I know you've all been waiting for it...
...So here it is.
Yesterday, Tara and I loaded into the car and drove up to Lewistown to see our baby doctor.
In theory,we were there to schedule a C-section for the baby. That's sorta what happened, I guess. We got in there and after a brief examination, Doctor Malhotra said "So, how do you guys feel about going to Hershey?"
"Errrr...?"
"You will go to Hershey to get the baby. It will be better."
"Yarrrrr... Now?"
"Yes. Go now."
This causes my brain to go "OK! Off we go!" Sadly, it also made Tara's brain go something more along the lines of "OMGWTF WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY BABY!!!"
So, we came home, put up bulletins / blast messages, wrote a messenger message to most everyone whose login name we knew, and we grabbed the baby bag and the (swiftly assembled by yours truly) car seat, and rolled out. All the while, I attempted to calm her down.
Got to Hershey at about 4:30, and they told us to settle in and get comfy, they were going to ask us the same questions over and over all night, and then drag us out for pre-op at 6 AM.
That's pretty much what happened. And that's where things started to get wonky.
Don't worry; at this point I want to tell you that they're both fine.
But to start: we went down to the pre-op waiting room; Tara was nervous, having not only never had surgery before, but also never having been admitted to the hospital for anything serious. I of course, couldn't stop cracking jokes; it's how I keep her calm, although I admit that the one that cracked the docs up into hysterical laughter was maybe not in the best of taste.
"I'm so nervous!" (Tara)
"This is perfectly normal; most people are nervous before surgery." (Dr. Icantrememberanddontcare)
"Yeah, honey, and most of them live!" (Me.)
The docs thought that was a really good one. Tara gave me ALL THREE NAMES and a swat on the shoulder, but she was laughing too.
Then the anesthesiologist showed up and told her that because of the blood pressure issue, they'd had to give her an anticoagulant, which ruled out an epidural, because they were afraid she might bleed into her spinal cord, which would be bad, so it was general anaesthetic for her, which meant I went to the waiting room.
I did NOT like this, and warned them that "If I don't see the boy before he gets sealed in a plastic bubble or whatever it is you do, someone's arm will get twisted off like a drumstick, and they will have a VERY BAD DAY."
So, they very carefully directed me to the wrong waiting room - Major Surgery, instead of Labor and Delivery - so the first I heard about what was going on was AT FUCKING NOON, when they called up and told me to go back to her room and wait for her to be brought up.
I got ready to twist someone's drumstick off, and then eat it. No food for me since 8 PM yesterday? HUNGRY. ANGRY. GROWL.
Then I got upstairs, and accosted a nurse at the nursery and demanded my son. They said, "Oh, the giant baby?"
That sounds about right. Remember that if a 5'1", 110# girl looks like she's carrying a sack of bowling balls, it doesn't say much. Seeing the same effect on a woman who's 6'2" and not 110# is a bit more meaningful.
"Yeah, that'd be him."
They finished whatever they were gonna do in there, and brought me a baby burrito - that's actually how they referred to it - and all of a sudden I wanted to sit down a whole lot more than I wanted to twist off anything.
So I did.
And I held and rocked my tiny-only-in-comparison-to-me son for another hour and a half, until Tara came up.
...Something was NOT right. There was a WHOLE LOT more blood flying around than I really thought there should be, and a FRIGGING PLATOON of people there to take care of her, neither one good signs. Suddenly I was all back in arm-twisting mode, and demanded answers.
Fortunately, since they seem to have done this a time or two before, one nurse got assigned and detached from the mob to brief me in.
Apparently, because of all the drugs, after the C-section, her uterus didn't fully contract the way it was supposed to, which meant she didn't stop bleeding, and was getting clots in her uterus.
This led to a series of three extraction procedures that were both gross, and apparently really painful. Do NOT ask me to describe them.
At any rate, the third one worked, and by 5 PM she had most of her color back thanks to 4 units of blood being pumped into her as fast as they could get them there. She is now "stable," which means "Go home, Dad, not gonna die tonight." In all seriousness, she's fine, but the issue of further babies is up in the air until further notice.
Along the way, I fed James - I'm getting there, patience is a virtue - four times, changed him twice, discovered that he SERIOUSLY objects to diaper changing but pretty much anything else doesn't bother him more than the occasional "I'm hungry" squeak, and introduced him to his mama.
They're keeping them both there until Saturday, but I have to work tomorrow, so I came out to the parking lot to drive back, and found that despite all my calm and collected exterior, sometime on Tuesday when we were on the way to Hershey, I turned the headlights on.
I have no memory of doing this.
My car battery had no memory of having power, either.
Crap.
So, after much grunting and swearing - my car is old, and huge, and HEAVY - I got the junker turned around and pestered a friendly guy for a jumpstart, and drove back here, so I could tell you all about the experience.
So, I'd bet by now you all are really pissed off and demanding pictures and vital stats, hmmm?
So, I should tell you, then, hmmm?
James Mack Baldridge was born at 9:14 AM today, April 25th. He weighs 10 pounds, 1 1/2 ounces, is 21 1/2 inches long, has a full head of red hair just like his mama's, and seems blessed with an extremely calm demeanor - he only cried three times, twice for diaper changes, and once when the IV pump started making a desperate shrill beeping noise that all three of us absolutely hated, and when one of the nurses turned it off, we heard a voice from outside go "THANK YOU WHOEVER STOPPED THAT."
...So, I guess you guys want pictures?
Good thing I remembered the camera, right?
And extra batteries? (I should note that the timestamp got all fuckered when I changed them. No, I can't time travel. Safety is not guaranteed.)
This, in case you were wondering, is the junker - a 1985 Dodge Diplomat.
Tara, bracing for surgery.
Tara hates hair nets, just like I do.
Meet James Mack Baldridge.
This is when he first came in, before I even picked him up.
He sleeps...
He wakes up for a first look around...
He is a baby burrito.
Mama loves you, little boy.
So does your father.
The boy so nice, we fed him twice.
Post-diaper change. Note the not-yet-faded God-am-I-pissed redness.
Tara was so happy when they finally let her hold him.
So was he.
He looks around...
...And gives us a sarcastic smirk.
This is my son, James. You are all honored to have met him. Nod now.
Now I'd like to also point out that the second time we changed his diaper, one of the nurses insisted on "helping," and then one of the doctors noted "Did you just see him give you the finger?"
He was not referring to me.
Ha.
Just because I could, here's what it looked like when Tara got to hold him for the first time. You can't hear it, because the built-in mic was terrible, but she was talking to him.
The females among you may cry now.
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