HELLP! I need somebody.....(Part I)

(Editor's note -- this will be done in two parts. It's really necessary to convey the enormity of the situation and how fast things really happened June 2 and the events of the following days. Please bear with me as I relate it as completely as possible. Thanks, Mr. Big Dubya)

Well - I'm back. All I can say is Thursday to Monday has all been a blur. There were moments when it seemed that time stood still and now I can't believe that nearly a week has gone by. How's about a recap, hmmm? Here goes.

As you will recall, I posted early Thursday morning about there being 31 days until Little Dubya would arrive not with a whimper, but...oh, nevermind, you get the point (and extra credit to anyone out there who got the T.S. Eliot reference). Mrs. Big Dubya and I spent the morning doing what would turn out to be the start of a confluence of events. We went to her doctor's office for her weekly appointment first - which was uneventful - all was good - see you next week kind of thing - heh. Next, we visited with two day care providers and, finally, at noon, Mrs. Big Dubya visited the pediatrician for the first time. All seemed to be right with the world - who knew...who knew...that I had tempted fate earlier in the day? So brazenly had I deemed Little Dubya's arrival at 31 days. I had certainly angered the gods and they sent Cerberus to bite me in the ass. Not once. Not twice. But thrice times. Note to self: Never anger gods again. Never.

Anyway, I arrived home from work around 6:30 on Thursday and Mrs. Big Dubya came in shortly thereafter. However, instead of her usual ritual of getting into something more comfortable, she took to the couch in pain, fitfully trying to find a more favorable position. I was concerned and tried to do what I could, but nothing seemed to help. Finally, she made her way upstairs figuring there was more space in bed. At 8:15 I heard a whimper and scrambled upstairs to find Mrs. Big Dubya exiting the bathroom after an unsuccessful shower attempt. And here's where things start to get hairy.

Brief sidebar --- Mr. Big Dubya considers himself a pretty rational and laid back person. I'm not fazed by much really. But over the next several hours I would certainly find that type of resolve tested and I now know what it means to put on a brave face. Ok, back to the story.

I called the doctor, got the service and received a return phone call minutes later. "May I speak to Mrs. Big Dubya?" "Um, she's really not taking calls at the moment." "This is Dr. So-and-So, she just called me." "No, I did that, here's the problem..." I explained to him that Mrs. Big Dubya was experiencing severe pain in her upper side and, due to the pain, she was having difficulty breathing. Well, I heard words that I didn't really wanna hear - "Get her to the hospital now. I will met you there."

Thankfully the hospital is 5 minutes away and everyone was aware of our imminent arrival. Mrs. Big Dubya was hustled (ok, not so much hustled, maybe shuffled is better) to a room. Blood was drawn, gowns were donned and leads and cuffs were attached. I mentioned a "brave face" a minute or two ago. But rethinking that it's more of a poker face. Some have them, others don't. Mine? Not too bad - no emotion when I win, none when I lose. The nurses? I would have taken money from them all. Easy pickin's. However, the problem with this? Not shielding much from 1) a very nervous pregnant woman and 2) a very nervous expectant father. Note to any RNs, LPNs and future nurses - not a good idea to say things like "That can't be right" or "I've never seen that before". So, the doctor arrived, and immediately dropped a bomb. He said that he was waiting on lab results, but there was a distinct possibility that the baby would be coming right away.

"Whaaat!!! That can't be right. 31 days (tapping on my watch face). Didn't you read my post this morning? 31 days." Poker face gone to hell.

Well, he whisked out of the room and like the hallway was some freakin' phone booth came right back in scrubs and announced that Little Dubya was coming out in 30 minutes. 30 minutes? He went on to explain what was happening and I was picking up bits and pieces - rapid onset toxemia...swollen liver...blurred vision...protein in urine...bleeding liver...incision straight up, sorry no bikini cut...look around, get under the hood...look for bleeding...emergency C-section...30 minutes...morphine...can I get some, too, please?...spinal...seizure...yes, you're right, I think I feel one coming on. So, Mrs. Big Dubya was prepped for surgery and had a consult with the anesthesiologist (say that three times fast) and off she went to the delivery room. I was guided to a waiting room where I was handed a white chemical spill suit, a 'fro hat and blue booties for my kicks. I looked like a freakin' Oompa-Loompa at the salon.

I was brought into the delivery room where they sat me next to Mrs. Big Dubya behind the blue screen of death - do not venture past here - Adandon All Hope...Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. It was all so ominous. Nope, no allaying any fear here. Must regain poker face for Mrs. Big Dubya. There are no monsters under the bed. But at the same time it was all so fascinating and I found myself consoling her one minute and stealing glances over the screen the next. "Go ahead and watch," said Mrs. Big Dubya with an eerie calm. So - I did. And it was incredible. "You're going to feel some pressure on your abdomen," said the anesthesiologist. "Huh? What? Pressure? Ohmigod, he's crushing my wife." POP. And just like that, Little Dubya made his abrupt entrance into this world. And God forgive me, all I could think of was that scene in Alien because that's what it looked like. Then all I could think of was the pain emanating from my hand as Mrs. Big Dubya squeezed until I actually heard bones cracking. "Well, what do we have?" "Huh?" "What do we have?" Yes, um, doctor, could you set my hand when you're done? Cool. Thanks. "We have a boy." And the enormity of what I just said finally hit me and I kissed Mrs. Big Dubya. And, I'm man enough to admit it, I cried. Screw your poker face. (To be continued)