It took 52 minutes, from walking into the OR--yes, I walked my own self into the OR--to hearing a wee little cry, and everything changed.
Howie is in the house, y'all!
I haven't slept for more than about an hour and a half since 5 yesterday morning, and I'm currently waiting for my next dose of dilaudid so you'll have to excuse my sort of jagged piecing together of events. We went through a C-section, and after talking to several friends and family members who had an emergency C-section, apparently the planned one is the way to go. I mean, my incision is smaller and more convenient (ha!), for one thing, but we also had two hours before the actual event where we leisurely filled in the social security application, birth certificates, vaccination forms, vacation plans, etc etc etc. We've now applied for college and decided his major.
And the spinal block? That is some funky shit. Imagine being able to feel your feet, know they're there, feel the temperature, the breeze, the covering, but when you go to move them... nothing. Or being able to feel people tugging and pushing and pulling (and then eventually, apparently, sitting on your chest and hanging out, maybe having a cup of tea) but not feeling any cutting of any type--and definitely not feeling whatever is causing that burning smell. That makes it sound scary, and it was--but only in retrospect. At the time, the doctors were friendly, relaxed, and telling me what was going on as they went, even complementing my previous surgical team. I was so relaxed that when I heard one of the doctors accidentally drop some metal surgical implement, I asked, "Shouldn't you shout 'OPA!' when that happens?"
My OB laughed.
"You know you're going to miss me," I said to her.
She peeked over the barrier and said she would, but I bet she says that to all the girls.
When I first heard that baby cry--oh, that cliched moment!--I became a cliche myself and broke down. I'm even crying now as I relive that moment, easily the most intense of my life. The casualness of the hours leading up to that moment in no way prepared me for the semitruck that flattened me when I heard Howie cry for the first time. I couldn't even see him past the little curtain (a blue sheet clipped to two IV thingies) and I was gasping for air between wracking sobs, clutching Andrew's hand as he stood up to get a better view. Our little boy was here. This boy--whatever he was, whatever we went through, whatever, had just fallen away as this boy let us know that he was cold and he was not happy. And in that moment, everything changed.
I want to write more, but I can't right now. The heart, it can be so full.