The Arrival
Written By: Shayne McKinney
The ball is officially rolling.
I have a pregnant wife, we’re going to check ups, getting ultrasounds done, and preparation is officially under way for the arrival of our bundle of joy.
I won’t spend much time covering the pregnancy because it was mild (as mild as growing a human being can be), but a few moments will forever resonate with me:
The first time seeing you’re little grey and black peanut on the ultrasound screen. Seeing the heart beat flutter as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. Feeling that overwhelming sense of “Holy shit we made that”. And Let’s not forget how thick the room became when my wife asked, “there’s only ONE heart beat, right?” I’ll never forget the tension in her voice. My excitement paused, breathing halted, and body froze as we awaited the doctor’s answer. After a 10 year pause, she smiled and responded, “yes, only one.” Followed by an amused chuckle. We exhaled, time unfroze, and the ball kept rolling.
The “iconic” pregnant woman meltdown. Let me just start by saying no matter how irrational or unreasonable you know your spouse is being, you entertain those emotions and respond with patience, understanding (even if you don’t), and love. My wife would tell me, “Shayne, I literally feel like I’m taking crazy pills (cue Mugatu). I can know a thing is fine by logic, understand that it’s not a big deal from experience, but something inside of me just overflows and overwhelms me.” I’ve seen it, I believe, and bless you ladies and the hormonal battle you fight. That’s an inner demon that’s just shy of needing an exorcism to calm at times. All that being said, my wife is an angel and only let me “have it” a couple times. She has told me she feels very lucky to have been able to stay on her feet, play softball, work full time, and hit Disneyland on the regular all the way until her water broke. I realize many other women have had it MUCH tougher. Men, appreciate the battle that is pregnancy. It takes many forms, and needs to be loved all the same, not reasoned with.
Getting “the call”. It’s go time. No matter how ready you think you are, you’re not. You may think you have time to prep everything, but you won’t. You feel as though you’ll be emotionally prepared for the show to begin, and you won’t be. You get the call, you pull over or sit down or walk around in circles like a character from the Sims games spewing nonsensical phrases and talking to no one while the kitchen is on fire and you’re trying figure out how to get out of the pool and the ladder has disappeared. When I got “the call” I was at work. She was just letting me know that the show might begin and she would give me a call back shortly to let me know if it was a false alarm or not. I have no idea what happened in between that call and the next to confirm we were in fact having this baby, but I’m sure I looked like I escaped from the insane asylum.
Confirmed: we are in fact HAVING. THIS. BABY. Panic mode: initiated.
We never went to the birthing classes. The over night bag wasn’t packed. I don’t have a sharpie to mark my baby when she pops out to make sure I know which one is mine. We aren’t qualified for this. Can we back order this baby? I’m going to need another couple weeks to prepare...which was ACTUALLY the plan. The due date was Christmas, we went to a check up on the 3rd of December, and her water broke early the next morning. We were just a touch ahead of schedule. I became aware I wasn’t ready for this until the moment I found out it was actually happening.
Back to the call from my wife: she calmly explains to me that I need to look at the list of items she needs that she’s going to text me while at the hospital and suggests I pack myself some clothes and stuff to entertain myself as well. I never thought such an easy task could be so anxiety inducing.
By the time I was done packing, it looked like a bomb exploded in our room. Composure was a state of being that I no longer could maintain.
Eventually her mom picked me and two poorly packed bags up from our place and we departed for the hospital, where we would be for the next five days.
During my stay at the hospital, I would feel more useless then I ever have been. After all, I didn’t carry the kid for 9 months, I won’t have contractions, and I won’t deliver the babe. As a person who just wants to help, I became Ricky Bobby after his first victory; I had no idea what to do with my hands.
When the person you love more than anyone on this planet is uncomfortable, in pain, and writhing in agony, you naturally want to intervene, fix the situation, and save them from the hell they are currently in. But I could not. All I could offer was my company and conversation to distract from the present. The only other solution that would make a dent was of a medicinal nature: the epidural.
Getting an epidural is a personal choice. Only a woman giving birth can (SHOULD) make that choice. I so very badly wanted to make that choice for her as she struggled through painful contractions for hours and hours. I couldn’t take it. Watching my best friend be so brave and voluntarily endure the pain was difficult for me (not that I have any room to talk being that no baby would come out of me — only a food baby after consuming ungodly amounts of Taco Bell). I didn’t want her to see how pained I felt. I wanted to be strong for her so she could lean on me in the toughest moments.
Eventually after about a day of increasingly excruciating contractions, she made the challenging and emotional choice to opt for the epidural. Thank the Lord. Within 30 minutes: the call was made, the drugs arrived, and relief presented itself. She was herself again. She could smile. And she could exhale.
I stepped out moments after to exhale as well, and to shed a few tears that I’d been holding in. Watching her endure that on her own accord gave me a whole new level of respect for her, but I never want see her in that state again. Witnessing it broke me.
She finally get some rest that morning and a few hours later (later afternoon/early evening), all systems were a go. I’ll leave out the health class presentation of the birth, but seeing it first hand was incredible. As our baby girl arrived, my adrenaline pumped like never before. The ultimate gift had presented itself.
“Rachel, you are amazing. And so is our daughter. ”
The few days after spent in the Postpartum wing were a lucid dream. No sleep was had, no rest occurred, and after the initial shock that we were officially parents of a beautiful baby girl wore off, anxiety sunk in.
The nurses tell you to sleep when your baby sleeps. That’s a laugh. A baby’s slumber is prime time to stress whether or not you can tell if she’s breathing or not. And when she’s awake, if you’ve never spent practically ANY time with babies in your whole life like myself, you can be endlessly paranoid about holding/burping/rocking her correctly. I aged a decade that weekend.
The window of support from the hospital came to a close, we received some final pointers in the ancestral arts of breastfeeding, swaddling, and diaper changing, and the kid was officially ours. I strapped her in the car seat for the first time and buckled her in. We were off. Time to bring to her home.
-Shayne McKinney
