True Thoughts, Volume One

For the next ten days (maybe a little longer, given the circumstances), this blog's content will be more than a little different. On Saturday, MTM and I were talking, and we agreed that this should be my space to say whatever is on my mind without fear of what effect it will have on her in the short term. To that end, she has promised to not read here until after the baby is born so that I can express myself without worrying about how it makes her feel.

I alluded to this in my burden post, as well as my guest post for Whit, but I wrote that knowing my wife would be sitting there, 38 weeks pregnant, reading it, so it was toned down. With this new found freedom, I want to explore it in a bit more detail.

Not to diminish the woman's fears and anxieties in any way, but for a man, being present for a c-section is probably some of the worst emotional torture he will ever experience. For all of you who have not experienced this before, imagine being in the operating room, sitting behind a curtain, knowing that on the other side someone is literally cutting open your spouse. Imagine knowing that a few feet away from you, someone you love and cherish is being worked on by a team of doctors, while you stand by unable to do anything except hold her hand and tell her everything will be OK.

Now add in the fact that not only are you there, worried sick about your spouse, but you're also numero uno in charge of your new baby. You're alone, figuratively speaking, with this new life, and you need to take care of that baby. But your wife is still having surgery, pretty much right next to you.

And that's if you're lucky.

For those of you who haven't read our birth story, part two is the delivery (which, in case you're completely oblivious, was a c-section), and in there you learn that I, dear reader, was most definitely not lucky.

My daughter was born and taken to the assessment table, and I was called over to see her and take pictures. During one of my attempts to get a better angle, I walked into what can best be called the "no fly" zone. I saw my wife's abdomen, still open with clamps or whatever, as they were working on her (in hindsight, I think they were repairing the internal incision, but I honestly didn't look long enough to confirm this). I recoiled, and after proving to the nurses that I was a man of will, I was given my daughter. Unfortunately, I was not allowed to leave the O.R. right away (as is standard practice at this hospital) because they were concerned I'd pass out while carrying the newborn, so I was left to sit (far, far away) and listen while they finished the surgery. I was eventually allowed to leave and take my daughter to recovery, where we waited for MTM.

I have played that scenario over in my head eleventy million times since that day, and each time I still end up looking where I shouldn't look. I have made myself literally sick with worry, anticipating a repeat of the same experience.

Fortunately, this c-section is booked for the exact.same.room as our first, meaning that I know the layout of the room intimately (see: eleventy million repeats). I know where I will stand, and where I will not, and that I will make liberal use of the zoom feature on our camera as I stand back. I have an almost pathological sense of preparedness this time. I have exit strategies and contingency plans.

But that doesn't change the fact that my wife is having surgery next Wednesday, and I'll be in the room with her. And I will scared shitless the whole time.