Learning to Cry

by Christopher C. Payne

  Now that I speak these words, and since this is a reflective story from a historical perspective, I can understand the meaning behind the phrase: does anyone ever really know what they are signing up for when they have kids? I am going to guess the answer for 99 percent of us would be no. If we did there might be far fewer kids in the world today. Not that my children would be in that group. Despite the trials and suffering, the joy and happiness has far outweighed anything my simple mind could have fathomed. That is saying a lot, as you will see once we move further ahead.

  At the time we lived in a suburb on the far eastern side of Chicago, so our drive to the hospital took approximately one hour. It was a frantic 60 minutes, spent mostly in silence. Cheryl continually rubbed her stomach in a circular motion as if she were trying to ease the pain the baby might already be feeling. Mothers, both good and bad, hold an incredibly unique connection with a child. The bond of carrying a living person inside of you is something that I cannot fathom. While I understand the mechanics of the gestation process, I cannot for the life of me comprehend how this miracle takes place. It just doesn’t seem logical.

  We arrived out front of Northwestern Memorial Hospital and quickly moved up several floors until we reached the maternity level. We had abruptly halted our car in the temporary parking spot. My plan was to move the vehicle once we were settled and received the details of what we were facing. Interestingly, we didn’t have to wait long. We were frantically admitted. Hospital gowns were donned, and the appropriate position on the hospital bed was secured—all while I sat in the hard vinyl chair, waiting impatiently for the news.

  The doctor immediately came to update us on what we were facing and the options we had. At the time, I remember thinking how nice it would have been to be kept waiting. I realize we all complain about the hours spent, wasted in a waiting room at a doctor’s office. It’s actually more perplexing when they see you at once. It does nothing to abate your anxiety level. In truth, it does the exact opposite. I found myself fidgeting with anticipation of the possibilities that might be presented to us.

  The diagnosis was an escalating level of preeclampsia, a condition in pregnancy that causes dangerously high blood pressure in the mother. It’s a complication that affects between 5 percent and 8 percent of pregnant women. The biggest issue – along with the preeclampsia, which was growing severe – was that my ex’s platelets were extremely low. The doctor was concerned about her losing too much blood during birth. I looked at both of them, a little dumbfounded. My role in this process was coach. I was not good at reading the books; I didn’t really know the details. I had always figured that things would just work out fine. I never claimed to be the smartest guy in the shed, but I was supportive.

  The first step was taking all of the tests again -- check the final blood and sugar levels to see where things currently stood. We would, then, make the decision on whether the baby should be delivered that night. At this news, I thought Cheryl might come unglued. She was a strong woman. If we face facts, she was a little too strong as I would find out later in life. At this specific moment, though, she could no longer hold it together. The baby was not full term yet. What did that mean? The lungs are the last to develop. Would the baby be placed in an incubator and held at the hospital? Of course, none of this could be answered. We were left to mull things over by ourselves as the nurses poked and prodded, every once in a while taking what they needed of the precious bodily fluids as they filled vial after vial with my ex-wife’s blood.

  Time is a strange thing. It consistently ticks by not moving any faster or any slower, no matter the situation. It is an oddity, then, when you are on vacation, how quickly time flitters by. Before you know it, you are on your way home. That weekend trip to the wine country that was planned for a few months flies onward. The next thing you know you are driving through traffic with two cases of cabernet in your trunk quicker than you can blink an eye, somehow on your way back to four walls of sanctuary surrounded by a white picket fence.

  In other situations, time seems to creep, almost to the point where you can hear yourself breathing. The slow inhale as your lungs expand, sifting the oxygen, letting the life-giving force filter its way through your body. You, then, feel the exhale as the unneeded remnants are expunged from your nostrils in the rhythmic cycle-of-the-life enabling process. Over and over again it happens, and you find yourself counting how long of a delay there is between breaths. How long is the air normally held inside before it is exhaled? How many breaths does a person take in a minute or an hour? Slowly, time edges onward as you await news that could devastate your being. Potentially changing who and what you might ever become. How quickly can your hopes and dreams die prematurely?

  Finally, the doctor entered in her sterile white coat and elitist clipboard. Why the hell do all doctors feel the need to talk with a clipboard in their hand? When they are going through medical school and their residencies, do they somehow grow so fond of the manmade device that it warps into an appendage of comfort? Something as heavily relied upon as an arm or a leg or even an eye. She stood before us, and the monotonous breathing process stopped. Suddenly, I went from counting breaths to not breathing at all. It felt as though I didn’t even need to breathe. I had now been given a waiver to never breathe again. I could sit there for hours and stoically listen as I awaited the outcome of those vaunted tests, never once pausing for a simple breath.

  The doctor informed us there was nothing wrong at this point, and the tests were all coming back normal. What the hell is it with doctors anyway? One minute they tell you everything in life is wrong, your world might be imploding upon itself, and the next minute they tell you all is well. Do they do this purposely? Is it some need for reassurance and love that causes them to tear you down only to vault you back to the ceiling within the same arena? I didn’t really care. We were breathing again. We were feeling again. I felt my body explode as I let out a long sigh and resumed the cycle of breathing I had stopped only a few seconds before. Our child, whom we had not even met, had survived her first roadblock. Somehow, miraculously our baby had made it out the other side unscathed. We were both excited and ready to head home.

  With doctors nothing is ever really simple. It isn’t black or white, right or wrong. It is always some area of grey. Although the tests were looking good, the doctor wanted to keep us overnight, monitoring vital signs to ensure that nothing escalated again. It was only a precaution, but the doctor felt it was needed. At that point who cared? We were reluctant, yet fine with the decision, and now the logistics needed to be worked out.

  I headed down to finally check on our car, which luckily was still there and not even ticketed. I drove home, picked up some items that we had forgotten and headed back as quickly as possible. My ex-wife was required to stay the night, and I, as her partner, was asked very politely by the mom-to-be if I would stay, as well. I agreed as you might expect, but in no way was I looking forward to sleeping on the cot the nursing staff had so happily provided. It wasn’t even a cot really. It was more of a faded pinkish chair that reclined to an almost prone position, but not quite.

  Since it was getting late and I was exhausted from the day’s activities, I had no issue going to sleep or watching TV for a little while. Either one was fine with me. I had managed to make it back, park the car, and was sitting in my vinyl bed for the evening. Unfortunately, Cheryl had developed a headache from the stress, and with her headaches came side effects. She had migraines at times, and I was hoping this would not turn the night into a more unmanageable situation than it already was. Damn, that sounded selfish, didn’t it?

  The TV was hurting her eyes, and she asked me to turn it off. In the same breath, she asked me not to leave or fall asleep. She wanted to rest but not be disturbed. I, admittedly, have a snoring problem which can bother the neighbors if they don’t take proper precautions, such as earplugs or sleeping pills for anyone within a few hundred feet. I listened to her request, but in practical terms I had no idea how to fo
llow through. I am one of those people whose eyelids fall shut with the dimming of the lights as my body goes horizontal.

  Do you remember those dolls with the eyelids that moved as the body moved? When the doll was standing upright the eyelids were open, and the little plastic replica was awake. When the doll was horizontal the eyes were closed, and the little baby was fast asleep. You have just described me in the flesh. While I might not be manufactured from plastic and dye, I was none-the-less made from the same mold. It was impossible for me to stay awake in a dark room with no TV while sticking, I mean sitting, in my plastic chair/cot.

  If you want me to chop wood, just ask. If the trash is overflowing and needs to be liberated from its container, no problem. If you need a light bulb changed or the toilet doesn’t work or etc., etc., I am your man. If you need somebody to sit in the dark and stay awake for a few hours with no form of outside stimulus, please do not call me. I might give it my best shot, but my best shot is about as likely to work as killing an elephant with a BB gun, assuming you shot the gun backwards, hoping it would travel around the world and hit the beast on the other side. I just couldn’t do it.

  So try as I might, within a few short minutes I was out, and the orchestral symphony began drifting from my mouth and nostrils. It grew in strength and volume with each passing minute. My other great flaw, or strength, depending on how you look it at, is my ability to sleep very soundly. Once I go down, I am out for the count. Don’t attempt to wake me up, unless you are very determined and are in possession of great inner strength.

  When I awoke, it was the next morning. The nurse and doctor were informing us that the night had not gone well. They were now planning on starting the birthing process very soon. Jesus Christ, what was it with this place? Were we all insane? Wasn’t I just sound asleep with the thought of heading home this morning and everything being rosy? Couldn’t we just make up our frickin’ minds and decide one way or the other what was happening? Everyone seemed to be freaking out.

  The next few hours were filled with induced labor, drugs, induced labor, and more drugs. Not the good kinds of drugs that help you handle the pain. Oh no. The nice drugs were not allowed -- something about my ex-wife’s platelets being too low. She was only allowed the drugs that helped induce labor, and while I have not taken these drugs myself, I can attest that they do not subdue pain at all. The exact opposite happened. With no hope of an epidural, and the searing discomfort mounting, there seemed to be no end in sight. I was beginning to feel tears well up each time she squeezed the mangled stub that used to be my hand. I could try writing with my left hand for the remainder of my life. People did learn how to do that, didn’t they? Damn, again that sounded selfish.

  Labor moved along slowly until, at some point, one of those beeping monitors must have chirped differently. The nurse then called the doctor into the room to take a look. It is a little odd how few people are ever around while a woman is in the pre-stages of the birthing procedure. A nurse pops in now and then, but for the most part the parents are on their own. Now with the doctor in the room, and the nurse looking over her shoulder, it made us wonder if we were about to be propelled down another bad path.

  The doctor piled some goo onto Cheryl’s stomach, so she could take a peek inside to see what that stubborn little kid was doing. She looked from the monitor to us, then to me, specifically, and, then, back to the monitor. Her expressionless face was suddenly contorted into a frown, and I felt my heart sinking a little. What the hell could possibly go wrong now? The doctor informed us that she had not felt the need for a sonogram this morning since she had done one just last night, when we were admitted. She had injected the standard dosage of Pitocin that morning to induce labor, but apparently the baby had flipped in the middle of the night and was now breech. A physical exam confirmed this, as well. There didn’t seem to be a head where a head was supposed to be.

  The issue mounted – the preeclampsia, the low platelets, the baby being breech. All of this added up to a C-section, and it had to happen quickly. The baby was showing severe signs of stress, and the doctor was also worried the umbilical cord might be wrapped around her neck.

  Jesus, this was too much. We just wanted a healthy baby. Why couldn’t we be one of those couples who get wheeled in through the door, complain a little about the food, and stroll out a day later holding a beautiful new addition to the family. Our parents weren’t even here. They were out of state thinking the damn little thing wasn’t due for a few weeks.

  In the fleeting moments I had attempted to gather my thought patterns, the room filled with people. The doctor must have pushed that damn button again because we went from the four of us to no less than 10 white-coated hospital staff in less than a few seconds. When the doctor said now, she meant right the hell now. People were grabbing things, poking places, opening doors, and walls were moving. It was as if I were in the middle of a transformer and witnessing, firsthand, the massive intricacies that occur when the truck becomes a living, talking robot.

  As quickly as everyone had entered the room, they dissipated, and the area was evacuated. It is an odd feeling standing in the middle of a hospital room by myself having just witnessed an emergency. It was just a few minutes before when I had first heard the word breech. Now I was left facing a closed door, alone in the room. I couldn’t breathe again. I felt claustrophobic, isolated, and suddenly very, very alone in the world. At that moment, a nurse poked her head in and said, “We will let you know as soon as the procedure is complete.”

  Procedure? What the hell was that? I didn’t even know what was happening. I stood there for a few minutes by myself and, then, tentatively pushed open the door. As I walked out, someone told me to wait in the recovery area. My eyes followed the masked woman’s bony right finger as she pointed down the hall. I floated in that direction, having lost feeling in my body. My legs were working, back and forth, but they seemed to be moving by themselves. I felt like looking around and seeing if a puppet master were holding a remote control and asking him what he would make me do next.

  Before I digested the entire situation, a nurse poked her head in, and told me to come with her. I was still dazed, not understanding completely, but apparently about 20 minutes had elapsed since the mass exodus. I followed her, as any good dog capable of basic bodily navigation but incapable of higher-level thinking would do. I moved forward to a row of beds and saw Cheryl laying in one with her head rolling around like one of those bobble-head dolls. She was obviously in another world, apparently having gone bye-bye thanks to whatever drugs they had injected into her veins. I was amazed that she was already in recovery – the operation must have been quick.

  At that point the nurse handed me a little girl. I didn’t know what to say, and the memory of that moment still brings tears to my eyes. My heart exploded as I gazed into the face of this little human being with her red face and brightly lit cheeks. The nurse was saying something about her being fine and healthy and how everyone was amazed how big she was for being so early. I couldn’t see or hear much as my arms wrapped around this little person. I instantaneously loved her with my entire being.

  Up to that point, I had held very few babies. Parents would ask if I wanted to hold their babies, and I always declined. They had always seemed too little to me. Too fragile. Something that could easily break. I was too nervous to be responsible for something somebody held so preciously in their hearts.

  When I held my daughter in my arms for the first time I couldn’t help but think how perfect she was. How I would never let anything bad happen to her. I would give my life to protect her, hold her, and cuddle her. I now understood what it meant to love somebody completely and totally. You get married, you have sisters and brothers, you live your life with friends and family, but holding your child in your arms for the first time is a gut-wrenching reality check on the very definition of love.

  I, personally, feel there are no words that adequately describe my feelings. I could spend years attempting to help yo
u understand what I felt that day but I would continually fall short. I imagine most parents feel the same, but I would like to think that I held something special that moment. I held my daughter, and she was the most incredible thing I had ever laid eyes on. June 5, 1994.

  The rest of our stay was a little more routine. Cheryl’s C-section kept us in the hospital a few more days. It takes a little boosting to get the body back into the full swing of things. We had procrastinated getting the essential items, banking that we’d have more time before Melissa arrived. I ran out and bought a car seat, little shoes, little pajamas, formula, bottles, etc. We literally had very little prepared. Thank God we at least had a crib. Little did we know Melissa wouldn’t be sleeping there, or in her bedroom, for several months.

  Cheryl’s parents arrived the next day. They came in the hospital room, crying and sad to have missed Melissa’s birth. I think they felt a little guilty, but how could anyone have known? We made our way home after the third day, and our driveway was filled with balloons. The house was open, waiting for its newest occupant. I still remember how windy it was that day. The balloons attempted to launch themselves, frantically waving back and forth. Their bright red and pink colors proudly announced that we had a girl in our midst.

  I now wonder, in retrospect, if how you enter the world has any reflection on how you navigate life. I wonder if there has ever been a study done with the pairing of tumultuous births compared to the lives those children lead. I didn’t care about any of that at the time. My daughter was home, and I was happier than I had ever been, imagined I ever could be, or thought I ever would be again.

  The Beginning

  Father

  The first few months after Melissa arrived were not quite what I had anticipated. I actually can’t say I had any idea what to expect, but the end result was not a normal routine. Not that I am complaining. Recovery time from a C-section takes a while. I guess somebody taking a knife and slicing through your stomach muscles takes a toll on your physical well being. The doctors told Cheryl to stay in bed and avoid picking up our baby during her recovery. Holding Melissa was fine, but we tried to keep Cheryl from carrying her.