a taste of what's to come

Six years ago today, I woke up at about 4:20 AM with mildly uncomfortable and regular contractions. My due date was 2.9.05. My husband had died on 1.1.05 (I had learned of this on 1.2.05), and the preceding month had been a fog of grief, painful moments of clarity, and waiting. I filled my waiting with many things, not least of which were cold walks in the neighborhood I grew up in, accompanied by my mother and sisters. I wore big B's new down jacket, and we all hoped to generate some uterine action so that I would have something else upon which to focus my time and energy. God alone knew the gender of our baby, and while I thought a daughter would be fun, I knew in my heart that it could only be a son.

4:45 AM: When I was quite sure I was in labor - I'd had Braxton-Hicks contractions throughout my pregnancy and they were quite painless to me, though occasionally alarming to my doctor with their frequency and regularity - I shook my finger at the two framed photos above my bed. "You should be here." Both were of big Blake and I, at a good-bye party hosted by dear friends as we neared our move to Los Alamos, New Mexico. Realizing I could be in for a very long day, I pulled my Bible from my nightstand and began to read and pray and cry, all while making sure that my body was centered on the waterproof sheet and towel... just in case my water broke. No sense in ruining a mattress unnecessarily!

6:00 AM: I decided I had been in on the secret long enough, and I woke my parents to announce my contractions.

6:00 AM - 3:00 PM: A flurry of family and friends came by to see us, hug me, touch my stretch-mark-free belly. The contractions got worse. I knew that Mom, my replacement labor and delivery coach, was waiting for four critical words to get me to the hospital: "I can't do this." I waited as long as I could, then dropped the bomb.

3:00-9:00 PM: Waited.
Cried to my mother about how I wanted Blake. She cried back with words I cannot remember and tears and stroked my hair.
Told the nurses my water had broken and they didn't DARE send me home. They didn't believe me. They checked (owie!) and laughed about how I was right (wanted to punch them) and that when the baby was delivered, it would likely be with a gush of fluid that would soak the doctor.
Thought I was at least at 5-7 cm upon arrival. Learned I was 3 cm. Realized that I was in both physical and emotional torment and that I could make one of those two things go away. Asked for an epidural.
Got immediate relief as well as an accompanying drop in heart rate. Asked for gloves because my hands were so cold. Was put on oxygen.
Heard that Reese was weeping in the waiting room because they would not permit her entry (after my doc and I had agreed upon who was to be allowed in, but a whooping cough epidemic made the hospital cranky and careful). Gathered all my persuasiveness and manipulation to make the case that those I wanted there should be there, damn the rules. Welcomed Reese and Matt.
Whimpered as the contractions got stronger. Remembered a friend that wanted to be a fly in the room when I delivered just to hear the creative cursing... and laughed inwardly at my complete and total lack of toughness. Reverted to a five-year-old when in that much pain.

9:00-11:20 PM
Felt the need to push. Remembered that I didn't want to push with my face or chest and hurt myself with popped blood vessels. Held back as I tried my hardest to push in a very localized area. Heard the phone ring during this time as family, believing we had forgotten to call in the rush of a new baby, called to ask if I had delivered yet. Demanded that someone take the damn phone off the hook or better yet, yank it out of the wall.
Pushed for two and a half hours. Decided a popped vessel was worth not having to do this anymore and really bore down.
Saw the look of concern as my doctor quickly whipped four loops of cord from around my baby's neck. Did not hear my baby cry. Desperately asked the nurse just to hold the baby up, I needed to know if it was a boy or a girl. The nurse answered, flustered, "I can't yet, he's peeing on me!" then looked horrified at usurping my desire to announce to the room whether we'd had a son or daughter. Laid back, exhausted: "I don't care that you said it. I have a son. Now make him cry," as they worked feverishly to make sure that my son was okay.
Held my son for a brief moment. Realized I had poop on my hand (not sure whose, but probably his).
Felt quite numb (though not physically!) as they whisked my baby off to the NICU for observation. Trembled violently as the adrenaline coursing through me sought exit through my vibrating limbs.
My family called everyone back with the news. He'd arrived. He was okay but being monitored in the NICU.

His name is Blake Samuel Morstad.

I look back now and am overwhelmed by many things, the first of which is this: my father and brother-in-law were in the room with me when I delivered my firstborn. At the time, it was appropriate and right and what we all wanted (especially the part where they stayed behind my shoulders at all times). Now? Now it makes me want to do this:

But that's not the strongest response. As one friend aptly put it: The days are long, and the years are short.

Tell me about it.

He's cute, but he still needed time to fluff, and pregnancy brought my freckles out in FORCE!

Blakie Sam, you gave me something else to live for at a time I desperately needed it. That's a lot of pressure, but I am confident that you have what it takes. Happy birthday, dear boy.