, and we loved him. A child was born to us at 4:30 that morning, and his name is James.
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