I've never met a birth story I didn't like. A birth is so much goodness wrapped up in tiny little fingers and soft blankets and warm milk. It's the thinning of the veil and the growth of a family. It's getting acquainted with a little stranger through snuggles and sacrifice. Boyd K. Packer described it perfectly when he said, "Every time a child is born, the world is renewed in innocence." When all the pain, tears and just plain yuckiness lead to the renewing of the world, the story of a birth is a good story.
As I sat down to write about how our little Henry came into this world, I realized that although he is the star of the story, the story isn't about him. Henry's story is a collection of kindness. I can't think of his birth without feeling the renewal of hope and a desire to act on the impulse to be kind. Cam told me that in Spanish, the literal of translation of "to give birth" is "to give light." A most perfect phrase, is it not? The light is so bright and it reflects off every surface and everybody. When a baby is born, we are all a little more kind, a little more gentle and a little more loving.
When my water broke unexpectedly at 6 am on Memorial Day (one week before my scheduled cesarean) I was almost immediately bathed in kindness. I had just helped Stella to the bathroom and though she's almost always completely contrary these days, she went to her room and waited quietly while I grabbed a towel and tried to calm my racing heart. I summoned my sleeping husband, who after hearing it repeated a few times, finally smiled and cheered "we're having a baby today!" He went right to work doing all the things that he knew I'd need done; waking, dressing and feeding the kids and packing up the things he knew I'd need.
I woke my parents with a phone call and without a thought about the holiday plans that would be waylaid, they were on their way to get Charlie and Stella settled at their house and to meet Cam and I at the hospital. Cam's parents were also woken up with a phone call and immediately began preparations to drive from St. George. Cam and my dad were full of concern and frustrated at my leisurely pace-only envisioning the frantic rush to the hospital in various tv shows and movies.
The charge nurse at the hospital was one of my favorites from my two previous stays at the hospital. She was so funny and took such good care of me. Mom had alerted the masses and within an hour Jessica, Hayley and Abby had all arrived to take photos and watch the C-section and just not miss out on anything (as that is most important for the Roberts family). My surgery nurse ran out and got an extra cute hat for me to wear in surgery and the charge nurse convinced the anesthesiologist to ignore the tiny muffin I'd eaten and move ahead with surgery right away.
In a most tender mercy, the anesthesiologist working was a woman who was so calm and kind during the spinal block and all the other preparations. She was reassuring and piling warm blankets on me and I loved her. Thankfully, my beloved Dr. Judd was on call that particular holiday and soon arrived to delivery my baby boy.
It was a strange thing to lie there on the table listening to the nurses count out sponges and check temperatures, feeling quite helpless and alone. Then they brought Cam in to sit by my head and I felt so much peace. He held my hand and shared his excitement and love for me. Gosh, he's a good man. I can't think about my hospital experience without thinking about how much he loves me. The doctors and nurses calmly chatted away and then before we knew it, sweet Henry was crying. He was chubby and sweet. The nurses and respiratory therapist made sure I could see him while they weighed and checked him. Cam held him briefly and brought him to me to see, then they were hustled off to the nursery while I was closed up.
An aside: I have not, with any of my three babies felt overly emotional or the incredible feelings of love that I so often hear people describe. Perhaps it would be different if I delivered them and held them on my chest right away. But, I sort of think that it wouldn't. When they arrive they are sweet and wonderful, but also strangers. It isn't until we've spent hours staring at each other and I've watched them sleep and learned their cries that I feel overwhelming love.
I was hoping that Cam and Henry would be waiting for me when I arrived in my room, but they weren't. The next little while is a bit fuzzy in my memory. People coming and going from my room...Henry not breathing well...on c-pap...waiting....tests and oxygen...heart murmur...Mike and Deb arrived...everyone telling me how cute he was and so strong...Charlie and Stella came to the hospital to see their brother, but they could hardly see him through the windows with all the tubes and wires. Cam would go in the little NICU and take pictures and send them to my phone. I wasn't worried at all. I knew we were the only patients in our little wing of the hospital and they were probably taking extra precautions.
As the day wore on, I became a little more worried. The respiratory therapist came to talk with us about his concerns and the problems sweet Henry was having. His lungs weren't expanding right. He was moaning with each breath, which meant it was labored and something was wrong. He had a noticeable and concerning heart murmur. They tried turning down his oxygen, but his little body needed it badly. In the late afternoon, I was up walking to the bathroom and asked the nurse to help me walk to the nursery so I could see Henry. I felt good walking to where was on his little warming bed. He was so chubby and wonderful. After a few moments I got faint and nauseous. The nurses went running for wheelchairs and gently hurried me back to my room.
Kevin and Leona came to see us, my parents and Mike and Deb were still there and I was completely overwhelmed. At one point everyone was coming and going from my room and I told them all to leave. I needed to sit with Cam and sort things out. We counseled with the pediatrician who had arrived and examined the baby. She was also concerned about his heart murmur and felt that he needed and echo right away. Unfortunately, there was nobody at Orem Community Hospital to read an echo on a holiday. He'd need to be transferred to Utah Valley Regional Medical Center, but I would stay put.
I was wheeled into the NICU shortly before the ambulance transfer arrived to spend a few minutes with the baby. Cam, Mike, Kevin and my dad gathered around his little bed and Cam gave him a powerful blessing. I don't remember many of the exact words, but I do remember him saying, rather forcefully, "we want this baby. We want him in our family." I sat in a puddle in my wheelchair. I was crying so hard. It caught me off guard that there might be a real problem. It occurred to me that they don't take babies away from their mamas unless they need more help than the mama can give.
The nurses were hustling around, bringing tissues and reassurance. One nurse saw what a mess I was, came up behind me and gave me a huge hug and promised me he'd be okay. I'm not too touchy-feely, but that tenderness and kindess that I felt was so appreciated.
The transport team arrived with the lead respiratory therapist from Utah Valley NICU. They gathered all his information and transferred him to their machines. They promised we'd be able to hold him before they left. I hadn't held my baby yet and I was aching to. I sat in my wheelchair next to his little bed and sobbed. Uncontrollable, ugly sobs. At this point Cam and I were completely exhausted. I'd had a major surgery and Cam had been back and forth between me and the babe all day long, trying to keep me from worrying too much.
I think this sounds awful, but
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