Not Ready for This

We have a grandson, Memphis, age 8, who is constantly asking the most difficult, interesting questions. Recently he asked me, “PaPa, have you ever been embarrassed?” …

Most of my life, actually. But it was the birth of our first child that was the worst.

We had been married four years before Megan, our oldest, came along. When my wife JoLynn told me she was pregnant, all I could think was, I’m not sure I’m ready for this. Little did I know how unready I was. God knew.

Toward the end of the pregnancy, the doctor wasn’t sure JoLynn was ready for this baby either. Jo is tiny. She claims to be 5 feet tall, but that’s only when she’s wearing heels — and lying. She started having complications, and after an x-ray they decided she was too small for a normal delivery. They’d have to take the baby ASAP. As in tomorrow morning. I definitely wasn’t ready for that.

The next day we got up early to check in at St. Paul’s Hospital in Houston at 6 a.m. — so they could have us sit around in anxious anticipation for eight hours until they finally called us in.

Understand, we had no clue what was coming. At least I didn’t. We’d gone through a bunch of birthing classes covering how to breathe, how women in other countries squat during labor, and how not to kill each other during labor before the baby arrives. There were no classes about cesareans.

That’s my excuse, anyway.

Later that day they brought us into a room to prep JoLynn for surgery. I assumed this was the surgery room.

Who knew they needed two rooms?

Then the surgeon walked in and said something like, “Jo’s small, so this will be a difficult IV. Let me give it.” He poked her hand, and I watched the needle slide under the skin, pressing against the vein but not going through. Then he tried again. And again. And again. Four times on that hand before he moved to the other.

That’s when I felt it. Lightheaded. Stars. Sweat. By the third try on the second hand, I’d learned to look down instead of watch, and just breathe. That’s when the surgeon noticed me — and saw his exit.

“Oh no, we have a fainter! Nurse, see if you can get the IV in. Get some pillows, let’s have him lie down. Someone get him orange juice. Elevate his feet.”

The nurse got the IV in on the first try, and they wheeled Jo out of the room and into surgery.

I was left on the floor, wearing the weird hospital gown thing over my clothes, with a massive 35mm camera hanging around my neck and resting next to my head, feet elevated — directly across from the nurses’ station.

Why is it that when you’re an idiot, people also assume you’re deaf? The nurses were, of course, chatting and laughing about the poor guy about to be a dad lying down while his wife went into surgery. Then they came.

A tour group of expectant couples came walking by, peering into the rooms. As they rounded the corner, I thought, I’m really not ready for this.

Thankfully, by the time I was let into the surgery room, they’d hung sheets on IV poles so I could sit by Jo during the surgery without seeing too much. Sometime later we were in our own room with our new Megan. Some friends stopped by — I can’t remember who — but I remember one of them saying, “Hey Dan, how’s it feel to be a father?”

And I said to myself, “Self,” I said, “I’m really not ready for this.”

Little did I know how unready I was. God knew.

Photo by Dima Solomin on Unsplash

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