Chapter Two: Jack

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     After two years of crying, only some of it from Emily, Alma, and I finally convinced ourselves we were getting pretty good at the parenting game.

 

     By her own choice, Alma bore the brunt of the childcare burden. When Emily was born, I asked for and received eight weeks of parental leave. With Alma as drill instructor, I filled that time with training on changing, feeding, washing, and entertaining our little girl.

 

     Through no great skill of my own, I managed to become reasonably good at all four. Just as I was getting the dad thing down pat, however, my two months were over, and it was time to return to Hillside Hospital.

 

     Regarding Alma, my wife had decided months ago to stay at home and care full-time for Emily. I had raised the possibility of daycare, but Alma believed in the importance of mother-child bonding. With our first child, she was determined to make that a reality.

 

     Contributing to Alma’s decision was another undeniable truth – my wife had found teaching statistics to a bunch of bored high school students a less than fulfilling occupation. Acknowledging both those factors, we agreed I would work while Alma watched Emily and figured out where to take the next phase of her career.

 

     Alma embraced the role of stay-at-home mom with all the efficiency you would expect from someone with a Master’s Degree in statistics. Our home was soon littered with daily task schedules, and Alma kept a journal tracking Emily’s progress to all her expected milestones.

 

     Over the next two years, Alma and I watched our daughter grow from a wriggling little alien to a laughing, talking, walking dynamo of a little girl with a love of all things animal and an insistence on wearing baseball caps way too large for her tiny head. We couldn’t have loved her more, and we amassed a video collection encompassing every highlight of her young life.

 

     Our two car seats remained throughout Emily’s toddler years, Alma having no more luck in removing them than I. When she became old enough to talk, Emily nicknamed the seats Banzai and Ed after the two lead hyenas in the Lion King.  

 

     Alma, ever the practical one, worried what would happen when Emily became too old for a car seat.

“She likes them, and we can’t get either one out. What do we do then?”

 

     I had no answer. Perhaps Toyota sold replacement seatbelts. I knew I would eventually have to think of something, but I figured I had some time.

 

     As things turned out, I didn’t have as much as I originally thought. After Emily turned two, Alma and I decided to try this pregnancy thing one more time. Two years was long enough to convince us we hadn’t screwed up Emily too severely, not to mention enough time to forget the circumstances of Emily’s actual birth.

 

     Perhaps we should have remembered more. When our new baby’s due date came around, Alma swore she wouldn’t mistake her child’s arrival for a bowel movement. She was good to her word – a toilet birth was never an issue in my son’s case. All the complications with Jack’s delivery originated with me. Early in the pregnancy, we discovered Jack came equipped with a unique trait possessed by almost all the men in the Lister family. Alma called it the family head.

 

     My head wasn’t steroid-large, but it was big to the point my parents bought my first hat off the adult rack at Target. Over time I grew into my head size, and it became far less noticeable.

 

     Like many mothers, mine frequently told stories of my difficult birth, typically saving those for times I screwed up and a guilt trip seemed in order. Growing used to Mom's routine, I assumed she was exaggerating, nothing being as bad as the pain she so graphically described.

 

     I didn’t find out how wrong I was until Alma’s obstetrician, the esteemed Dr. Anders, told us our baby’s ultrasound indicated a potential problem. As the good doctor so delicately phrased things, Alma’s next delivery would be the equivalent of fitting a bowling ball in one of those tennis ball launchers newcomers use when they’re just learning the game.

 

     With that disturbing image still in my head, Dr. Anders suggested a C-section, essentially cutting Alma open and removing Jack via surgery. Alma was concerned about the scar; I was concerned about Alma.

 

     “Couldn’t we let him be born the natural way and see what happens?”

 

     Scar or no, Alma would hear none of it. “Maybe we’ll feed you a bowling ball. Then you can see what it’s like when it comes out – naturally.”

 

     Dr. Anders tried to play peacemaker. Addressing me, she said, “You’ll be in the room as well, so you’ll know in real time that your wife is okay.”

 

     Alma couldn’t have agreed more. “It’s his head that caused this problem. He’ll be next to me the whole time.”

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     The delivery method decided, Alma and I then discussed the baby’s name. Knowing it was a boy, Alma suggested naming our son after her father.

 

     That raised a concern. “You want to name our son Edgar?  You’d be sentencing him to a lifetime of conflict in the schoolyard.”

 

     “Then what do you suggest?”

 

     “How about Jack?  It’s a good, all-American name – Jack Kennedy, Jack Lemmon – the list is endless.”

 

     “Jack the Ripper, Jack and the Beanstalk – endless, to be sure.”

 

     “We’ll keep him away from magic bean salesmen and the East End of London - I still vote for Jack.”  Just happy she won the C-section battle, Alma eventually agreed to my suggestion.

 

     I was in the operating room when Jack was born, though, through no fault of my own, I almost didn’t make it.

With his due date on January third, Dr. Anders scheduled Alma’s C-section for early that afternoon.  Alma and I traveled to the hospital that morning while my parents came over to watch Emily. After checking in, we were placed in a small birthing room until the operating room became available for Jack’s delivery. That’s where the fun began.

 

     Just after one o’clock, Dr. Anders arrived to check on Alma, followed, to my horror, by the esteemed Nurse Ratched. Having apparently transferred from the evening shift for the sole purpose of tormenting me, I still figured I might escape. Nurse R. must have assisted hundreds of patients since Emily was born. Hiding as best I could behind some sort of monitor, I would be some nameless, faceless father she had forgotten long ago. Sadly, I was disappointed.

 

In a voice dripping with disdain, Ratched looked at me, crouched behind my monitor shield, and sneered, “You’re the one who forgot to buy a car seat to take his daughter home.”

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     I quickly corrected her error. “To the contrary, I bought two.”

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     Ratched just shook her head, not bothering to reply. After Dr. Anders finished Alma’s examination, she nodded and announced that we were ready. Ratched and another nurse prepared Alma’s bed for transport, and Ratched handed me a mask and gown, pointing to the room’s tiny bathroom. It was time to suit up.

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     With the bathroom no larger than your average airplane’s, I still managed to slip on my hospital-approved coverings on my very first try. Nervous but proud all the same, I stepped out to – nothing at all. Alma, Nurse Ratched, and Dr. Anders were all missing, and I was left alone. My nervousness now degenerating into full-blown panic, I looked everywhere for my missing wife. I even glanced, for some unknown reason, under the bed. That’s where I was crouched when Ratched walked back into the room.

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     “What the hell are you doing?”

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     This required an answer - I just wasn’t sure of the right one. “I think I dropped my wallet.”

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     That wasn’t it. “You dropped your wallet, and it rolled under the bed?  Never mind. Just follow me and stay out of the way.”

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     Ratched led me through a set of double doors to a much larger room at the end of the corridor. Entering, I saw Alma in her hospital bed, surrounded by Dr. Anders and what looked like a convention of blue-gowned high school kids.

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     Noticing my expression, Dr. Anders explained, “This is a teaching hospital. I’ll be doing the C-section. The residents will only be observing.”

 

     My wife now a training tool, Ratched hustled me directly behind Alma next to the anesthesiologist. From my perch in the back, I remembered a past conversation with Alma when I asked if I could film the occasion of Jack’s birth. Alma agreed on the condition she be allowed to shoot my first colonoscopy. I took that as a no - unfortunate because I was now in the perfect spot.

 

     Dr. Anders and her students waited for Alma’s anesthesia to take effect. The drug would be a local, meaning Alma would be awake with no feeling in the lower half of her body. With everyone waiting, I heard a voice. I thought first of God, then realized the words were distinctly un-Savior like.

 

     “Alan – I feel like crap. Tell somebody!”

 

     It was Alma. She was depending on me, and I needed to come through.

 

     Dr. Anders, the residents, and seemingly half the hospital were staring with rapt attention at my wife’s lower body. The anesthesiologist was the only exception, and he was fooling with the dials on one of his machines. I decided to try him first. I waved, but he seemed not to notice. Clearly this called for more drastic measures.

 

     Grabbing his arm, I said, “My wife says she’s feeling sick – I need you to fix it now!”

 

     My wife later claimed she heard another word between “feeling” and “sick.”  I assured her it was just the anesthesia. More importantly, my warning had the desired effect. Under the watchful eye of Dr. Anders, the anesthesiologist adjusted the drug levels being pumped into Alma’s body.

 

     The rest of the C-section went more smoothly. Standing behind Alma, I witnessed the first incision. Then, in what seemed like just seconds later, Dr. Anders reached in and pulled out our healthy, happy baby boy.

 

Having graduated from Banzai to our larger Ed car seat just weeks before, Emily went with me as I picked up Alma and Jack from the hospital the following day. Our family, now grown to four, was headed home.