I want to say that it was the worst month of my life.
I want to say that I was smacked in the face by reality, that I didn’t expect what happened.
The truth is, I can’t.
You see, I can’t say that I didn’t see it coming. I can’t say that it was a surprise. That particular day? I wasn’t expecting to get the call. I had just seen her a few days before. She stopped by my house asking for help with one of the Christmas presents she had bought for my niece, and was in a great mood.
It was a quick visit…she had more shopping to do, she said.
She’d see me on Christmas Eve for dinner, she said.
She loves me, she said.
I love her too, I said.
The next I heard, she was gone.
I was at work when that very same niece discovered my mother, unresponsive. My sister called me, frantic, saying “something’s wrong with mom!”. I worked in Hamilton, Ohio at the time, about an hour and 20 minutes from my mom’s house. I told my assistant that I had to go. I was in a near-panic, which, to those who know me personally, is not my normal state of being, even in emergencies.
I am the guy who busies himself by assuring everyone else that everything is going to be alright, even as my own world comes crumbling down around me. I think it’s part bravado, part defense mechanism. In this case, it was all bullshit, and all non-existent. My mommy was in trouble. Intellectually, I knew it was the end. I had expected this call one day, but not the week of Christmas. This was her favorite time of year.
When I was growing up, before I moved in with my dad at 12 years old, my mom had always, for as long as I could remember, made Christmas a special time of year for my sister and me, and, later, our kids. We never had a lot of money, but she always found a way to make it work out so that we kept our love of Christmas for as long as possible. We made construction paper chains of red and green for the tree, baked Christmas cookies in every conceivable holiday-related shape, sang our own stupid versions of Christmas songs (“Deadeye the One-Eyed Cowboy”–to the tune of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”–comes to mind), etc. Up until adulthood, I cherished Christmas and the fun and closeness that it brought with it…and I had my mother to thank for it.
As I crossed into adulthood, I watched my mother deteriorate. Due to a couple of auto accidents, a fucktard ex-husband who liked to beat women, and a few other factors, she was in a lot of pain. Add a doctor with loose morals when it came to his prescription pad, and you have the recipe for an addict.
“Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children.” -William Makepeace Thackeray
My mother, the woman who had, for all intents and purposes, been “God” to me as a child, was exactly that–an addict.
Once I was an adult, and saw what was truly going on, I, in typical Rusty fashion, did not shy away from telling her what I thought of her addiction and subsequent behavior. We fought like proverbial cats and dogs, and to this day, I don’t regret a single time of standing up and telling her that her addiction was destroying our relationship…
…that her addiction was killing her…
What I do regret, however, is that I wasn’t persistent enough. My mother, my mom…was in trouble.
On my way from Hamilton, Ohio to Crittenden, Kentucky, I got another call…my mom was gone. I could barely see through my tears well enough to drive.
Once I got to my mom’s house, I found my then-wife standing outside by her car, smoking a cigarette. We had both quit smoking years before, but this seemed like an adequate excuse to backslide for a day…and I lit up a smoke myself. My sister was, in typical Bobbi fashion, bouncing around with no real idea how to react, but no shortage of words spewed in nonsensical directions.
My stepdad, (not the previously-mentioned beater of women) was inside, talking to the coroner when I walked in. I hugged him, told him I loved him, and we sat together until the coroner came out and informed us that they were bringing “the body” out, and advised us to turn our backs, because we “shouldn’t have to see her” that way.
I lapsed back into my customary “rock” mode, trying to make sure everyone else was okay…trying to deny that I wasn’t okay. It was undeniable, and a half pack of cigarettes served as witnesses to my lack of “okayness” that day.
After a few forms were signed by my stepdad, the coroner was on his way back to his office. We were informed that an autopsy would be performed and that we would be able to hold the funeral the following week…
My mom died without life insurance or savings, but my family really pulled through for her, and for us. My cousin, Tony, gave me a burial plot for her. My stepdad happened to have grown up with a local funeral home owner, and so a discount was arranged. A collection was taken up amongst the family, and a good chunk of the funeral expenses were covered, with my Aunt Judy (my mom’s identical twin) and her husband, my Uncle Marvin, making up the difference. My Aunt’s church put together a meal for the funeral attendees for afterward. Flowers and the other niceties were given by various family and friends…and I was and I remain grateful to each and every person who helped out when I couldn’t.
I miss my mother, dearly, but I cannot truthfully say that I didn’t see it coming. I had watched her deteriorate because of her pain and her addiction for far too long to deny that the inevitable was going to happen. Even so, I pretended that we were in some sort of fucked-up stasis, that she could continue to maintain…I was wrong to do so.
A couple weeks after the funeral, the toxicology report came back–17 different medications in her system. That’s what got her.
A part of me wants to go on a rant about how much of a piece of shit the doctor who prescribed the drugs that got her hooked is, but that is a story for another time.
This is about my mother’s passing, and how I coped with it.
I could have emblazoned the memory of her lying in her coffin into my mind, but I refused. I choose to concentrate on remembering the sparkle in her eye, the smile on her face from the last visit I had with her. She wasn’t quite the same as she had been when I was a kid, but, for the first time in a long time, my mom was back, at least a little bit. That is how I choose to remember her. That is the vibrant woman who I carry with me in my heart wherever I go. That is how she would want me to remember her.
That way, she gets to stay forever young…
By the way, Mama, Zoe loved her new bike that Christmas.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Welcome to the World, Quinn! Epilogue Two--Medicinal Malfeasance
After Quinn's birth, Lyndsay was put on an IV anti-inflammatory (Toradol) and 10 mg of Percocet every 4 hours. Ohio doesn't use pain pumps unless someone is put under general anesthesia, and, so, this was her pain regimen.
A day and a half after Quinn was born, Lyndsay's IV blew, and so was removed. Due to the previous nightmares of trying to get IVs and epidurals going, Lyndsay was understandably tired of being poked with needles, and, so, decided that she didn't want a new IV or to have regular injections of the Toradol anymore.
The doctor on staff at the time, Dr. Flemming, decided, without informing Lyndsay of any consequences, that, to make up for not having the Toradol anymore, that he would up the dose of Percocet to 10 mg every 3 hours.
Keep in mind that Percocet contains 325 mg of Tylenol per pill. Any dosage that exceeds 4000 mg of Tylenol within a 24 hour period poses a danger to the patient's liver. Also, keep in mind that the dosage was being given to Lyndsay in the form of two 5 mg pills, thus doubling the normal amount of Tylenol while also increasing the total number of doses substantially.
At 1:00 am on day 2, it came time for the nurse to bring in Lyndsay's Percocet. Instead, the nurse informed us that the dose she was due would have taken her past the point of toxicity, and that she would have to wait until enough time had passed to be safe. We were then informed that it would be another 6 hours.
At this point, I was fed up.
"You need to get your nurse supervisor in here," I barked.
"Yes, sir," came the nurse's wise reply.
Within two minutes, the nurse supervisor was standing in front of a sleep deprived and pissed off Rusty.
"This is some bullshit. That egomaniac arbitrarily ups her dose of pain meds without informing her of risks or the fact that there would be a point in which she would have to go 9 hours between doses" I asserted.
"You're absolutely right," she answered correctly.
"Why don't they separate the oxycodone from the Tylenol and give them individually so that they can control the dosages to prevent that kind of buildup?" I asked.
"I'll ask the doctor," she replied, and then walked out of the room.
A few minutes later, she returned with bad news. "The doctor said to wait and take the Percocet."
"If I see that doctor in the morning, y'all better have security ready."
"Don't say that, please."
"Fine. He's not going to like me very much...I promise. You need to go over his head and help her. This is the fourth time I have seen her cry due to pain in the 3 years we have been together. She isn't a complainer. Get her some help."
"I'll see what I can do," she promised.
Five minutes later, the nurse supervisor returned with 50 mg of Demerol and an explanation that it was to be used to fill the gap until the next dose of Percocet can be administered. I was fine with that, so long as Lyndsay's pain was being addressed.
The next morning, Dr. Ortiz, of whom I have a very high opinion already, was the attending physician. I had left the room to take a walk, and, when I returned, he was in the birthing suite explaining to Lyndsay:
"We're going to separate the Oxycodone and Tylenol and give them to you individually so that we can control the amount of Tylenol in your system at any one time," he said.
Halle-fucking-lujah!!! What genius came up with that brilliant plan???
Without hesitation, Dr. Ortiz wrote the order and Lyndsay's pain was being properly managed.
Interesting side effect of my having put my foot down: every time I walked by the nurses station, everyone stopped talking until I passed by, and then resumed their conversation after they had deemed me a safe distance away. Even the doctors shied away after that. One of my better moments.
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A day and a half after Quinn was born, Lyndsay's IV blew, and so was removed. Due to the previous nightmares of trying to get IVs and epidurals going, Lyndsay was understandably tired of being poked with needles, and, so, decided that she didn't want a new IV or to have regular injections of the Toradol anymore.
The doctor on staff at the time, Dr. Flemming, decided, without informing Lyndsay of any consequences, that, to make up for not having the Toradol anymore, that he would up the dose of Percocet to 10 mg every 3 hours.
Keep in mind that Percocet contains 325 mg of Tylenol per pill. Any dosage that exceeds 4000 mg of Tylenol within a 24 hour period poses a danger to the patient's liver. Also, keep in mind that the dosage was being given to Lyndsay in the form of two 5 mg pills, thus doubling the normal amount of Tylenol while also increasing the total number of doses substantially.
At 1:00 am on day 2, it came time for the nurse to bring in Lyndsay's Percocet. Instead, the nurse informed us that the dose she was due would have taken her past the point of toxicity, and that she would have to wait until enough time had passed to be safe. We were then informed that it would be another 6 hours.
At this point, I was fed up.
"You need to get your nurse supervisor in here," I barked.
"Yes, sir," came the nurse's wise reply.
Within two minutes, the nurse supervisor was standing in front of a sleep deprived and pissed off Rusty.
"This is some bullshit. That egomaniac arbitrarily ups her dose of pain meds without informing her of risks or the fact that there would be a point in which she would have to go 9 hours between doses" I asserted.
"You're absolutely right," she answered correctly.
"Why don't they separate the oxycodone from the Tylenol and give them individually so that they can control the dosages to prevent that kind of buildup?" I asked.
"I'll ask the doctor," she replied, and then walked out of the room.
A few minutes later, she returned with bad news. "The doctor said to wait and take the Percocet."
"If I see that doctor in the morning, y'all better have security ready."
"Don't say that, please."
"Fine. He's not going to like me very much...I promise. You need to go over his head and help her. This is the fourth time I have seen her cry due to pain in the 3 years we have been together. She isn't a complainer. Get her some help."
"I'll see what I can do," she promised.
Five minutes later, the nurse supervisor returned with 50 mg of Demerol and an explanation that it was to be used to fill the gap until the next dose of Percocet can be administered. I was fine with that, so long as Lyndsay's pain was being addressed.
The next morning, Dr. Ortiz, of whom I have a very high opinion already, was the attending physician. I had left the room to take a walk, and, when I returned, he was in the birthing suite explaining to Lyndsay:
"We're going to separate the Oxycodone and Tylenol and give them to you individually so that we can control the amount of Tylenol in your system at any one time," he said.
Halle-fucking-lujah!!! What genius came up with that brilliant plan???
Without hesitation, Dr. Ortiz wrote the order and Lyndsay's pain was being properly managed.
Interesting side effect of my having put my foot down: every time I walked by the nurses station, everyone stopped talking until I passed by, and then resumed their conversation after they had deemed me a safe distance away. Even the doctors shied away after that. One of my better moments.
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Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Welcome to the World, Quinn! Epilogue One--Nurse Ratchet
After all the excitement and terror from the wee hours of the morning, we were blessed with a few hours of minimal interference from the nurses.
That was to be short-lived, however...
Sheena (I think that was her first name...I was too sleep-deprived to remember and much too annoyed to care by the time it was all over), or, as Lyndsay dubbed her, "Nurse Ratchet") was an absolute windbag of condescension and annoyance.
Since Lyndsay had an unplanned C-Section and Quinn had difficulty at birth, they were being checked every hour or so for vitals, etc. This entire process typically takes anywhere from 5 to 10 minutes...15 at the most.
Nurse Ratchet, however, would spend, on average, 45 minutes out of every hour in the birthing suite droning on and on about whatever ridiculously pointless prattle popped into her unjustifiably arrogant head.
Here's an example:
Lyndsay's mother runs a daycare and has for most of Lyndsay's life. Lyndsay helped out with said daycare from time to time, changing diapers on occasion, etc. We informed Nurse Ratchet of this.
I have 4 other children, and have successfully changed thousands of diapers in my lifetime. We informed nurse Ratchet of this.
Nurse Ratchet, having been informed thusly, decided that a 30 minute lecture on how to change a diaper was in order. At one point, I even interrupted her diatribe and reiterated that we both knew how to change diapers. She didn't even acknowledge that I had said anything, continuing to spout off the steps to changing diapers.
Similar lectures were given on such classic subjects as "How to avoid getting peed on by little boys" (during which, she got peed on), "How to Bathe Babies" (during which her "instruction" continued regardless of the fact that both Lyndsay and I were in and out of sleep due to her earlier lectures not allowing us to get any rest whatsoever), and "How to Burp Your Baby", which was completely ignored by both Lyndsay and myself, as we continued our conversation that Nurse Ratchet had interrupted.
We endured this utterly unhelpful and torturous individual for 12 hours. I was on the verge of telling her to go fuck herself, but I was stopped by prudence and by Lyndsay giving me near-constant "don't you dare" looks every time she came into the room for one of her "Vitals and Lectures" series...
Luckily, after that day, we never saw Nurse Ratchet again...
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That was to be short-lived, however...
Sheena (I think that was her first name...I was too sleep-deprived to remember and much too annoyed to care by the time it was all over), or, as Lyndsay dubbed her, "Nurse Ratchet") was an absolute windbag of condescension and annoyance.
Since Lyndsay had an unplanned C-Section and Quinn had difficulty at birth, they were being checked every hour or so for vitals, etc. This entire process typically takes anywhere from 5 to 10 minutes...15 at the most.
Nurse Ratchet, however, would spend, on average, 45 minutes out of every hour in the birthing suite droning on and on about whatever ridiculously pointless prattle popped into her unjustifiably arrogant head.
Here's an example:
Lyndsay's mother runs a daycare and has for most of Lyndsay's life. Lyndsay helped out with said daycare from time to time, changing diapers on occasion, etc. We informed Nurse Ratchet of this.
I have 4 other children, and have successfully changed thousands of diapers in my lifetime. We informed nurse Ratchet of this.
Nurse Ratchet, having been informed thusly, decided that a 30 minute lecture on how to change a diaper was in order. At one point, I even interrupted her diatribe and reiterated that we both knew how to change diapers. She didn't even acknowledge that I had said anything, continuing to spout off the steps to changing diapers.
Similar lectures were given on such classic subjects as "How to avoid getting peed on by little boys" (during which, she got peed on), "How to Bathe Babies" (during which her "instruction" continued regardless of the fact that both Lyndsay and I were in and out of sleep due to her earlier lectures not allowing us to get any rest whatsoever), and "How to Burp Your Baby", which was completely ignored by both Lyndsay and myself, as we continued our conversation that Nurse Ratchet had interrupted.
We endured this utterly unhelpful and torturous individual for 12 hours. I was on the verge of telling her to go fuck herself, but I was stopped by prudence and by Lyndsay giving me near-constant "don't you dare" looks every time she came into the room for one of her "Vitals and Lectures" series...
Luckily, after that day, we never saw Nurse Ratchet again...
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Monday, January 27, 2014
Welcome to the World, Quinn! Part Four--The Aftermath
Upon thanking Dr. Ortiz, I left the OR to go let Lyndsay's family know that she and Quinn were okay.
I found them in her birthing suite, with her mom in the process of coming out of what appeared to be hysterical crying.
Apparently, they saw the Code Pink team rush into the OR. Considering that we were the only C-Section going on at the time, they knew that the Code Pink was for Quinn and Lyndsay. Of course, no one told them anything at all, so all they could do was cry, pray, and wait.
Once the code was cleared, the only information they had was "Everyone is okay now, but we can't give you anymore information".
When I came into the birthing suite, I hugged Kim (Lyndsay's mom) tightly, and then relayed everything that had happened in the OR to them. I let them know that Quinn would be under observation until about 4:40 am (by this time, about an hour and ten minutes later) and that Lyndsay had requested 10 minutes alone with him once he came out of the nursery since she hadn't gotten to hold him yet.
Once Lyndsay was back in the room, we all mulled around, waiting to see Quinn again. Lyndsay's family went out to wander the halls and clear their heads a bit, and I chatted with Lyndsay until a nurse came in and informed me that I, being the father, was allowed to go see Quinn in the nursery. I, of course, jumped at the chance, kissed Lyndsay, and took off for the nursery.
I found Chuck (Lyndsay's dad) pacing outside the nursery door, waiting for Quinn to be brought out.
"That had to be some fucked up shit, man!" he said.
"I was terrified. I've never been so scared in my life," I replied.
I pressed the button to be let into the nursery.
"May I help you?" came the voice over the intercom.
"I'm Quinn Sullivan's father," I responded. "I'm here to see him."
"Oh, he's going to be going to the birthing suite in just a minute."
Chuck went and got the rest of the family, and by the time Quinn came out, he had an entourage of Lyndsay's family trying to get a peek at him before he went into the birthing suite for Mommy time.
Stay tuned for tomorrow's installment
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I found them in her birthing suite, with her mom in the process of coming out of what appeared to be hysterical crying.
Apparently, they saw the Code Pink team rush into the OR. Considering that we were the only C-Section going on at the time, they knew that the Code Pink was for Quinn and Lyndsay. Of course, no one told them anything at all, so all they could do was cry, pray, and wait.
Once the code was cleared, the only information they had was "Everyone is okay now, but we can't give you anymore information".
When I came into the birthing suite, I hugged Kim (Lyndsay's mom) tightly, and then relayed everything that had happened in the OR to them. I let them know that Quinn would be under observation until about 4:40 am (by this time, about an hour and ten minutes later) and that Lyndsay had requested 10 minutes alone with him once he came out of the nursery since she hadn't gotten to hold him yet.
Once Lyndsay was back in the room, we all mulled around, waiting to see Quinn again. Lyndsay's family went out to wander the halls and clear their heads a bit, and I chatted with Lyndsay until a nurse came in and informed me that I, being the father, was allowed to go see Quinn in the nursery. I, of course, jumped at the chance, kissed Lyndsay, and took off for the nursery.
I found Chuck (Lyndsay's dad) pacing outside the nursery door, waiting for Quinn to be brought out.
"That had to be some fucked up shit, man!" he said.
"I was terrified. I've never been so scared in my life," I replied.
I pressed the button to be let into the nursery.
"May I help you?" came the voice over the intercom.
"I'm Quinn Sullivan's father," I responded. "I'm here to see him."
"Oh, he's going to be going to the birthing suite in just a minute."
Chuck went and got the rest of the family, and by the time Quinn came out, he had an entourage of Lyndsay's family trying to get a peek at him before he went into the birthing suite for Mommy time.
Stay tuned for tomorrow's installment
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Sunday, January 26, 2014
Welcome to the World, Quinn! Part Three--Just Breathe
Tuesday, January 14, 2014:
At approximately 12:45 am, Erin returned for another check of Lyndsay. In her words, Lyndsay was "almost 10 cm dilated" and she decided to have Lyndsay do some "practice pushes". Having been in the room for 3 previous labors, this sounded odd to me, but that was a long time ago, so I kept my thoughts to myself.
...and so, Erin had Lyndsay start her "practice pushes". Lyndsay did really well...so well, in fact, that Erin decided to go ahead and have her push for real. It was time to have a baby!
Lyndsay rose to the occasion despite her own self-doubt. She gave it everything she had, but there wasn't any real progress being made. Quinn would move down while Lyndsay pushed, and then return to the position he was in to begin with after the contractions were over. This went on for a little under 2 hours.
Finally, Erin declared that Quinn was transverse in the birth canal. She informed us that, at this point, we had 2 options:
1) Lyndsay could continue pushing for 4 or 5 hours and hope that Quinn's head turned to the proper position and still run a very high risk of having to undergo a C-Section if it didn't.
2) Go ahead and have a C-Section.
It seemed like a no-brainer to both of us, and preparations were made to send Lyndsay into the operating room.
Erin then went over the procedures with us while the the head/charge nurse and Lyndsay's nurse prepared to take her down. A different anesthesiologist came in and put the medicine that would completely numb Lyndsay for the C-Section into her epidural. Somewhere along the line, I was told "if the numbing medicine doesn't work properly, we would have to put her completely under. In that case, you would no longer be needed and would be asked to leave."
heh...I'd like to see them try to find someone large enough to move me if I didn't want to go...and I wasn't leaving Lyndsay's side, awake or not.
At around 2:50 am, Lyndsay was wheeled out of the room and I was left to get gowned and to wait for them to come let me know when I could go into the OR to see my son's birth.
Now, let me flash back to the birth of my second son, Aiden. A similar situation (pushing wasn't effective, his mother had to have an unplanned C-Section) occurred, and I was told they would come get me when it was okay to come into the OR...but I wasn't allowed to go in because they "didn't want me to pass out". Of all the lame ass excuses...
Back to 2014--I waited for what seemed like an eternity. I started having not-so-fond memories of the shit that was pulled the day Aiden was born, and I worried that I was being shut out once again. I paced...I worried...I ALMOST vocalized my thoughts...and then the charge nurse came and got me.
I entered the OR and Lyndsay was strapped to the table, looking like she was the appropriate mixture of excited, happy, relieved, worried, and terrified.
I took my seat over her shoulder and we waited for the magical moment.
At 3:15 am, one of the surgical team said "He's out!", but...
...no cry...
"Not a big deal," I thought. "Donovan (my oldest son) didn't cry either. He just needed a little help getting his lungs going."
Then the charge nurse brought our son to the other side of the surgical drape for us to see...
...He was blue from head to toe...
The nurse whisked Quinn away to the warming table and started a timer. She then proceeded to place a tube down his throat to suction the leftover amniotic fluid from his lungs.
The timer was at 1 minute and counting.
The nurse continues to work on Quinn.
"Why isn't he crying?" Lyndsay asked...she was still draped, so she wasn't able to see what I saw.
"They're working on him, baby," I said. "They're sucking all the gunk from his lungs so he can breathe on his own."
The timer was at 3 minutes...still no cry. The charge nurse made the decision to call a Code Pink, and various personnel came in and crowded around Quinn. I could no longer see him, but I could see his blood oxygen monitor, his pulse monitor and that infernal timer.
The anesthesiologist, hearing Lyndsay's questions and pleads for Quinn to cry, chimed in, "airways are my speciality. They have to suction out the amniotic fluid to clear his lungs so that they can get him started breathing..." she droned on as my mind swirled.
The timer was at 4 minutes...and my baby boy still wasn't crying.
I had done my best to keep a strong and reassuring face on, for Lyndsay's sake. At this point, however, I was going crazy inside.
I found myself dropping the reassuring act.
"Breathe, son...come on...breathe...give Daddy a cry. Cry for me, baby boy...please," I heard myself saying.
Then I heard a little cough. Then another...but, still no cry.
...5 minutes on the timer...
The coughs were mildly reassuring. You can't cough if you have no air in your lungs. That reassurance was short-lived, however, when I saw the monitors:
SpO2: 51%
Pulse: 90
"CRY, QUINN!"
I don't know whether I yelled it aloud or just screamed it in my head, but, to me, it was deafening...
5 minutes, 42 seconds on the timer...and then...
"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!"
Quinn had announced himself to the world, and it was the most beautiful sound I have ever heard in my life...
The Code Pink team mulled out of the way, and I saw Quinn "pink up" within seconds. He was kicking, screaming, and pissed the fuck off, and I loved it. He was 7 lbs. 5 oz. of raging piss and vinegar, and Daddy couldn't have been more proud.
The charge nurse swaddled him up and brought the new and improved (and in a much more attractive color!) Quinn over to properly meet us. They were still closing Lyndsay up, so she wasn't able to hold him, so the nurse handed him off to me, and I held him down next to his very tired and very relieved Mommy for her to say hi and shower him with kisses.
Now, I have to take a break in the action to mention one of the highlights of the entire experience (outside of Quinn turning out healthy and Lyndsay making it through intact), Dr. Xavier Ortiz.
Dr. Ortiz is, without a doubt, one of the most caring and professional physicians I have ever had the opportunity to meet.
After he finished closing Lyndsay up, I was on my way out of the OR to go inform her family about what happened, and I felt a tap on my shoulder. Dr. Ortiz had removed his surgical attire and was standing there with his hand out. He shook my hand, gave his congratulations, and patted me on the shoulder. None of my previous children's attending OBs ever made such a gesture. In many cases, the fathers are treated as an accessory at best and a nuisance at worst.
It was a small gesture, but, given the craziness that had just happened, I'll never forget it. Dr. Ortiz is a pure class act.
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At approximately 12:45 am, Erin returned for another check of Lyndsay. In her words, Lyndsay was "almost 10 cm dilated" and she decided to have Lyndsay do some "practice pushes". Having been in the room for 3 previous labors, this sounded odd to me, but that was a long time ago, so I kept my thoughts to myself.
...and so, Erin had Lyndsay start her "practice pushes". Lyndsay did really well...so well, in fact, that Erin decided to go ahead and have her push for real. It was time to have a baby!
Lyndsay rose to the occasion despite her own self-doubt. She gave it everything she had, but there wasn't any real progress being made. Quinn would move down while Lyndsay pushed, and then return to the position he was in to begin with after the contractions were over. This went on for a little under 2 hours.
Finally, Erin declared that Quinn was transverse in the birth canal. She informed us that, at this point, we had 2 options:
1) Lyndsay could continue pushing for 4 or 5 hours and hope that Quinn's head turned to the proper position and still run a very high risk of having to undergo a C-Section if it didn't.
2) Go ahead and have a C-Section.
It seemed like a no-brainer to both of us, and preparations were made to send Lyndsay into the operating room.
Erin then went over the procedures with us while the the head/charge nurse and Lyndsay's nurse prepared to take her down. A different anesthesiologist came in and put the medicine that would completely numb Lyndsay for the C-Section into her epidural. Somewhere along the line, I was told "if the numbing medicine doesn't work properly, we would have to put her completely under. In that case, you would no longer be needed and would be asked to leave."
heh...I'd like to see them try to find someone large enough to move me if I didn't want to go...and I wasn't leaving Lyndsay's side, awake or not.
At around 2:50 am, Lyndsay was wheeled out of the room and I was left to get gowned and to wait for them to come let me know when I could go into the OR to see my son's birth.
Now, let me flash back to the birth of my second son, Aiden. A similar situation (pushing wasn't effective, his mother had to have an unplanned C-Section) occurred, and I was told they would come get me when it was okay to come into the OR...but I wasn't allowed to go in because they "didn't want me to pass out". Of all the lame ass excuses...
Back to 2014--I waited for what seemed like an eternity. I started having not-so-fond memories of the shit that was pulled the day Aiden was born, and I worried that I was being shut out once again. I paced...I worried...I ALMOST vocalized my thoughts...and then the charge nurse came and got me.
I entered the OR and Lyndsay was strapped to the table, looking like she was the appropriate mixture of excited, happy, relieved, worried, and terrified.
I took my seat over her shoulder and we waited for the magical moment.
At 3:15 am, one of the surgical team said "He's out!", but...
...no cry...
"Not a big deal," I thought. "Donovan (my oldest son) didn't cry either. He just needed a little help getting his lungs going."
Then the charge nurse brought our son to the other side of the surgical drape for us to see...
...He was blue from head to toe...
The nurse whisked Quinn away to the warming table and started a timer. She then proceeded to place a tube down his throat to suction the leftover amniotic fluid from his lungs.
The timer was at 1 minute and counting.
The nurse continues to work on Quinn.
"Why isn't he crying?" Lyndsay asked...she was still draped, so she wasn't able to see what I saw.
"They're working on him, baby," I said. "They're sucking all the gunk from his lungs so he can breathe on his own."
The timer was at 3 minutes...still no cry. The charge nurse made the decision to call a Code Pink, and various personnel came in and crowded around Quinn. I could no longer see him, but I could see his blood oxygen monitor, his pulse monitor and that infernal timer.
The anesthesiologist, hearing Lyndsay's questions and pleads for Quinn to cry, chimed in, "airways are my speciality. They have to suction out the amniotic fluid to clear his lungs so that they can get him started breathing..." she droned on as my mind swirled.
The timer was at 4 minutes...and my baby boy still wasn't crying.
I had done my best to keep a strong and reassuring face on, for Lyndsay's sake. At this point, however, I was going crazy inside.
I found myself dropping the reassuring act.
"Breathe, son...come on...breathe...give Daddy a cry. Cry for me, baby boy...please," I heard myself saying.
Then I heard a little cough. Then another...but, still no cry.
...5 minutes on the timer...
The coughs were mildly reassuring. You can't cough if you have no air in your lungs. That reassurance was short-lived, however, when I saw the monitors:
SpO2: 51%
Pulse: 90
"CRY, QUINN!"
I don't know whether I yelled it aloud or just screamed it in my head, but, to me, it was deafening...
5 minutes, 42 seconds on the timer...and then...
"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!"
Quinn had announced himself to the world, and it was the most beautiful sound I have ever heard in my life...
The Code Pink team mulled out of the way, and I saw Quinn "pink up" within seconds. He was kicking, screaming, and pissed the fuck off, and I loved it. He was 7 lbs. 5 oz. of raging piss and vinegar, and Daddy couldn't have been more proud.
The charge nurse swaddled him up and brought the new and improved (and in a much more attractive color!) Quinn over to properly meet us. They were still closing Lyndsay up, so she wasn't able to hold him, so the nurse handed him off to me, and I held him down next to his very tired and very relieved Mommy for her to say hi and shower him with kisses.
Now, I have to take a break in the action to mention one of the highlights of the entire experience (outside of Quinn turning out healthy and Lyndsay making it through intact), Dr. Xavier Ortiz.
Dr. Ortiz is, without a doubt, one of the most caring and professional physicians I have ever had the opportunity to meet.
After he finished closing Lyndsay up, I was on my way out of the OR to go inform her family about what happened, and I felt a tap on my shoulder. Dr. Ortiz had removed his surgical attire and was standing there with his hand out. He shook my hand, gave his congratulations, and patted me on the shoulder. None of my previous children's attending OBs ever made such a gesture. In many cases, the fathers are treated as an accessory at best and a nuisance at worst.
It was a small gesture, but, given the craziness that had just happened, I'll never forget it. Dr. Ortiz is a pure class act.
Posted from WordPress for Android
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Welcome to the World, Quinn! Part Two--Uncomfortably Numb
Monday, January 13, 2014:
The waiting period allowed us to get some sleep before heading over to the hospital (which inevitably results in cranky pregnant lady being tethered to a bed for hours on end while awaiting the final pushing, etc. We were able to take our time. Lyndsay took a warm bath, I gave her a foot rub, we took a nap, got up, went to breakfast, and then proceeded to mosey up to Mercy Anderson Hospital.
Upon arrival at the hospital, we were greeted by the triage nurse for the birthing center, Renee. She was a former US Army nurse, working at military hospitals in their birthing centers before retiring and working for Mercy.
Renee was great. She worked efficiently, cracked sarcastic jokes the whole time, and put both myself and Lyndsay at ease. To top it off, she spent the rest of her shift caring for Lyndsay rather than handing her off to one of the nurses at the birthing center nurses' station, despite this not being the way things are normally done.
The one bad mark on our time with Renee was the difficulty she and her nursing cohorts had in getting an IV hooked up. As it turns out, Renee is usually the "go to" person when someone else is having difficulty getting an IV started, but, apparently, Lyndsay unlucky to have especially difficult-to-find/use veins, forcing Renee and company to have to stick her 5 times before everything started running smoothly.
Once Renee put us into a birthing suite and got the IV running, Erin, the Nurse Midwife on call at the time (and the only one Lyndsay didn't like from her OB/GYN practice of choice) came in and put her on Pitocin to bring on active labor. Erin didn't stay long, as she was apparently ill and didn't want to expose us to whatever plague she had going on, for which we were thankful.
As the morning progressed, Lyndsay's family started to show up, various nurses came and went, the Pitocin continued to drip, and Lyndsay continued to dilate, have contractions of irregular intervals and duration, etc. Once she reached 7 cm dilation and was having pretty hefty contractions, Lyndsay asked for her epidural to be started.
The nurse who was on at the time, Patti, called for the anesthesiologist to come in, and informed us that he is "very good".
"Sweet," I thought. "Let's hope this goes better than the IV."
The anesthesiologist arrives, gets his workspace ready, and the room is cleared of all visitors but me, and he proceeds to work on Lyndsay's epidural.
Let me step back a minute to tell you that this man had no bedside manner whatsoever. He was cold as ice. While disconcerting at first, upon further contemplation, turns into more of a positive than a negative.
Unfortunately, Dr. Knock-em-out's cold, calculating demeanor didn't help him (or Lyndsay) at all on this night. Every time he would attempt to place the epidural needle, he would hit bone. It took him seven attempts before he was able to place the epidural. By the 5th time, Lyndsay (who, up until this point, I had seen cry due to pain exactly twice...both times due to arthritis in her back) was in tears and the cold, unapologetic anesthesiologist was apologizing and wincing. I know my face had to flash the anger and frustration I was feeling at the time, but I kept my cool.
Eventually, the epidural was placed (about 5-6 inches higher on her back than is customary), and Lyndsay was finally comfortable and able to rest a little bit. The waiting game resumed.
As a side note, somewhere along the way, Lyndsay stated that the crucifix on the wall (Mercy is a Catholic hospital) was creeping her out. I devised a solution:
At a little before 11:00 pm, Erin returned to check on Lyndsay. She was a shade over 9 cm dilated at this time, and not quite ready to start pushing. Unfortunately, Lyndsay's dream of giving birth on the 13th wasn't to be.
Stay tuned for Tomorrow's Installment
Posted from WordPress for Android
The waiting period allowed us to get some sleep before heading over to the hospital (which inevitably results in cranky pregnant lady being tethered to a bed for hours on end while awaiting the final pushing, etc. We were able to take our time. Lyndsay took a warm bath, I gave her a foot rub, we took a nap, got up, went to breakfast, and then proceeded to mosey up to Mercy Anderson Hospital.
Upon arrival at the hospital, we were greeted by the triage nurse for the birthing center, Renee. She was a former US Army nurse, working at military hospitals in their birthing centers before retiring and working for Mercy.
Renee was great. She worked efficiently, cracked sarcastic jokes the whole time, and put both myself and Lyndsay at ease. To top it off, she spent the rest of her shift caring for Lyndsay rather than handing her off to one of the nurses at the birthing center nurses' station, despite this not being the way things are normally done.
The one bad mark on our time with Renee was the difficulty she and her nursing cohorts had in getting an IV hooked up. As it turns out, Renee is usually the "go to" person when someone else is having difficulty getting an IV started, but, apparently, Lyndsay unlucky to have especially difficult-to-find/use veins, forcing Renee and company to have to stick her 5 times before everything started running smoothly.
Once Renee put us into a birthing suite and got the IV running, Erin, the Nurse Midwife on call at the time (and the only one Lyndsay didn't like from her OB/GYN practice of choice) came in and put her on Pitocin to bring on active labor. Erin didn't stay long, as she was apparently ill and didn't want to expose us to whatever plague she had going on, for which we were thankful.
As the morning progressed, Lyndsay's family started to show up, various nurses came and went, the Pitocin continued to drip, and Lyndsay continued to dilate, have contractions of irregular intervals and duration, etc. Once she reached 7 cm dilation and was having pretty hefty contractions, Lyndsay asked for her epidural to be started.
The nurse who was on at the time, Patti, called for the anesthesiologist to come in, and informed us that he is "very good".
"Sweet," I thought. "Let's hope this goes better than the IV."
The anesthesiologist arrives, gets his workspace ready, and the room is cleared of all visitors but me, and he proceeds to work on Lyndsay's epidural.
Let me step back a minute to tell you that this man had no bedside manner whatsoever. He was cold as ice. While disconcerting at first, upon further contemplation, turns into more of a positive than a negative.
Unfortunately, Dr. Knock-em-out's cold, calculating demeanor didn't help him (or Lyndsay) at all on this night. Every time he would attempt to place the epidural needle, he would hit bone. It took him seven attempts before he was able to place the epidural. By the 5th time, Lyndsay (who, up until this point, I had seen cry due to pain exactly twice...both times due to arthritis in her back) was in tears and the cold, unapologetic anesthesiologist was apologizing and wincing. I know my face had to flash the anger and frustration I was feeling at the time, but I kept my cool.
Eventually, the epidural was placed (about 5-6 inches higher on her back than is customary), and Lyndsay was finally comfortable and able to rest a little bit. The waiting game resumed.
As a side note, somewhere along the way, Lyndsay stated that the crucifix on the wall (Mercy is a Catholic hospital) was creeping her out. I devised a solution:
At a little before 11:00 pm, Erin returned to check on Lyndsay. She was a shade over 9 cm dilated at this time, and not quite ready to start pushing. Unfortunately, Lyndsay's dream of giving birth on the 13th wasn't to be.
Stay tuned for Tomorrow's Installment
Posted from WordPress for Android
Friday, January 24, 2014
Welcome to the World, Quinn! Part One--The Flood
On January 14, 2014, my girlfriend, Lyndsay, and I welcomed my fourth son (my fifth child overall, and Lyndsay's first) into the world. This is the story about how it played out...
Sunday, January 12, 2014:
January 12 is my daughter's (technically, my step-daughter from my previous marriage, but I'll be damned if I'll let anyone tell me she's not mine) birthday. Today, in particular is her 16th birthday. I visited for a little while, but I wasn't feeling very good. I had some sort of stomach bug or something, so I called it an early night and went home with the intention to zonk out in front of the TV with Lyndsay.
After I got home, I made one last trip out to the Frisch's Big Boy down the street to get some soup and a sandwich for myself and something for Lyndsay as well. Of course, the fuckers didn't have the broccoli and cheddar soup I wanted (even though I called ahead of time to make sure they did--they conveniently ran out of it just before I got there), I settled for vegetable and went back home.
Lyndsay and I ate our dinner and talked about our day. We watched some TV and then Lyndsay had to run outside for something. While she was gone, my sleep-deprived ass passed out in the recliner.
At precisely 11 pm, she woke me up by coming through the door and proclaiming "I think my water is breaking!"
I sleepily replied, "are you sure?"
"Pretty sure." (insert graphic explanation of what is going on to make her believe he water is breaking).
"Call your midwife and ask her what we should do," I responded, suddenly much more awake, and much more queasy than I had been just seconds earlier.
I start grabbing things haphazardly and putting them in the various bags to take to the hospital, loading the dishwasher with the days dishes, etc. while Lyndsay put the call into the midwife. I shot a text to each of my bosses and then called and texted various people to let them know what was going on.
The midwife told Lyndsay to wait for up to 12 hours before reporting to the hospital, considering that she didn't have any actual contractions going on, so we relaxed and called a few more people to let them know. When Lyndsay called her mom, I could hear her whoop over the phone across the room. ;-)
Stay tuned for Tomorrow's Installment
Posted from WordPress for Android
Sunday, January 12, 2014:
January 12 is my daughter's (technically, my step-daughter from my previous marriage, but I'll be damned if I'll let anyone tell me she's not mine) birthday. Today, in particular is her 16th birthday. I visited for a little while, but I wasn't feeling very good. I had some sort of stomach bug or something, so I called it an early night and went home with the intention to zonk out in front of the TV with Lyndsay.
After I got home, I made one last trip out to the Frisch's Big Boy down the street to get some soup and a sandwich for myself and something for Lyndsay as well. Of course, the fuckers didn't have the broccoli and cheddar soup I wanted (even though I called ahead of time to make sure they did--they conveniently ran out of it just before I got there), I settled for vegetable and went back home.
Lyndsay and I ate our dinner and talked about our day. We watched some TV and then Lyndsay had to run outside for something. While she was gone, my sleep-deprived ass passed out in the recliner.
At precisely 11 pm, she woke me up by coming through the door and proclaiming "I think my water is breaking!"
I sleepily replied, "are you sure?"
"Pretty sure." (insert graphic explanation of what is going on to make her believe he water is breaking).
"Call your midwife and ask her what we should do," I responded, suddenly much more awake, and much more queasy than I had been just seconds earlier.
I start grabbing things haphazardly and putting them in the various bags to take to the hospital, loading the dishwasher with the days dishes, etc. while Lyndsay put the call into the midwife. I shot a text to each of my bosses and then called and texted various people to let them know what was going on.
The midwife told Lyndsay to wait for up to 12 hours before reporting to the hospital, considering that she didn't have any actual contractions going on, so we relaxed and called a few more people to let them know. When Lyndsay called her mom, I could hear her whoop over the phone across the room. ;-)
Stay tuned for Tomorrow's Installment
Posted from WordPress for Android
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