Last Day of Summer 2019

It is commonly known that a person’s blood sugar level has a big impact on how that person feels on a moment-to-moment basis. Perhaps a little less commonly known is that how you feel at the time of taking in nourishment can have a big impact on how your food and drink taste to you. According to a 2006 edition of the Journal of Neuroscience, taste sensation is rendered by a more complex neurological process than the straightforward interpretation of sweet, salty, and bitter notes. In other words, being happy can actually make your food taste better!

2019 has been a wild year so far. Around the end of 2018 my wife (Ashbash) had the pleasure of informing me that she was with child. Though the wee life blossoming in her womb had not yet fingers, toes, nor eyes, I soon perceived that I had developed a strong paternal affection toward the scarcely realized being. I also noticed that my regard for my wife, already formidably strong, was even further heightened as I observed the discipline with which she had begun caring for our unborn progeny. 

The months went on and on and we learned that we were expecting a boy whom we’d call Levi. As the time for Levi’s emancipation from his uterine confines drew near, we formulated a bit of an exit strategy for him, which involved Ashbash checking into the hospital on July 25th, a full two days before the newly estimated arrival date. The plan was for her to get prepped Thursday night and begin a pitocin drip early Friday morning, with the expectation that delivery would likely happen by early Saturday morning. The reason for this approach was that Ash’s OB was on call during that window of time and we preferred to go through the process with her familiar presence rather than that of a stranger.

From my perspective as a know-nothing bystander, all seemed to be going swimingly by the time I said goodnight to Ashbash and headed home. I arrived back at our hospital room early the next morning and was rebuffed for what would not be the last time in my offer to bring food and drink from an outside vendor for Ashley’s consumption. The doctor indicated that she was pleased with how Ashley had responded to the preparatory measures taken the night before and that we could proceed with additional steps. “Additional steps,” in this case, means beginning the pitocin drip and, eventually, administering the epidural. 

Now if I might digress very slightly, I feel like this is just as good a time as any to mention that of all the distasteful imagery to which I was cruelly subjected during our pregnancy classes earlier this summer, the video of the epidural administration was probably the most psychologically damaging to me. This is saying quite a bit, when you consider that the lion’s share of the media presented in those classes was mercilessly clinical footage of wailing mothers producing equally traumatized little monsters out of their bodies. That also did not make my recommended summer viewing list.

Anyway, once the pitocin drip had been initiated, my wife and I began the waiting game. Actually, waiting game(s) would be a bit more accurate as we indulged in cards, board games, and computer games to our hearts’ content throughout the morning and into the noontide. The pitocin drip had been configured to administer a modest volume at first and Ashley reported that she was not yet feeling any strong contractions and our OB confirmed that her dilation had not significantly increased. At this juncture, our OB gave the go-ahead for the pitocin to be increased and for the epidural to administered. This is significant because, in addition to being a horrifying procedure to behold, it also marked the end of Ashley’s in-hospital mobility because the epidural (as advertised) greatly reduces your neurological sensitivity below the waist and effectively knocks out your command of your legs.

Speaking of losing command of things, my command of the exact timeline of the day is a little less than precise, but I do recall that Ashley’s mother had arrived sometime prior to the pitocin increase (perhaps it was about 11:00 AM). She proved to be an invaluable resource throughout our entire hospital stay, providing her daughter with dearly needed solidarity and providing me with dearly needed whatever I wanted to eat. The three of us continued to wile away the hours with cards, books, conversation, and, in my case at least, just kind of sitting around. Ashley’s contractions, while noticeably increased in both frequency and intensity, hadn’t developed into the sort of strong rhythm that tends to accompany imminent delivery.  Our OB, who had been monitoring all our progress as well as Levi’s vital signs, registered some minor disappointment at how slowly things seemed to be shaping up and indicated that an even stronger pitocin drip should be administered. 

Afternoon gave way to evening, as it is wont to do, and evening gave way to night. It’s not the easiest thing to sleep in a hospital room, of course, as everything either blinks or beeps. Furthermore, in an effort to encourage Levi to nestle further down in the escape hatch, attendants came in every half an hour (seriously) to rotate Ashley in her bed like a hot dog in a gas station. This must have been an uncomfortable procedure because Ashley yelped in pain every time she was so handled, which as you might imagine, greatly impaired my ability to get a good night’s sleep. By the time the morning’s light put an end to our pretensions of slumber, our OB hit us with an ultimatum: she was about to go off duty and Ashley was still nowhere near sufficiently dilated for a conventional birth. If we opted to go with a delivery via c-section right then, our OB would stick around and perform the procedure. If we chose to wait for further dilation to occur, our OB was going home. If we’d only known then what the rest of the day held in store, we would have for sure taken our OB up on her offer. But we both were of the mind that, as long as Levi’s vitals were strong, we’d wait it out and try for a conventional delivery. 

And wait we did. Ashley, who had almost certainly not slept at all during the previous night (to say nothing of having slept poorly for the previous two weeks), was running frightfully low on energy and strength after a full day and a half of labor. By early afternoon, after our new doctor confirmed that Ashley had dilated very little throughout the day, the c-section approach was sounding better and better. Once we finally relented and scheduled the procedure, yet another stricture was placed on Ashley: she was no longer allowed to take in nourishment orally. It was a fairly pathetic thing to behold; though the fluids being introduced to her system intravenously guaranteed that dehydration would not occur, they did nothing to quench the perishing thirst that Ashley developed throughout the afternoon. Pursuant to that, she would meekly ask for a small drink of water every now and then like the parish boy in a Charles Dickens novel and I had the unpleasant duty of either refusing her or sneaking her an ice chip which she savored with pitiable relish. 

At approximately 5:00 PM, I was jumpsuited and seated next to my wife’s head which, like the rest of her, was lying on an operating table underneath bright surgery lights. I had been advised that there would be a curtain partition that would run across Ashley’s collarbone, thereby sparing those on the head side of the curtain from the grisly visual of a perforated abdomen. What I had not counted on, however, was just how short the curtain was. When I commented on the curtain's limited obfuscating ability, one of the surgery attendants asked if I would like it raised. I chose to perceive this offer as an affront to my manliness and so I declined, hoping that perhaps I would ultimately prove equal to the level of gore tolerance that I was evincing rather than feeling.

Happily, my groundless bravado was shown not to be too far afield as, for whatever reason, I didn't even get close to passing out which I understand is not an unheard of phenomenon amongst fathers of c-section babies. Ashley continued to impress me by asking insightful questions all throughout the procedure, even demanding to know why she couldn’t hear Levi crying at the exact moment he was pulled from her womb. Levi, for his part, was an utter champion. From the moment his greasy, grumpy face emerged from the bloody shopping bag that had been the only home he’d ever known, I was completely sold on him. I have heard it said that it’s quite common to not feel an emotional bond with a baby in the first few months because the child doesn’t respond to your stimulus in a way that feels at all relational. Be that as it may, I felt a very strong connection with the wee babe pretty much instantly. That said, there’s no denying that just born babies are horrifying monsters and I wouldn’t necessarily say that Levi was much of an exception to that. However, once all the vernix had been scrubbed off of him and he opened his eyes a little bit, I guess you could say he was kind of cute.

Not long after delivery we were all back in our maternity room with both Ashley and my parents on hand to share in our celebrating. Things were good. Levi was healthy and whole, Ashley was resting comfortably at long last, and we were surrounded by family members who loved and supported us well. It was about half an hour after the surgery before there was any evidence that something suboptimal was afoot. Prior to the c-section, Ashley had been advised that the goal was for her not to exceed a 3 or a 4 on the 10-point pain scale at any point during her hospital stay, including during the c-section itself. To that end, a very powerful anesthetic had been administered to Ashley immediately preceding the operation which was to last her for about two hours. Despite this, Ashley reported to her nurse that her pain was hovering between 3 and 4 and requested further anesthetic more than an hour before she was predicted to need it. Some fifteen minutes later our nurse had failed to reappear with the requested medication and Ashley’s discomfort had spilled outside its acceptable boundaries and was advancing to the 5-6 range. Having already had quite enough of seeing my wife in physical distress, I volunteered to try to locate our nurse and get some answers. I walked to the attendant’s desk where I found our nurse, an industry veteran of more than 30 years, folded over her workstation crying. Not considering this a very encouraging sign, I asked her what was the matter and she informed me that the doctor who had performed the c-section had not correctly recorded Ashley’s anesthetic prescription and that she had gone to dinner immediately following the surgery. Since there was a two-person authentication process required to get access to medication, there was no immediate way for our nurse to get the appropriate painkillers that Ashley so obviously required. 

I returned with the unwelcome news to Ashley who, though disappointed, seemed to have the understanding of an industry fellow who recognizes a lamentable but common professional hazard. Thankfully, another doctor on the floor was deputized to facilitate the prescription of painkillers just a few minutes later and Ashley’s discomfort was once again wrestled down to a manageable level. According to the anesthetist, the painkillers that Ashley was receiving were rated to deliver pain relief for more than an hour. Imagine our concern when, not fifteen minutes later, Ashley reported that her pain levels were once again spiking out of control. Again the meds were administered and again Ashley’s discomfort was abated. This apparent resistance to pain medication gave our nurse some cause for concern and she indicated that she wanted to inspect Ashley’s incision site. 

Whenever some intimate inspection needed to take place, all the visitors in the room were usually asked to step out to a waiting room nearby until the inspection was finished. At this point, my parents had said their goodbyes and Ashley’s parents were preparing to do the same but they decided they would stick around until after this latest inspection was completed. Once the room was clear of visitors, the nurse pulled back Ashley’s bed sheets to reveal that she was sitting in a pool of her own blood. To be clear, I do not mean to suggest that the sheets were simply stained red, I mean that there was an alarmingly large pool of standing blood in which my wife had been lying. Our nurse was taken aback by this discovery and sought out the doctor that she had earlier deputized to our cause and get his input on the situation. To my dismay, this doctor, who resembled a grossly wizened Ichabod Crane (and inspired all the confidence thereof), simply advised further monitoring and bade the nurse alert him if the bleeding continued. 

It was very shortly after this that the doctor who had performed the surgery returned from her dinner and checked in on Ashley. The doctor observed the pool of blood and opined that Ashley’s uterus, exhausted from its nearly two-day labor, had failed to contract after delivery which would normally staunch the bleeding that naturally occurs with the separation of the placenta. In an effort to coax the uterus to return to its proper contacted state, the doctor began performing a “fundal massage” which is 1.) not as relaxing as it sounds 2.) enormously painful. Everytime the doctor pushed on Ashley’s abdomen, a fresh spurt of blood was added to the pool and Ashley cried out in pain. Though it’s small of me to focus over much on my own travails during this period, I might mention that this prolonged exposure to the sight of Ashley in agony was doing a number on me mentally. 

After the doctor was finished with the fundal massage, she addressed Ashley and advised her of what her options were. She indicated that she (Ashley) could go to the ICU (Intensive Care Unit) but that if she did so she would be separated from Levi because the ICU is not a sterile environment. The doctor recommended that Ashley stay in the maternity unit because “We know how to care for mothers up here.” The doctor had scarcely finished explaining Ashley’s options to her before Ashley, whose face was already deathly pale from blood loss, started writhing on her bed and exclaiming “Oh, I feel strange! Oh, I feel so strange!” It was at that moment that several things started to happen at once. The doctor ordered an ICU contingent to prepare a room for Ashley and the nurses started preparing the bed for movement. There were urgent commands being shouted, shufflings around, and Ashley’s moaning above it all. I decided that it might be a fine time to have a little “me” time so I retreated to the room’s lavatory and had a bit of a breakdown. I grabbed the towel rack on the wall to steady myself as I doubled over with weeping. It occurred to me that I should pray but the only words that I seemed to be able to conjure were “Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!” All I knew was that I wanted God to be and that I wanted God to do. 

Once all had been made ready to transfer Ashley to the ICU, I was told that I could follow the bed down to the ICU but that I could not follow the bed directly to Ashley’s unit. So, like a climactic scene in a Hallmark movie, I stayed with Ashley as long as I could until I was told I could go no further. I was joined a few minutes later by Ashley’s parents who, if you’ll recall, had imagined that they were being asked to leave their daughter’s room for a roughly ten minute procedure. It had been more than an hour. We were left to comfort each other and to engage in our various pacings, supplications, and thousand-yard stares for the next half an hour. Eventually we were found by a doctor who apprised us of Ashley’s condition. I think the doctor correctly perceived that most mentally present of the three of us was Ashley’s father so she directed most of her explanations to him. Much to my dismay, he responded with terrifying questions of his own such as, “How can you be sure she’s not bleeding internally?”, “Will you have to remove her uterus?”, and “Will she have brain damage?” Even if I had been at the peak of my mental powers, I don’t think it would have occurred to me to ask questions like that.

Once all the dreadful questions had been answered and Ashley had been stabilized, I was permitted to go back to her room in the ICU. She looked up when I entered the room and smiled weakly, stretching out her hand to take hold of mine. I noted with significant relief that she had a blood IV connected to her arm and that she was not quite so pale as when last I had seen her. Some minutes later, we were joined by her parents and eventually mine as well and there was much rejoicing. The rejoicing part was fine, so far as it goes, but Ashley was incredibly tired and in need of as much rest as the noisy and uncomfortable ICU could afford so we shooed the folks out and went to sleep. 

The next morning I awoke to find my father in law already occupying the hallway outside my wife’s room. He wished me a very good morning and indicated that his wife had breakfast for me up in our room in the maternity ward which sounded absolutely amazing as far as I was concerned and it turns out I was absolutely correct because in addition to the breakfast being as delicious as I’d hoped, Ashley’s mother had decorated our room with flowers and balloons and that sort of thing. I had the good sense to think of one more decoration that might add to the joyful atmosphere: that baby that got yanked out of Ashley the previous day. I collected Levi from the nursery and waited for his mother to join us all in maternity room.

Once Ashley finally arrived and we’d cheered and celebrated anew, Ashley’s mother announced that she had some gifts us both. “Over the coming few months, Levi will be receiving all kinds of gifts and we wanted to get you two something just for you.” I seem to recall that Ashley received some kind of generally unremarkable and probably near-worthless necklace. My gift, on the other hand, was of a tantalizingly rectangular shape and of a very suggestive heft. I shook the package slightly and gasped! Could it be!? I tore away the wrapping and my fondest hopes were confirmed: I had received a bottle of Booker’s 2018-02 Batch Straight Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey! Booker’s, for those of you who don’t know, is a label that was introduced by the Jim Beam distillery back in 1988 and was one of the first “barrel proof” bourbons to be made widely available. Even though it was only just noon, I immediately felt impelled to inquire, “Does anybody want to try some with me?” Once I had finished pouring, I held up my glass took a deep sniff, instantly being rewarded with scents of caramel, oak, vanilla and cinnamon. I turned my attention to my wife and child, both resting happily in the bed to my left. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt such contentment, such peace and happiness. I put the celebratory beverage to my lips and pulled in a small sip. It was, I do avow, the best bourbon I have ever tasted or ever expect to taste.

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Rugby World Cup 2019 is underway! I watched the opening ceremony and the first game which featured Russia v. Japan. Watching the Russians try to muddle their way through their own national anthem was hilarious.

I am currently in Zion National Park with my father and brother and we are about to embark on the storied "Angel's Landing" hike.

Happy Last Day of Summer.

-Ryan