Happy Birthday, Silas

A year ago, I took the day off work. I went to the Starbucks to get coffee first thing in the morning, and ended up in a full-on hug with a woman who, when she asked what my plans were for the day, was informed that my pregnant wife was set to be induced that evening.

After I brought home the coffee, Taylor and I didn't do much but get ready and worry for most of the day. This worrying became so intense that despite the fact that Taylor was on bedrest, upon witnessing her total hysteria over the fact that we didn't have any pants for the baby, I acquiesced in her desire to visit the Target to purchase some for our forthcoming newborn. (Taylor had broken down in tears -- convinced that she was a terrible mother and that our new baby would no doubt become hypothermic without many, many pairs of pants.)

The doctors had instructed Taylor to eat a big meal before checking into the hospital around 10 p.m. Around 8 o'clock, we went to Five Guys to get giant, sloppy hamburgers for dinner. Upon seeing Taylor's ginormous belly, our fellow diners appeared somewhat concerned that they would be witnesses to the miracle of life right there in the middle of the restaurant.

After finishing dinner without incident, we nervously (but excitedly) checked into the hospital. Around midnight, the nurses gave Taylor a dose of Cervidil, beginning the laboring process. We fell asleep in fits and starts until 3 in the morning, when Taylor awoke with contractions. I continued to sleep for a few more hours until the contractions became more intense.

The doctor arrived around 7, broke Taylor's water, and ran an IV of Pitocin. Soon thereafter, my brothers and Jon Miles arrived to set up camp in the hospital waiting room, optimistically (and wrongly) expecting the baby to be born quickly.

Taylor and I had taken a natural childbirthing class. Although the induction was far from natural, Taylor hoped to avoid any pain medication. She instead labored in our darkened hospital room for hours, listening to soothing music and rejecting (with increasing anger) my repeated offers to provide her with a wet washcloth.

Every few hours, a doctor would arrive to check Taylor's progress, and upon being dissatisfied with that progress, increase the flow of Pitocin. Taylor was in real pain by early afternoon. She would writhe in the bed for several minutes during intense contractions and then collapse for the 45 seconds of respite in between. Eventually, the pain led Taylor to vomit, and the tension caused by the pain had halted any progress entirely. The doctors recommended an epidural with the hope that Taylor would relax and continue moving toward delivery.

At 4 p.m. and 7 centimeters, Taylor agreed to accept the epidural. Unfortunately, the anesthesiologist did not arrive for another hour, and -- according to Taylor -- he and I were inappropriately chatty when he should have been focused on inserting the needle. When the anesthesia did take effect, Taylor was the one who became inappropriate. Her euphoria led to great praise of the doctor and the drugs he administered; Taylor both (1) suggested that she should express her gratitude by kissing the doctor on the mouth (although acknowledging that she was not in her most alluring condition); and (2) raised the possibility of purchasing as many epidurals as possible and "giving them to our friends as Christmas presents."

Soon after Taylor received the epidural, her labor slowed and had soon completed stopped. Although she was dilated 8 centimeters, the baby hadn't dropped much: the doctor's recommended a c-section. Luckily, in the hour before Taylor was to receive the c-section, her mom -- who had been scheduled to come several days after birth but had been unable to restrain herself from jumping in the car and driving up from North Carolina -- arrived at the hospital. (I don't know if Taylor or I was more relieved to have her there.)

As they wheeled Taylor from the laboring room to the operating room, she began reciting our life story to the doctors in the hopes that establishing a personal connection would inspire them to try really hard to make sure that she and the baby were okay. She told them that we were high school sweethearts who had been together since we were 15 years old. She told them that we had been married 7 years. She told them about how hard her pregnancy had been, and how excited we were about meeting our first baby.

They split us up once we reached the OR. Taylor was taken in the operating room to be prepared for the procedure, while I was given scrubs, shoe covers, a hat, and mask, and then left in the hallway with instructions to wait to be called in. After a long wait, they invited me to sit next to Taylor's head as they got to the crucial point of the operation.

Taylor was shivering so hard when I sat down next to her. The anesthesia was causing her to shake like crazy, but they could not give her any calming medications until the baby was born. Once they had made the incision, the obstetrician and the surgical assistant (whose services we were not reimbursed for -- thanks, Cigna) each dug in and pulled hard away from one another to separate Taylor's muscles.

Just then, they scooped out our baby and lifted it to show me. I sputtered, "It's a ... BOY!" (We didn't know the gender.) While the continued to work on Taylor, I went across the room with the nurses while they cleaned and inspected our beautiful boy.

As they continued to work on Taylor, I went with the baby as the nurses and doctors checked him out. As soon as we were able, I brought him over to meet his Mama. We agreed on the name Silas David. Taylor kissed him before they gave her a strong dose of Demerol and sent Silas and me to recovery while they finished the c-section. When Taylor finally joined us, it was clear that we were a happy, complete (for now) family. Happy birthday, Silas. It's been a wonderful, wonderful year.



P.S. Don't worry. Silas got the first dose of the H1N1 vaccine on Saturday.