Hosting a Soiree



When we last left our heroes they had just been born. One peck on the cheek each from their mother and then they were wheeled out of the operating room and down the hall to the nursery. As father I am required to follow along. This serves multiple purposes. A) One of the parents is there to ensure no baby swapping goes on and to witness more of their first life moments. B) The father is removed from the room so he can’t accidentally get a glimpse of any the behind the curtain Mommy clean-up. You don’t want to know what goes on behind the curtain, but it sure ain’t the great and powerful Oz.

Thus starts one of the odd phenomenons of the modern day hospital. As soon as the babies are born it is the father that becomes pre-eminent, while the poor mom is patched up and tucked away in various waiting/recovery rooms. This is especially true for the C-section, as the poor mom literally can’t move most of her body for a while, placing her entirely at the mercy of the medical staff.

On the other hand, the father with his all powerful armband can go anywhere he wants. Into and out of the nursery, to the recovery room, to the public waiting area, upstairs to the patient rooms, and back to all them in any order he wishes. With all the fresh baby action, arriving in-laws, and mother needing info and comforting, it feels a great deal like one crazy party for which you are the only host. Mingle everyone, mingle.

When I entered the nursery it was a minor madhouse. Every cradle was filled. The nurses in the nursery were complaining that no one had told them that twins were coming. The nurses from the operating room snapped back that no one had told them anything more than a few minutes before either. There was a persistent rumor that a giant baby was coming, with an umbilical cord larger than anyone there had previously seen. One baby pooped everywhere as it was weighed (nasty dark, black mirconium poop), another failed its initial blood test so badly the nurse had to immediately tube food into its stomach. All this and, of course, it was a shift change.

When a newborn baby is brought into the nursery they do several things. First they put drops of Erythromycin in their eyes, to ward off infection. This is supposed to be particularly effective against many sexually transmitted diseases, like gonorrhea and syphilis. Never mind that this makes much less sense for a C-section baby. Hospitals like systems from which not to deviate. Second, they get a shot of vitamin K which is what helps your blood coagulate. We had to feed our dog vitamin K once when we discovered it had eaten 2-3 squirrels. We suspected a blood thinning rat poison, but in fact our dog is simply an efficient squirrel killing machine. Anyway, I suspect one of the main reasons for the vitamin K is to be sure the baby stops bleeding as they administer the Third of their nursery horrors: the blood sugar test. A baby gets one of these an hour for its first 3-4 hours of life to ensure they are not crashing outside of the mommy placenta food bank. To get the blood needed for this test they stab the foot. Needless to say, babies hate this.

For the most part I stood between the two cradles, alternately filming, touching, soothing, and wondering at the two babies, temporarily named Baby A and Baby B. Baby A was the little one, 4 lbs, 13 oz and the reason we had decided to deliver that day. As things turned out, she was the feisty one, not giving us any trouble from the very beginning. However, it became rapidly apparent that Baby B (5 lb, 6 oz) was having some trouble breathing. There was a hitch in her breathing and a wet sound to her lungs, making her breathe fast and hard. It wasn’t long before the nurses had put a little oxygen mask over her face to ease her troubles. I was told she had some fluid in her lungs, something not all that uncommon in babies born of C-section, as they miss the orange juicing-like squeeze of being driven from the birth canal. So there I was concerned about both of my babies, one so small, the other not breathing right. I wanted to stay by them both all the time. But then I had to host this weird little party.

The first to arrive was my mother. She appeared on the other side of the nursery glass and we did a pantomime ritual to indicate which of the many babies were mine. There is good sound proofing for the nursery, but if you go right up to the glass you can just communicate without reaching a full bellow. Next I had to check on Candy, who was leaving a major surgery after all. I miss timed it of course, arriving in the recovery room before she did. There I spent 5-10 anxious minutes, paranoid worst case scenarios dancing through my head. Was she late? Is this delay normal? There is her doctor, so certainly he wouldn’t be chatting up the nurses if there had been any complications… etc. Too much adrenaline again. At last they pushed her through the doors, giving me a chance to fill her in on the babies she was still hours away from seeing again.

Then it was out to see my mother in person, briefing her on the situation. Then back to nursery, where I repeat this dance as my father arrives and then later again for my in-laws. At some point Candy is wheeled upstairs to our permanent hospital room, adding a further complication to the dance. No one is allowed up there but me, because, as the toughest tiny female security guard you will ever meet told us: “Visiting hours are over.” Oh, and I think she also mentioned that she didn’t make the rules. My poor in-laws arrived so late from Las Vegas they didn’t see their daughter for a whole extra day.

Meanwhile, Baby A got stronger and stronger while Baby B just couldn’t seem to clear its lungs. Somewhere around hour 3 the nurses finally decided that there wasn’t going to be a quick fix, and Baby B got taken not to its mother, but the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). The same place tiny 1 pound 24 week old babies get taken. This was the beginning of long stay that was more than a little tough to take. More on that in the third and hopefully final installment of this blog.



To end this chapter on a happier note: Baby A was bathed and sent up to be with its mother at 11pm, a full 4 hours after she was born. This was slightly longer than normal, partially because they really wanted to make sure the tiny guy was healthy despite a smallish size and partially because of the nursery overcrowding. A situation that had not been helped by the one-on-one care Baby B had received.

Before Baby A arrived I visited with Candy and told her I had looked at this baby carefully and could not see naming this little girl anything but Rylie, one of our top picks, although prior to seeing them it was sitting in at the runner-up position of #3.

After Candy saw her, she had to agree. Her name was Rylie.