God's Not Done Laughing Yet -- Annotated Version Originally Sent JAN 1, 2006

Well...In yet another prime example that I cannot do anything in a normal fashion...I introduce the following evidence:

Monday, the 12th, I went in with Jon to see Dr. D. for the first of the bi-weekly check-ins until the 31st... Dr. D. is a genuinely sweet guy, but also a busy man... The exam went very quickly ("Hi, any questions?" "Yes...I---ye-OWWW!".)...baby was still there. Heartbeat was strong...Josh woke up long enough to shuffle around and make the nurse happy... I told the doc about an online lamaze class I had found, he was amused...I asked how many exercises I was supposed to do to get myself into "marathon labor shape" since time was somewhat limited. He was more amused. (Meanwhile, back in my head,I was trying to picture a Rocky Balboa training montage in my head with pelvic tilts and kegels...but I had to stop, as I then pictured Sly Stallone moaning in labor pains, and my head hurt. Adrian, indeed.) Before the doc's appointment and after, I was wandering around Wal-Mart in an attempt to finish up the requisite paperwork, and everyone to the person was on me because I was supposed to be on bedrest, and why wasn't I on bedrest...
Level 2 Bedrest, for the uninitiated, is defined as being forced to flop around all day on your side, waiting for something intelligent to come on the television. Oddly enough, because I'm usually charging around busily on my working days, my idea of a good time on my days off is actully flopping on my side and waiting for something intelligent to come on the television. (Jon, on his days off, cleans house, and makes it gorgeous...yes, he is a much better person than I am...I admit this freely, and I will not share. MINE!!!) For some reason, once I
was TOLD (with serious glaring and actual paperwork that said I'm supposed) to be resting, I couldn't stand it. I was pacing the house from day one, ready to tear the walls down with my nails (had I had any at that point) . So on the one day I had a doc appointment, I did as much outside prowling as possible...the joke was that by the time the actual "needed to be done stuff" was done, it was two o'clock anyhow, and I had to pick up Jon at 4, so rather than go home and "bedrest" for a few minutes before driving back to get Jon, I prowled some more in Z-. Jon tried to get out on time, but Mondays usually mean that he works the front desk and that means he could be stuck there at least thirty minutes past the normal shift-end. We ended up leaving Z- at five. Now, keep in mind, I think I'm fooling someone. I have outwitted the bedrest requirement (Bedrest? Bedrest?! We don't need no stinkin' Bedrest!) and in technically "legal fashion." I mean.. I had to get that stuff done, or it would have been bad, right? At any rate, I was showing no signs of "popping sprog" (as Eric, a good friend, had recently put it) and went home to flop accordingly.


Ah. Well--- ...At 12 in the morning, I started having back pains. Minor...I thought. Eh. I'm tough...so tough that by 4 am, I could no longer stay in bed, because I was doing contortions that would have made a Cirque Du Soleil star die of envy. I called the doc in an effort to find out what I could take, since Advil was all that we had in the house, and I was told not to use advil. Jon woke up about then, to find me crawling around on all fours, and doing various impersonations of a camel with Mad Cow disease, He rubbed my back, he rubbed my neck...he asked me if he should call off work. At that point, in my brilliance, I stood up to tell him that no, he should definately go into work, and I then decided that standing up was the most cosmically, brilliantly stupid thing I'd ever done in my life. So Jon called off. At seven, I was crying for my mother, at eight, I was crying for anyone's mother and Jon was back on the phone with the doc, who literally had said "Take two Tylenol, etc..." Tylenol is crap. For the record, the only thing Tylenol does is leave a nasty aftertaste in one's mouth. It doesn't actually "relieve" anything. I think doctors say the "take two.." phrase as their way of pushing the snooze button. It could work with anything and still not be especially effective. "Take two elephants" or "take two Republicans"...ZZZZZZ!!!! (Ok, with the republicans, I can see this happening quite often, actually...) After tearing the house apart, we managed to find a small packet of extremely dusty and pitiful looking generic Tylenol. They tasted just as awful as I thought they would, and did just as little as I thought they would. Somehow Jon scraped me into the car, and managed to get me to the hospital. During the forty minute car-ride to Z-, I had my feet locked against the floor boards and my neck locked against the headrest...everything else was arched and ouchy...I don't know how he managed to get me into the hospital...I only remember clinging to one of the last bits of advice Mom had given me..."Kim, the strong stoic routine isn't necessary...if you're hurting, they have some wonderful things to take the edge off. Epidurals are wonderful things." I had no intention of being strong and stoic. Anyone who knows me knows I am the very model of a modern major wuss. I was blubbery, stupid, and had been told, in this case, that drugs were my friends, and I was going to be making some new and very fine acquaintences that day. That was the plan. The nurse admitting me didn't even think I was in actual labor yet, but that changed at 9 thirty, when Josh decided then and there that he'd had enough. I went into full out whine-mode around ten-ish. "Ok...ready for the epidural now...anytime would be good." Apparently, there were some crucial things that no one bothered to mention to me...like that if a mysterious phrase like "seven centimeters" jumps to a further mysterious number like "ten centimeters" in the space of thirty minutes, epidurals are not going to be helpful. So what?!! I was promised drugs, damnit (Sorry Pastor Bob and Norma), and now I was denied simply because "the baby would be here before the epi kicked in...". "Give it to me anyway!!! Hit me in the head, run me over with a truck, throw me down an escalator...something!" (Carrie, Den --- I'm sorry to disillusion you, but I was NOT superwoman...I was superwussy and in my long and varied career of finding new and stupid ways to damage myself, this was officially the most bizarre situation I'd ever gotten myself into.) I remember kicking my poor attending nurse in the head, and then little else. Jon, meanwhile had the chance to call the cast and crew...and Mom and Dad were on their way up and must have made really good time, they were at the hospital at 11:30...

In the meantime, I think every person in the hospital got the chance to wander in and see parts of me that I've never had any desire to see. I think all I was doing was re-enacting scenes from the Exorcist. If it was gross, personally embarassing or lacking any attempt at dignity (Dignity? Oh please! I was still blubbering over my lost epidural.) I excelled at it.

I know Mom was in the room because I remember long fingernails on my forehead and arm and someone sniffling and crying and laughing at the same time...It wasn't me...I was still whining. Jon was amazing, as usual...always my hero. Without lamaze instructions, with out any clue as to what he was supposed to do, and strictly following the lead of the nurse he helped me do the necessary breathing to get through the contractions...I heard his voice more than anything, and most of the time it sounded like he was underwater...or maybe that was just how I felt... Under a lot of dark water...

All joking aside, one of my biggest fears (and because I was always afraid of it, I told Jon, and he was afraid too) has always been that I would die in childbirth. Now, the Doc , when I told him this (knowing that there probably wasn't a rational explaination for the fear, but that it was there just the same) gave me the impression that I would be seriously denting his reputation if I did anything like that, so I simply wasn't to die on his watch -- he was paid big bucks to worry for me, and besides he had a new catcher's mitt all shiny and polished for the procedure, and if I keeled, I wouldn't be there to admire his work. All well and good to say prior to when you're trying to keep a soon-to-be mom just this side of hysteria, but really hard to remember when all but one voice in the room are blurring and indecipherable. Jon was keeping his focus on me, half an eye on Mom and glaring at the Doc -- who kept wandering in and out of the room even when the head started to show. For those of you thinking how wonderful (or how jealous you might be) that a first time mother had solid labor for only three and a half hours and then delivered, don't look at me. If I had been left to my own devices, that kid would have been in there for another eighteen hours at least or may not have gotten out at all. Jon, as usual, had enough sense for both of us, and if he hadn't cajoled and adored, and in the end, quietly and firmly bullied me through the last stage, I don't think I'd be here today. I really don't. He didn't want me in pain, and he had resolved to make it move as quickly as possible. Josh wisely chose to be accomodating. So again, it weren't me. I'm not that good, and I certainly didn't feel that lucky. It was strictly a tacit understanding between my hero husband and my soon to be progeny. Thankfully, they were both on my side. "It's almost over." Jon kept saying. Now, this part I remember specifically...I have been told that I did not cuss, I did not riff on the gene pool of my husband, or the line of "begat-ting" that had brought him into my life. I did not say that he could never touch me again, or even suggest a happy little restraining order if he even _thought_ of looking at my pj's in the dryer. I did none of the things that Cosby's wife was said to have done...I said nothing I suppose that wifeys in general are supposed to say in the last phase. I do recall, that after Jon told me for the hundredth time that "it was almost over", I called him a liar. I heard Jon, but could feel myself fading out and down each time...I think I may somehow have been falling asleep during the intervals between the contractions, but I couldn't be sure...it seemed harder and harder to find my way back...I was too tired, I hadn't been ready for this, and I couldn't possibly have enough strength to do whatever it was they wanted me to do...and then the choice wasn't mine any longer... Josh was somehow suddenly at a spot where it was push or let him stay where he was and hurt more...and so I pushed. Twenty minutes after I called my husband a liar, it was over.

The next thing I remember is shaking, badly...and a warm, slimy blue squid had been flopped on my stomach and was making a serious effort to slide off (I had no glasses on, and that was truly the impression I got). I was offered the chance to hold him, but my hands were numb from the handlebars on the side of the bed, and I was shaking so hard that any movement on my part would have sent the blue squid officially off me, and onto the floor where it would slide out the door like a hockey puck...ok, poor analogy continuation...on an ice rink, a squid would stick to the floor, not slide. For days after the fact, I would remain convinced that if I didn't play my cards right, I would leave the hospital with the alien squid baby I thought I'd delivered (shades of MIB right there), and not the Josh I'd come to know later.

Jon did the cord cutting and then, as the docs finished up with me (I don't seem to recall Jane Seymore ever having a hair out of place, or broken blood vessels and spots in her eyes in any episode or Lifetime movie that she gave birth...could I sue for false advertisement? I really wanted to be Jane Seymore...instead, I ended up as a character from the TROMA dvds), and then took Josh to a corner and quietly explained why he shouldn't be kicking his mother (I'm thinking Josh should look into swimming...his last movements inside me constituted of a perfect flutter-kick...Michael Phelps, watch your butt!). Then, Josh was taken away...it seemed that he had inhaled some fluid on the way out, and they needed to keep him in ICN for a few days observation.

I remember little of that first day...Jon held my hand and talked to me...we cried some more, we talked some more...and then I just shut down and "went coma" -- our term for what happens to me when I'm sick...Mom always thought it was brilliant on my part, I'd just stop what I was doing and go to sleep. I never had a choice in the matter, it was like someone flicked a switch. I was gone...I would be awakened occasionally by someone poking at me, or checking my blood pressure. I awoke to Jon watching me with tears in his eyes. He was proud of me, he said, but his eyes were still shell-shocked and scared. I don't remember talking to Mom or Dad that day...although I was later told that Jon turned into super GermanShepard boy...he was very protective of Josh and I, and was often in the ICN watching Josh and holding him while he waited for me to recoup. I think the rest of the family showed up sooner or later, but Jon took them down and showed them Josh through the window...and left me to sleep. I don't remember much else that day...until about a quarter til four in the morning. Poor Jon was asleep on the floor. While the mattress from the birthing room bench was comfy, it still wasn't long enough for his tall frame. His feet hung off the edge. Even in sleep, he looked worried and scared...he frowned and ground his teeth as he always does when he is stressed. I don't know how I found my way to the ICN...I felt like I was in a maze (although the ward only had two actual corners between my room and the ICN), and I was very suprised that I could keep myself upright. I was let into a locked room where there were six babies lined up against the wall. Josh, at eight pounds, three ounces, and 21 inches long -- was the biggest and healthiest looking of the lot...and that was including the fact that he had a small oxygen cover over his head to help clear up the fluid in his lungs...the vast majority of the little ones in there maybe weighed about four or five pounds, and the tiny creature next to Josh was not only painfully and frightening underweight (his whole body could fit in one hand), but he was under UV lighting and his eye were covered with gauze bandages. He looked like the victim of a war.



So I watched my son... "My Son" is a weird thing to say...I'm still getting used to it. I watched my son as he was attached to scary beepy things, with tubes coming out of his little hand. They had him under a heat lamp and on a heat pad, and he resembled a little, red-headed baked potato. I watched my son's face under the oxygen hood, and sniffled and cried as he sniffled and fussed a bit...Even under that hood, I could see that he frowned in his sleep the same way Jon had been doing...and then... they let me hold him...and I think that may have been the beginning of the end for me.

I still don't feel like a Mommy. I certainly don't see myself as a parent...but I have this little Josh creature...and I am finding myself rather fond of this little Josh creature, if wholly overwhelmed and severely questioning the sense of humor of a rather twisted All-powerful being. (But then, according to the books, Man was created in God's image...I just never really pictured God as a smart a-- er, aleck. Who knew?!!). Jon is not nearly convinced yet...He tried to take him to the return desk at Wal-Mart, but was told that without a receipt, he could only exchange Josh for the same exact thing...something about a Copyright policy. We couldn't even get a gift card, gosh darn-it. Jon has also decided that since Josh is about the size of a football that he could actually pass for a football...and I have been having a bit of a time trying to convince him that he cannot actually punt or spike his son... (He smiles and holds his arms up like goalposts, tilts his head up and and says "Goal !!!!")...Now, gently Mom!!! I told you, Gallow's Humor is key to our -- and to Josh's survival...I freely confess that there are infinately more qualified folks out there who would have clue one as to how to raise this little guy...(Jon, taking a cue from the tabloids, is offering a reward for the "REAL PARENTS"...)...my goal is not to dent him on my watch and to get the crying to stop quickly. I don't know this counts as full-out maternal instinct, but it's a start. As for not denting him on our watch, we have found a new and fascinating way to torture the mad and frothy Grandma contingent...We considered taking Josh to my mom's and putting a Winnie the Pooh bandaid on his forehead. Not because he would be hurt, but because it would mess with Mom's head. Yes, it is a bad thought...and we should feel shame...but we don't...and in fact the idea is still fairly amusing to us. Mom for some reason did not have the same reaction when we posed this idea to her. She said we were evil...Hmm, go figure.

The grandmothers, great, small and in between, are circling like buzzards...friendly, possessive, overly protective buzzards, but really...I'd hate to leave this kid out in the open with all of them cruising the nearby skies.

(Mom and Josh Christmas 2005)

Rhonda (Jon's Mom) nearly killed Tim when we handed Josh off to him on his first visit. She was bouncing and hopping all over the place like a little kid until we finally gave Josh to her, and then she acted as though every Christmas had come at once. The grandfathers, again great, pretty good and okey-dokey -- are just as silly... there is more pride for this little red-haired boy than I could ever have imagined. As most of you know, when Dev and Jay were born, the joke was that there would be one to caddy for Dad, one to caddy for Grandpa Ours...and with the birth of Joshua Chamberlain, there is finally someone to stay home and mow the lawn. Ah, to know one's purpose in life...

As for Auntie Suzing...would you believe that for once in her life, she was left without words? I'm not certain that this is a good thing, but it was fascinating to witness.


I take great comfort in the flock of guardian angels surrounding us. There's not a dusty wing in the bunch. Thank you one and all.


More to come.


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