Whew. I didn't give birth to you, but I'm flat-out just as exhausted as if I had.
Owen, I'm so very, very glad you're here! But where is "here"? Well, I'm glad you asked, little man.
Wednesday, January 31st, 2018:
I had spent the day working at the family business. Mom and Dad were traveling in the farthest Western reaches of the United States, visiting Hawaii and Oregon. I was holding down the fort at home, making sure our customers were provided with comfortable heat while the wind howled outside. Each year in January, we count all our stuff at the shop to give an accurate inventory to our tax preparers. The massive undertaking of counting, organizing, counting, searching, counting, compiling, and counting our vast supply of fittings, equipment, and spare parts is lumped under the word "Inventory". Such as, "Hey Dylan, we're going to do some Inventory today," to which Dylan would appropriately groan and roll his eyes. I don't blame Dylan; inventory can often be monotonous. Unlike most of our tasks that can get completed in a day or less, Inventory can take over a week. We often draw it out as long as possible, finding every and any excuse to do something else. "Whaddya mean I have to climb up on Mr. So-and-So's roof? It's howling wind and twenty below! Oh, I don't have to do Inventory? Gimme that ladder."
At 3:30 PM, I had completed my list of service calls and was back at the shop. I wasn't feeling too good but I thought I could work on the Inventory to finish out my time for the day. I had been chipping away at the monstrous, 30-pages-of-single-spaced-items summary of our shop's contents when I decided that I was too nauseous to continue. It was 4:30 PM...close enough to 5PM. I was outside, heading to my car when I vomited everything I had in my body. I had felt it coming so I retched into a spot that was close to the water hydrant. I washed everything away and caught my breath. Finally, a valid excuse to avoid Inventory.
I arrived home. Vomiting had made me feel better, but I was exhausted. Heidi was doing some laundry and told me to lay on the couch. We sat down to watch Captain America beat up some ne'er-do-wells. Halfway through the movie, Heidi's water broke. I checked my watch. 6:30 PM. I checked the calendar, because I was pretty sure I had penciled in your delivery for February 15th, which is when Heidi's doctor said she was due. Didn't you know you're supposed to follow schedules, Owen?
Heidi started having contractions, so I drew her a bath and let her soak. We timed the contractions together, and informed our doctor and Mercy Hospital that the labor had started. I sounded calm and collected, but it was because I was too weak to get worked up. Once the contractions were coming every three minutes and lasting a minute each, we headed to the hospital. We were supposed to go when they were five minutes apart, but Heidi's contractions skipped right past 5 and jumped to 3. This was gonna be a speedy delivery, maybe before we even got to the hospital. I ran through my mental "how to deliver your own baby" checklist. I grabbed the bags Heidi had packed in preparation for our hospital trip and assisted Heidi to the van. It was nearly 9PM. Heidi had been having contractions since 7PM.
We got to the hospital and were taken to an examination room. Heidi and I had taken a birth class at Mercy earlier in January and were shown all the various rooms in Labor & Delivery. During our class, I had joked about the room marked "Test D" because it sounded like "Testy" when said out loud. No, not "Teste", that room was across the hall. I giggled about that one too. We were put in "Testy".
Twenty minutes later, we were moved from the test room to a Labor & Delivery room. Here we go! I thought. Some traces of Strep B had been found in Heidi, and antibiotics needed to be administered for 4 hours prior to delivery to keep the baby from catching anything. The nurses tried to get an IV into Heidi and had to stick her half a dozen times. Heidi's veins could easily apply for an occupation of international espionage, because they are extremely difficult to trace or locate, and when they finally DO get caught, they surrender nothing. "These veins are kinda valve-y," one nurse muttered. They wheeled a small projector into the room that used SCIENCE and LASERS and COOL GREEN LIGHT to find Heidi's veins. I was totally impressed.
It was nearing 10PM. We might have this baby hatched before February. The nurses smiled and told me it could take a while.
"What's the average delivery?" I asked.
"Oh, about 14 hours," said one nurse.
"Heh, I'd hate to be that family that was on the HIGH side of that average," I joked. *insert ominous foreboding here*
Thursday, February 1st, 2018
8 hours of screaming, crying, and laboring went by, and I wasn't so sure you'd be born til MARCH. You were head down, but you had rotated face-up. The hour-hand of the clock was making its rounds but Heidi had only dilated to a 5. A dilation of 10 was 'go-time'. (I can hear the female half of my audience going, "Yeah, duh" and the male half of my audience going, "Huh, what?") Heidi was so exhausted, she was blacking out in between contractions. In the moments she was coherent, she would apologize and say "I just feel so grouchy." Don't apologize, I told her. You're doing great. We've got this. Meanwhile, many of the scary words from my pregnancy studies came prancing back into my mind, words like "Cesarean" and "episiotomy" and "epidural". Heidi and I had written down a birth plan with our hopes and plans for the labor and delivery. We had wanted a natural birth without the aid of drugs injected directly into Heidi's spine, and we smugly grinned at each other when we heard other couples talking about getting an epidural to deliver their baby. "I feel like swearing!" Heidi said, in tears.
Heidi's aunt Louise was our Doula, or birth coach. She had arrived at the hospital shortly after we did, and was busy assisting Heidi and making her feel as comfortable as possible during the labor. Louise is a birth expert, having had eight of her own through the years, and assisting others through theirs. Louise had soft music playing and was applying warm compresses to Heidi's back to soothe the contractions. She fetched juice and water for Heidi and would help her change positions to try getting you down a little further in the birth canal. Dr. Wenzel, Heidi's OB/GYN, was not available so Dr. Shepard took her place and was giving you as much time as possible to come out naturally. Heidi's dilation crept to 6.
"Can I have drugs, please?" Heidi moaned. Her hands were slowly grinding mine into sweaty meat paste.
We had talked about this, and it was my job to be strong for Heidi when she couldn't. That time had arrived. "No, honey, we don't want drugs. You can do this!" I told her. She weathered the next several contractions gamely, but she was completely out of strength and was rating her pain as "10 out of 10, would not recommend."
"I WANT DRUGS," your momma said. She wasn't asking. I felt like I was on the wilderness frontier, about to lose both mom and baby in one horrible, never-ending labor straight out of my nightmares.
We got her an epidural. It took about 45 minutes and I was excused from the room. Mercy Hospital has seen too many people faint when the foot-long, flexible tube is inserted through the small of the back into the spinal column, and they were already wary of my pale complexion. "I'm fine, I just feel abominably sick, that's all," I said. Louise told me she could take care of Heidi and was not afraid of epidurals, having had four of them herself.
I joined Alan and Jean, Heidi's parents, in the waiting room. They had come to support us through the labor and had arrived shortly after Louise. They were awaiting the good news of the delivery of you, their first grandchild, and each hour had them waiting a little more anxiously. I felt guilty for wanting to be away from the labor room, but I was tired of the emotional drain and the completely helpless feeling of watching my bride suffer excruciating pain. I know using the word "tired" is not even valid, because I did not suffer even a fraction what Heidi suffered. Looking back over what I've written so far, I've been tempted to erase it because it really looks like I'm making it all about me, which is dumb. Heidi is the heroine here. She was an absolute champion.
After the epidural kicked in, Heidi was able to relax for the first time in nearly 12 hours of labor. Dr. Shepard was extremely patient and gave us encouraging updates. The dilation crept to 7, then 8. Each time Dr. Shepard checked, she'd give Heidi another few hours to contract. "Let's see where you're at in two hours," she said with a smile. "As long as you're still getting closer to '10', we'll keep letting things progress."
Heidi and I caught short naps. The epidural completely numbed Heidi's nerves from the waist down, but left her muscles free to contract and squeeze. The monitor above her bed showed steady, strong contractions and your steady, strong heartbeat.
At 21 hours of labor, the nurses were getting antsy. "C-section" was getting mentioned. We were on our second or third shift of nurses...there were so many kind, helpful people that worked with us and I wish I could remember all their names. Heidi was finally dilated to 10. She had skipped right past 9 from our last check, so it brought a ray of hope into the room. Things were progressing! Slower than the tectonic shift of the continents, but moving nonetheless! Heidi was instructed to start pushing. You were at +2, 2 centimeters further up than you were supposed to be, my son. Traditionally, a baby is located at "0" when the pushing begins. Heidi had to get you to -2, which meant she had double the distance of a normal delivery. She began to push with the contractions. For the first time, we began hoping for the contractions rather than dreading them. Heidi was on a dose of Pitocin, a drug that keeps labor going. Otherwise, the body might say "That's enough of that!" and leave you stranded halfway.
Heidi pushed valiantly. She gave it everything her body had left to give. I shouted encouragement alongside her, coaching her breathing and helping hold her as she pushed through the contractions. After an hour, I was feeling light-headed and excused myself to the adjoining bathroom, where I vomited again. I didn't think I had anything to offer the porcelain altar but some horrid green stuff found its way out of me.
At 6:59 PM on Thursday, February 1st, you arrived. 38 weeks in the womb. 24 hours of labor. 3 hours of pushing. You came out a worrisome shade of blue, so they placed you on Heidi's chest just long enough for me to cut your umbilical cord before you were whisked across the room to a small warming table. Doctors that had suddenly appeared out of thin air were placing an oxygen mask over your tiny face and monitoring your vitals. I stayed by your side, fulfilling one of Heidi's birth-plan requests that the baby not be left alone. We weren't completely suspicious that the doctors would try to do something we didn't want, but we were a teeny bit suspicious. You began to breathe on your own and we all sighed a huge gasp together, as if some unseen conductor motioned our orchestra to rest for a beat. Heidi was still fairly out of it, and didn't fully realize that you were born. THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE NOT MARRIED SHOULD PROBABLY NOT READ THIS NEXT BIT. She had been told to wait a little bit while your head crowned. Dr. Shepard had noticed the shade of blue, contacted the doctors hiding in the woodwork, grabbed you by the head and forcefully yanked you out. The forceful yank caused tearing in two places, so by the time I had made sure you were okay, she had delivered the placenta and was receiving dissolvable stitches.
They placed an IV into you. Well, they tried for a long, long time. After six attempts, you were having none of it, and you were letting us know with tiny squeals and yelps. They had tried your heels, your wrists, and an elbow, and it just wasn't working. "He has his mother's veins!" I said. That was my first attempt at a Dad Joke. The doctors didn't find it terribly funny, and neither did I. They were finally able to get an IV in place by stabbing into a vein located right on the top of your head. I nearly keeled over. Later I was told that doctors often avoid using that vein, not because it's more dangerous, but because it scares the parents. They were correct. The vein, located on the outside of the skull, does not go to the brain like I first imagined but goes directly to the heart just like a heel vein or an elbow vein. It just happens to look a whole lot more gnarly, paired with the fact that the posterior position of labor squeezed your head into an elongated gourd shape. Moments prior to the IV, you were set on a scale. You weighed 6lbs 11oz, which pleased me because before you arrived I had guessed you'd be 6lbs 9 oz and Heidi guessed 7lbs 2 oz. You were right in between (but I was totally closest).
Another of Heidi's requests for the birth was that she'd get to have immediate skin-to-skin contact with her baby. It's standard procedure and highly recommended, since that initial contact between mother and baby does a whole lot of good for both parties. Mom gets endorphins and hormones stimulated, you get your blood sugar regulated and your pulse settled and both of you feel all warm and glowy. But as it was, you were in the Nursery across the hall, getting stabbed in the brain with the sixth IV attempt and Heidi was asking "Where's my baby?" She had gotten to hold you for less than 30 seconds.
We had been hoping to take you home straight away, but it was looking like some tests would need to be done first. You were placed on antibiotics of your own, even though Heidi had labored long enough to receive four rounds of antibiotics. The doctors were nervous about your tendency to stop breathing, which were called "apneic episodes" (similar to sleep apnea). The pediatricians mentioned there might be bleeding on the brain. You were held in the nursery for observation, and placed on a c-pap machine like the world's most adorable retiree. Around 10 PM, Louise's husband Jason showed up and brought a sack of tacos. I inhaled three, the first meal I'd eaten since Wednesday's lunch. They were delicious but sat heavily in my stomach. Heidi and I were moved to a nice recovery room. I was told that under no circumstances was I allowed to leave our recovery room, what with the vomiting and potential flu. Heidi was allowed to visit the nursery, but only if she wore a mask. There was a notice taped to the nursery door warning about the spread of influenza. I knew the sign had been freshly put up thanks to my rude behavior, bringing in germs and whatnot without checking with the front desk first. Back in our room, Heidi soaked in the bathtub/whirlpool for a while and then we sank into sleep.
Friday, February 2nd, 2018
We woke up feeling somewhat refreshed. Heidi had several nurse visits through the night to get her vitals checked and her uterus pushed back down. She was recovering very well, considering all she had been through the day before. You had needed some oxygen but were doing well. You were being fed with sugar water intravenously. We spent the day filling out paperwork and getting you a birth certificate and a social security number. Heidi and I met with a lively, joyous lactation consultant that called herself "the Boob Lady". Boob Lady taught us how to collect milk with a breast pump. Try as hard as I could, no milk came out of me. Huehuehue Dad Joke. The nurses stamped your footprints on a card and your heel left a tiny drop of blood on the print. Meals were brought to our room, and Heidi ate with good appetite. I picked at the food while I watched Chip and Joanna Gaines resurrect yet another gorgeous home from dry bones. By afternoon I was feeling much better and by evening I wasn't showing any horrible signs of The Plague so they let me come see you again. I held you for the first time. Heidi snapped a photo and I burst into tears moments later.
Saturday, February 3rd, 2018
We were woken out of a deep sleep at 4am to be told that you were being transported, by ambulance, to the University of Iowa Natal Intensive Care Unit, or NICU. We were told that you had experienced a seizure, or something that looked very close to one. You were being prepped for the journey. The doctors had added an anti-seizure medication to the cocktail of three antibiotics you were receiving. We dressed quickly and came to see you in the nursery. The influenza signs had spread faster than the disease and were now posted on every door and in every hallway warning about the horrible, unwelcome guest. I imagine they were talking about the germs but I felt like I was looking at a bounty poster with my mugshot on it. I asked if Heidi could ride in the ambulance, but she was not allowed to. We were given directions on where to go once we arrived at the NICU, and you were shipped off in a small incubator on wheels. I told the ambulance driver it looked like one of those pizza delivery warmers, and he laughed. He said the paramedics call the incubator "the toaster". My Dad Jokes were improving.
We packed up our room, signed Heidi out, and followed you in the Cherriot, our red minivan. When we arrived, you were being admitted for a CT scan with a future MRI scheduled. The staff at the NICU removed the IV from your scalp and placed one in your heel, which looked only half as sinister. Heidi and I collapsed into sleep on a fold-out couch in the family lounge.
When we awoke, you were sleeping soundly in your little NICU bay. The CT scan showed nothing worrisome. There had not been any bleeding on the brain detected, but the MRI would show more. Several blood tests were taken, as well as a spinal fluid sample. The blood tests came back negative for all the infections and bacteria they were searching for, and your spinal fluid was clear and excellent. The MRI showed a well-formed brain with all the proper structure in place, and no bleeding. The doctors at Mercy had worried that some bleeding in the brain might cause seizures, so it was nice to see that ruled out. Louise stopped in with groceries and sweet words of life. Alan and Jean came to see the baby and love on us. They brought steamy hot chicken pot pies from KFC. In the evening, Heidi and I drove home to sleep in our bed. Heidi had been using a pump for breast milk, so we got up every 4 hours. I felt like a dairy farmer, and real dairy farmers received my utmost respect.
Sunday, February 4th, 2018
We drove to the hospital to see you again. Heidi and I met with your doctors to talk about the test results and the plans for the day. Each morning, the doctors visit each NICU baby and discuss all that has been done and that is planned to be done. They were open, honest, friendly, and answered all the questions we had. We wanted to know when we could take you home, and they responded that it may be a week. An EEG, or electro-encephalogram, was scheduled to check for seizure activity. Your scalp was covered in 18 sensors and your brain activity was closely monitored for 24 hours. We talked and sang to you but were not allowed to hold you during the test. The test showed what we had been convinced of the whole time: absolutely no sign of any seizures. What had caused this whole hullabaloo was your tendency to shake vigorously when you were unwrapped from your blanket. Your arms would get stiff and you'd wave them like little egg-beaters. Heidi and I had seen it several times and found it to be cute, because your Dad does the same thing when Heidi pulls the blankets off of him. We realized within the first few hours of your life that you don't particularly like being cold, but evidently the doctors at Mercy took one look at your shiver/shake and cried wolf. I will not write names, because I don't want to make them into the bad guy of this story. The nurses and doctors at Mercy were amazing and took wonderful care of the three of us.
You had several apneic episodes throughout the day, eight to be exact. One episode was serious enough to require "bagging". When I was told this, I imagined you were placed in a giant plastic sack and given increased atmospheric pressure. What really happened was they placed a oxygen mask on your face and used a Whoopie cushion to push a little air into your lungs. The Whoopie cushion was the "bag" part of "bagging". You had turned "dusky" which is a fancy, sophisticated word for "kinda the wrong color, kiddo" and places a whole new meaning to "riding off into the sunset". Aside from that worrisome episode, you had a lot of healthy progress. There was even one apneic episode where you stopped breathing but self-corrected and started breathing on your own again. We were very pleased.
At one point in the afternoon, I stopped in to check on you and found you screaming at the doctors. They were trying to take a blood sample from your foot. I came up beside you and as soon as I said "Owen, it's okay. I'm right here," you quieted down. I felt 10 feet tall.
Barry and Debby, my parents and your grandparents, arrived home from Oregon Sunday afternoon. They quickly came to visit us at the hospital and to see if you looked like their most adorable son. Sadly, you looked a whole lot like me and nothing like Uncle Shelby. Huehuehue Dad Joke. They took Heidi and I out to eat at Village Inn, where I ordered a delicious hearty breakfast skillet full of foods that I love. When it arrived, I was only able to eat a few bites. I no longer felt barfy but my appetite wasn't back yet.
With negative results (negative being good in Hospitals and bad everywhere else) on the blood tests, spinal fluid tests, and others, you were taken off two of your three antibiotics. I remembered that the Mercy doctors had hinted about herpes being an issue and requiring antibiotics. I wanted to set things straight, so I told the NICU doctors that Heidi and I were virgins until we married each other and we have been each other's only sexual partner. Your doctor's eyes widened and she said, "Well, then Owen has a zero chance--no, LESS than zero chance of having any issues with that! Good for you two," she said, a little incredulously. She instructed the nurses to finish you out on your last round of antibiotics and then cease any further doses.
We were told that you'd get your EEG sensors off by evening but it didn't happen. The Neurology guys said they wanted to monitor you for a few more hours, but we secretly suspected they were just watching the Superbowl instead. "In the morning," they said "we'll get those sensors off and you'll be able to hold him again." Heidi and I went home to sleep.
Monday, February 5th, 2018
I spent the morning helping Grandpa Barry at the business office, just trying to get some paperwork taken care of and transitioning him back into the swing of things. He had been gone for three weeks. Heidi and I came to the hospital around noon. The EEG sensors were still plastered all over your head, but the doctors had heard back from Neurology that there were absolutely no signs of seizure activity, and things were looking good. It doesn't look like your brain is to blame for these apneic episodes. A heart echo was scheduled and performed, which is essentially an ultrasound used to look at the heart. All of your valves look lovely squooshing and swooshing blood, and it doesn't look like your heart is to blame for these apneic episodes. The doctors are pleased with your results, but also puzzled about the apnea and the cause behind it. The episodes were much more rare; you had two today. You went 12 full hours without a single problem, which is the longest stretch yet. You're off all antibiotics and are currently being fed breast milk through a straw that enters your nose and runs down into your stomach. You still have an IV pushing some sugar water into you, so between that and the breast milk, you're constantly fed and almost always sleepy. I changed your diaper today, which contained some mysterious bright green nuggets. You took great pleasure in trying to pee on me, but I was quick and smothered your crotch with another diaper just in time. I can already see that diaper changing is going to be a contest of the wills.
Grandma Debby came to visit and brought freshly-baked coffee cakes along with a sack of groceries. She stayed the night to watch you, as did Heidi and I. It had snowed 8 inches today so we didn't feel like going anywhere.
Tuesday, February 6th, 2018
It is currently 1:38 AM on Tuesday, and I've come to an end of this update. Rumors are flying about Owen's condition because Owen's condition changes so rapidly. He's always been healthy, and he's always been improving, but different details about blood on the brain or seizures have been told to family and friends, and it has spread from there. I'm trying to clarify the situation as quickly as I can.
We are so grateful for all the many prayers and encouragement and words of life that we've received from so many. You mean the world to us, and we credit Owen's progress to your prayers. God has kept his hand on us through this, and although we're not home yet, it should be soon. We'll keep you updated.
Love,
Shawn, Heidi, & Owen.
