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“Miracle” 

Christmas 1989

By Charles Moon

     The severity of the panic attacks lessened and life returned to normal. My neuroses were under control and the relationship between Elizabeth and I seemed stronger than ever. In December of 1989, we were expecting our first child.

      The pregnancy was planned and when the doctor confirmed that we should expect to have an additional family member before the end of the year, we were overjoyed. The official projected due date was December 11th.

      We were the recipients of many unsolicited stories and bits of prenatal advice from well-meaning friends and family members. None of it served any purpose other than to make us wonder if the effects of the hormonal imbalances Elizabeth was experiencing could be contagious. In any event, we accepted it graciously and ignored it completely.

      I worked in a deadline-oriented business and was used to things happening when they were scheduled to happen. When December 11th came and went without the arrival of our child, I began to get nervous. The Doctor assured me that the date should be used as more of a guideline than an absolute certainty since it was very difficult to pinpoint the exact date of conception. I shouldn’t be worried about any minor deviations. His examinations still showed the baby as normal and healthy.

      We had planned on the baby arriving close to the predicted date – close enough to be home in time to celebrate Christmas. Two weeks before the due-date, Doctor Cornelius advised us not to travel further than 20 minutes from the hospital.  We had an overnight bag packed and we were ready to go to the hospital at a moment’s notice. Each night before we would turn out the light and go to sleep, I would lean over and ask Elizabeth if it was time to go. Each night she would say “not yet” and I would drift off to sleep wishing the baby would hurry up and get here.

      When a week had passed following December 11th and Elizabeth had not even had a single contraction, we began to doubt if we would be parents by the New Year. One thing was certain, we wouldn’t be making our annual pilgrimage to spend Christmas Eve with Elizabeth’s parents. We went so far as to tell our respective families not to call on a daily basis to check up on us. As soon as we went to the hospital, they would be notified.

      I had arranged to take my two weeks vacation and an additional week of sick leave starting the moment Elizabeth went into labor so I could stay home with her following the baby’s delivery. Even when I felt the onset of a head cold in the last week of December, I continued to go to the office so I wouldn’t lose any of the days after our baby was born. Two days before Christmas, it had blossomed into flu-like symptoms.

      I was running a fever and had difficulty breathing. My nose was constantly dripping and between that and the sinus pressure, I had pockets full of dirty tissues and empty little foil envelopes that once contained aspirin laced with antihistamines.  Luckily, it was a Saturday and I could stay indoors and rest.

      Sam Miller, my best friend, stopped by on Saturday evening to extend his holiday wishes before leaving for his own family’s traditional gathering. I was still wearing the wrinkled gray sweat suit that I had slept in the night before when he showed up with a few token gifts for us and the baby who was now two weeks late in arriving. Elizabeth was wearing a similarly unflattering bright blue outfit that wrapped around her extended midsection like a blanket over a beach ball.

      My body had used all of its energy to fight the virus that was attacking my system and causing my nose to glow redder than Santa’s lead reindeer. I felt too weak to lift myself out of the chair so when Sam let himself in, I didn’t get up. Elizabeth couldn’t get up.

      “Merry Christmas,” Sam said placing his packages on the rolling ottoman in front of our sparsely decorated tree.

      “Mmm Hmm,” was about as much as I was able to get out before needing to blow my nose.

      “Thank you, Sam,” Elizabeth responded. “At least one of us remembers common courtesy.”

      Sam leaned over and gave Elizabeth a kiss on the cheek. I blew my nose again.

      “No baby yet?”

      “No Baby yet.”       

      “What’s taking you so long?”

      “It’s not up to us, Sam. Talk to the baby.”

      Sam leaned over Elizabeth’s bulbous belly and, with his face only one inch from her navel, he yelled “boo”.

      “There, that ought to do it.”

      Sam smiled. I managed a grin while fighting back a sneeze. Elizabeth shook her head at my friend’s silly behavior. Sam sat on the sofa next to Elizabeth and we had a pleasant evening in each other’s company, patiently waiting for the overdue addition to our family.

      Elizabeth and I turned in to bed a little early. Even without the inconvenience of a head cold, the waiting was exhausting. Elizabeth’s spirits were high, but I could tell she was ready for the baby to be born, too. I kissed Elizabeth goodnight and slid under the covers. Her back was to me, because sleeping on her side was the only comfortable position she could manage for the last month of her pregnancy. I was used to it. I propped myself up on one elbow and leaned over her in the darkness.

      “Is it time yet?”

      That was the last thing I said to her before falling asleep every night for the last three weeks. Every night it was the same answer. No, not yet. I said it so routinely that I wasn’t listening at all for the expected response, except it didn’t come.

      “Beth?”

      She was awake, but she wasn’t saying anything. I felt her try and roll over to my side of the bed.

      “Beth?”

      “I think so.”

      “You think so what?”

      “I think it’s time.”

      In the cartoons I watched growing up, there was always a gag scene where someone had a lit match placed between their toes and, when the flame reached their skin and they finally realized it hurt, they would fly into the air like a rocket being launched. That is how I got out of bed. I was dressed and ready to leave in less than 30 seconds. Elizabeth was still laying in bed in her nightgown.

      “Are you having a contraction now?”

      She nodded affirmatively.

      “How far apart are they?”

      She made a face as if she were in pain and couldn’t speak. Slowly her expression relaxed and she took a deep breath.

      “I don’t know. I haven’t timed them.”

      “I’ll call Doctor Cornelius.”

      “Wait a minute David, if they are 10 minutes apart or longer, it’s too soon.”

      I grabbed my silver and gold wristwatch off the dresser. It was the watch Elizabeth had given me for our first Christmas together. I watched the thinnest hand tick off the seconds.

      “Let me know as soon as you feel another one.”

      Six times, the hand circled the watch’s face. Every few seconds I’d look at Elizabeth as if to ask if she felt anything. It was obvious she thought I was overreacting. In retrospect, I probably was as comical as every television representation of a first time father taking his expectant wife to the hospital. Some comedy has a strong basis in fact.

      I felt Elizabeth’s hand squeeze my arm. The contraction lasted 45 seconds.

      “Seven minutes. I’m calling Doctor Cornelius.”

      “Are you sure you started at the right time? You didn’t have the watch in your hand right away.”

      I pointed to the exact spot the second hand was on the watch when the last contraction ended. We waited another seven minutes and Elizabeth squeezed.

      “I’m calling.”

      Elizabeth didn’t stop me.

      “Hello, this is David Branch. My wife’s in labor… uh huh? Yes… seven minutes … yes, we timed it twice… ok.”

      I put the phone down next to the bed.

      “The answering service said they’d page Doctor Cornelius. It might not be a bad idea if we got ready to go to the hospital.”

      “Let’s wait for the doctor, David. I don’t want to go in too early.”

      It felt like an eternity, waiting for the doctor to return our call. In fact, it was only fifteen minutes. It couldn’t have been any longer because Elizabeth was in the middle of her fourth timed contraction when the phone rang. I pounced on it like a striking cobra.

      “Hello? Yes doctor… uh huh… sure … yes, still seven minutes… pretty regular… no water, at least I don’t think so. Beth did your water break?”

      Beth shook her head

      “No, her water didn’t break. Uh huh? Beth, he want’s to know how strong the contractions are.”

      “Tell him pretty strong.”

      “She says pretty strong … uh huh … right away.”

      This time I pressed the button on the phone to hang it up and threw it to the empty side of the bed. I grabbed Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her to the edge of the bed.

      “He said he would meet us at the hospital.”

      Elizabeth moved slowly. She was laboring under thirty extra pounds and contractions that stopped her progress every seven minutes. I tried not to be impatient but I only had two jobs to do – get her safely to the hospital and provide moral support while I watched our baby’s arrival into the world. I was going to do both as best I could. I put the suitcase in the car and came back for my wife who had just managed to get her maternity stretch pants up over her knees. I tried to help without appearing to rush Elizabeth, but I was moving at my own adrenaline-induced pace and it started to bother her.

      “David, slow down. I’ll be fine as long as you don’t wrap us around a tree.”

      “I’d feel more comfortable if we were at the hospital already.”

      “You’d feel more comfortable if I was at the hospital a month ago. Now calm down. I’m all right.”

      “I’m going to warm up the car.”

      I understood what she was saying. I was running around like I had been shot out of a cannon. The fatigue from the head cold was supplanted by the anticipation of approaching parenthood. The cold had only been with me a few days; the idea of parenthood had been working on me for the last nine months. Parenthood won.

      I threw on my heavy wool jacket and grabbed my gloves. It was cold outside. Colder than normal for this time of the year and well below freezing. The heavy wet snow we had received a week earlier and subsequently plowed into uniform ridges of gray slush along each side of our street had frozen solid. I had spent the last few days chopping at the ice along the curb to keep the exit from our house clear in case we had to race to the hospital in the middle of the night. It was not the middle of the night and we were hardly rushing, but I was glad there were no obstacles for Elizabeth to traverse in her condition.

      The car idled in the street for ten minutes. Billows of steam from the exhaust enveloped the neighbor’s car before settling over the ground, giving the air a foggy ethereal quality. I helped my wife to the car and into the low bucket seat of my five-speed coupe. She had the foresight to spread a heavy bath towel across the seat in case her water broke during the short trip. I never told her this, but while I was driving to the hospital I couldn’t get the image of Elizabeth sitting in a puddle of amniotic fluid out of my mind. I kept wondering if it had an odor and could be easily cleaned from the plush upholstery. It was a decidedly male moment best kept to myself.

      The trip took less than ten minutes and I parked the car diagonally across the opening to the emergency room. I jumped out and found a nurse inside who was very helpful but not very enthusiastic. Finding an orderly and a wheelchair to escort a woman in labor to the maternity wing of the hospital was all a routine part of her job. She assured me Elizabeth would be well taken care of and I should go park the car. The admissions clerk would direct me to her room once I had finished filling out the paperwork.

      By the time I had finished signing my name for the twenty-seventh time on the admittance forms and insurance papers and financial responsibility disclosures, Elizabeth had been comfortably situated in one of the hospitals three birthing rooms. The rooms were furnished with dressers, chairs and a bed that gave them the feeling of a fine hotel suite rather than a hospital facility. The idea was to keep the mothers in a home-like environment but close to medical assistance should the need arise.

      Elizabeth was lying on her back in a hospital gown on a queen size bed with a mahogany headboard. There were two chairs at the foot of the bed and a dresser by the window. Two nurses came in and out during the first fifteen minutes of our arrival hanging charts and setting up equipment. One of the nurses put a pitcher of water and a bucket of ice on the rolling table near the bathroom door.

      “If you feel thirsty, you should chew on some ice,” was her instruction to Elizabeth.

      Doctor Cornelius had not arrived at the hospital yet so there was little else anybody could do. The nurses assured me that everything was fine and that there was plenty of time. It could take hours before it was time to deliver the baby.

      I sat on the edge of the bed with my wife. A strong contraction gripped Elizabeth when one of the nurses was present and she suggested I rub her calves and feet to alleviate some of the painful sensations. It seemed to help and Elizabeth passed through an hour of repeated spasms much easier than if I had just sat there and held her hand.

      Doctor Cornelius arrived a little bit after 1:00 a.m. and proceeded to examine Elizabeth’s progress. He didn’t say very much but he didn’t seem worried at all. Actually, he seemed to be indifferent about the whole situation. I assumed it was all part of delivering babies every day and he was becoming immune to the miracle of birth. The last thing the doctor did before he retired to the lounge to wait for Elizabeth’s condition to progress enough for delivery, was to order the baby’s connection to a fetal monitor.

      The monitor was a rectangular box with a few numerical readouts and several knobs surrounding a round oscilloscope screen. The nurses set it up on the table next to the bed, right next to Elizabeth’s head. The monitor faced away from her, which was convenient for the nurses, but prevented Elizabeth from seeing it. The device was connected to the baby through a pair of very thin striped wires that stretched over the pillow and disappeared under the blanket. I didn’t watch how they connected it.

      The monitor kept track of the baby’s heart rate and was able to print out a copy of the last several minutes of monitoring to a long strip of paper whenever the nurse pressed a button on the top of it. I watched the rhythmic pulses of my child’s heart represented as a stream of glowing green lines across a gray grid. When the lines became more frequent and closer together with the onset of a contraction, the numerical indicator responded accordingly.

      It was soon apparent that the baby was more sensitive to the contractions than was Elizabeth’s internal senses. As each contraction started, the baby’s heart rate increased. I watched the monitor and knew one was coming before Elizabeth did. When the number reached a certain level I would start rubbing her legs and feet before she felt the pains, but my actions alerted her to their inevitability.

      I watched the numbers on the little display screen rise and fall all night long and into the morning. Elizabeth had managed to fall asleep for a few hours through the contractions, but I was uncomfortably positioned in a chair at the foot of the bed. Every time I tried to nap, the monitor would alert me to another contraction on the way.

      Doctor Cornelius finally came in at 12:30 in the afternoon and announced it was time to deliver. The nurses disconnected Elizabeth from the machine and lifted her on to a rolling table. I was escorted to a small room outside the delivery room and was given a set of surgical garments to wear. When I was suitably attired, I met the doctor in the hallway and followed Elizabeth, now face up on the table, into the operating theater.

      The obstetrics ward had its own dedicated, fully outfitted surgical theater. Unlike the birthing room, this was a tile-lined, chrome and plastic, antiseptic, high tech medical area. Blinding lights illuminated every square inch of the floor and still Doctor Cornelius thought it necessary to put on a head-mounted flexible light that protruded around from the back of his skull like a giant single antenna.

      I stood at the head of the table next to Elizabeth. Doctor Cornelius readied himself to coax the baby into the light of day. Three nurses stood by ready to assist the doctor with the delivery. A large clock mounted high on the wall had already advanced 15 minutes since we entered the sterile environment.

      Doctor Cornelius was determined to get this baby out without the use of any surgical procedure. His instructions for when, and when not to push, were clear and specific. The baby’s head crowned and with the help of a few specially designed instruments, the doctor guided the shoulders through the birth canal. A twist, a tug and a final push brought a new life into the delivery room of Auburn Memorial Hospital at 1:13 p.m. on Christmas Eve, 1989.

      The nurses whisked the baby away to a scale for weighing and measuring. They used a soft plastic bulb to suction the fluid residue out of his mouth and throat. Soon we heard soft gurgling sounds and then the distinct cry of a newborn. They wiped him off, wrapped him in soft blankets and brought him over to us so we could be introduced to our son, Alexander Daniel Branch, while the doctor finished taking care of Elizabeth.

      We spent precious few minutes with baby Alex immediately following his birth. Elizabeth had depleted her last ounce of energy and I was free to feel the effects of 36 sleepless hours of nursing a cold. I promised Elizabeth to memorize the vital statistics and call her parents at the first possible moment. By the time I had changed out of the hospital’s borrowed clothing, Elizabeth was asleep in her room and Alex had been taken to the nursery. I decided that I would go home and try to get a few hours of much needed rest, too.

      I got back to the hospital in time to meet Elizabeth’s parents who had already arrived and were outside the nursery, looking at Baby Branch. This beautiful, wiggly pink creature with blue eyes and full head of black hair cooed and cried, bubbled and burped, but mostly he just slept on display in his acrylic cradle. I was a proud father and they were proud grandparents. If anything was said, I am sure it was pleasant and congratulatory, but I can’t remember anything other than the face of my newborn son.

      I stayed with Elizabeth and the baby until the nurse on duty ushered me out of the wing, 45 minutes past the end of visiting hours. I drove home at 10:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve and fell asleep in my clothes.

      Christmas morning I woke to an empty house. There were no gifts and no carols playing. There were no parents to visit and no one coming to visit us laden with armloads of gifts. The tree remained unlit in the middle of our living room. It was absolutely glorious. Alex had managed to give David Branch a merry Christmas by totally eclipsing it with his arrival. I was indebted to an infant who had not even been in this world for 24 hours.

      Hospital policy forced Elizabeth to spend the entire day of Christmas confined to her room with brief walks in the hallway to begin her recuperation. The staff was operating at its minimum compliment to allow as many of the employees to spend the holiday with their families as possible. The place seemed deserted. To me it was quintessentially peaceful.

      Elizabeth had no visitors other than me on Christmas day. We had told everyone to stay away from the hospital and wait until we had gone home before coming to see the baby. We let them have their Christmas while we shared ours with our new child.

      Late in the day, the staff arranged a customary romantic dinner for every couple who participated in the maternity program. They had set up a small café table in Elizabeth’s room with a plain white tablecloth and a single red rose in a bud vase. They brought our flavorless steak dinner on plastic trays and we sat in plastic chairs, but it was tender and romantic nonetheless. After dinner they brought our son to us so we could feed him ourselves.

      Alex lay perfectly balanced under my forearms while Elizabeth stroked his little pudgy fingers. He ate a little and slept a lot and we cherished every heartbeat. The best gift I could ever get arrived, not under a decorated tree wrapped in brightly colored paper, but in a hospital delivery room covered in blood and mucous.

      Everyone came to see the baby in the days following Christmas. They brought food and gifts with only the thought of having a newborn in the house, not in celebration of the Yuletide festival. I have since told friends and family that Alex was the best part of Christmas that year, but that is not entirely accurate. For me, the best thing about Christmas 1989 was, because of Alex, there was no Christmas at all.

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