Go time, take two...

3:45am on Thursday, April 25th 2019.

Before I forget, and my wife brushes her teeth, the dog needs his meds.  Heartworm and Flea/Tick.  The former he gobbles as if it was steak.  The later, he fights...really...really fights.  By the time I manage to get it down his hacking gullet I have peanut butter smeared up and down my arms.

"Fuck...fuck...fuck fuck fuck goddammit FUCK!!!"

"HONEY!  Are you okay?"

"No.  Yes!  The goddamn dog just put up the fight of the century and I smell like a Reese's candy.  I can't leave until I shower"

"O...okay?"   (This...from the woman who is waiting...patiently...painfully...to dilate...these last three days)

As we set off to leave, I mention leaving the overnight stuff at home and we just grab snacks- anticipating we'll get sent home, but not until we get some better pain management advice.  Sure, the baby is due but my wife hasn't eaten or slept in three days and isn't exactly going to have much energy when it's time to dance.  Come to think of it,  neither had I.  And prosecco doesn't exactly count.  I digress.

In the car, I'm full of apologies and hand holding.  I'm sorry for being a dick.  I hate you're in pain.  I can't imagine any of this, but even if we need to go back every day for a butt-shot of morphine we'll go.  I'll quit my job or whatever- you're not alone and I'm not going to leave your side.  I love you.

As 4am rolls into 4:30, our same doc as before comes in and has the same sympathetic simpering comment "Back again, huh?"  ("Yes.  We missed you SO much")  "Ok.  If you can get up on the gurney I'll have another look" (My wife is pushing it around, not even able to get out of her coat unassisted and without feeling like she's going to fall over.  I've had it.)

"Oh.  Hey.  I've got some good news.  It looks like you're at 2cm!"

holyfuckingjesusfinally

"So...you guys could still go home and labor if you'd wanted, orrrrrr..."
"Nope.  No.  Nuh-uh.  Drugs."
"..rrrrrr we could admit you and it looks like you want admitted?"

Jesus.  Doctor Clue.  Line one.

And just like that, we got a room at the Inn.  Which, early sleeplessness notwithstanding?  Was a blessing in disguise since the hospital hit capacity in the maternity ward by mid-morning and were turning people away to their back-up hospitals by afternoon.  We made it in time.  Score.


We also didn't have any of our shit and I had a ton of phone calls to make.

As the nurse helps my wife get situated, I tell her I'm going to go home and come right back.

"Why don't you take a nap, honey?*"
"Are...wait, are you sure?"
"Yes.  You're exhausted.  I'm here and I'm fine.  Set your alarm!!! But yeah, grab a nap"

Don't have to tell me twice.  BUT FIRST!  I check with the nurse who's readying the room:

"Beg pardon?  I'm needing to go home and get my pet situation taken care of and get our things.  She's.  She's not going to baby-up if I'm gone for 2 hours?"
"Nope.  She'll be getting some low dose fentanyl and hopefully some sleep herself before the team comes in and gives her the epidural."
"Great"
"I mean...it probably won't happen but IT HAS!!!!"  (Last part, emphasis mine.  In my head")
"Oh.  Ok.  I better go then.  One more thing...did you grow up in Brooklyn Park?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Nevermind.  It's just the last nurse and I both went to Park Cen---"
"Well actually... back in the day I lived across Zane from this park by Crestview?  Is that..."
"Hamilton park?"
"THAT'S IT!  So wait...where did...

(Wife) "GO!!!"

Go I did.  It was a bright sunny day.  1st day of the...last...first...day...anyway, I think I was thinking that the next time I drive this way I was going to have 3 passengers.

I got home and set my alarm for 1 hour.  Put the bags by the front door.  Texted the team who was pet-sitting.  And passed TF out.  When my alarm went off, it ripped me out of a coma so deep I almost didn't notice both my dog and my cat were under the covers flanking me and sleeping (This never happens).  I got a text from my wife asking my status as she had eaten and was heading toward epidural town.   As I sprinted out to my car, my neighbor across the street waved and yelled "Hi, Mikey!!!  When's that baby of yours due again?!?!"

"ANY FUCKING MINUTE NOW, KATHY, AND I'M ALREADY LATE!!! GAHHHHHD BYEEEEEEE!!!"

Drama.  And it was here, that the other imaginary scenario of me speeding toward the hospital while my wife Lamaze breathes with one hand on the window and one on her stomach with her leg up on the dash while I get a roaring police escort has been completely supplanted by my driving...fast...but carefully enough to not get pulled over before arriving.

In fact?  I don't think I was thinking much at all.  I thought I'd be more a flutter, but I was- for better or worse- in the zone.  Which isn't really glamorous.  I just needed an audience to get me back.  And thankfully, there were nurses and doctors who would laugh at my jokes...goddammit.