The Queen of Heaven Comes Down to Earth

Babies Have No Concept of Things Like "Not Yet".

We had plans for last week. Amongst the list of things that needed to be done the week before the baby was born:

• Monday: grocery shopping day (completely out of everything).
• Monday: laundry day (need to wash the baby stuff).
• Monday: help out with K of C Basketball Free Throw event.
• Tuesday: choir rehearsal.
• Thursday: Lector training at SJB.
• Murloc: Chiropractor appointments.
• Murloc: Haircut.
• Change Camaro's oil.
• Clean the kitchen.
• Clean the bedroom/rearrange furniture.
• Clean off my desk.
• Fill out application for enrollment at SJB kindergarten.
• Get started on various projects at work.
• Pack for hospital. (Important! Don't forget!)

* * *

Labor Has No Concept of Things Like "Rules".

"Wait until contractions are five minutes apart and a minute long, and have been this way for an hour, then call your doctor and head to the hospital," they say. Like hell, I say.

The Laborious Murloc calls me at work at 9:50am to tell me she's having discomfort from mild contractions. She was timing them and they are still 10 minutes apart, and had started shortly after she woke up at 9am. She says she doesn't think she is in labor, but she just needs my help at home—the boys are still in bed, and she can't get out of bed to get them up. I'm not too surprised; the previous night, when we were playing Lego Harry Potter, she had to stop periodically because of mild contractions, but they didn't affect her sleep.

I throw my laptop into my bag, set my office phone to forward to my cell, and head home. I get home around 10:15, and the Murloc is still OK. She called her doctor to keep him updated; he said the baby might come that evening or the next day. She called her sister, and her mom to come and help with the boys, so we could take off at a moment's notice.

I get the boys up, get them fed, and start packing my bag. Tablet, camera, video camera, laptop, chargers for everything, extra batteries. Am I forgetting anything? Oh, how about a toothbrush?

The Murloc's mom arrives a little after 11. The Murloc is still feeling OK, but contractions—still ten minutes apart—are getting stronger. She hasn't packed her hospital bag, or the baby's bag yet, so her mom helps out with that. Around noon, she finally gets up out of bed to take a shower, hoping that will help her feel better.

She has a contraction at noon. The next one comes at 12:11. Then 12:16. Then 12:18, 12:20, 12:22, and every two minutes after that.

* * *

The Universe Has No Concept of Things Like "I'm in a Hurry."

"On second thought, let's skip the shower and head to the hospital."

Her mom finishes packing her bag while I call the doctor, because she can't speak at this point.

"How're you doing?"

"I feel great! Absolutely fantastic. Anne Marie, on the other hand, is having contractions every two minutes."

"She having a baby?"

"She says so."

"OK, I'll tell the hospital you're coming. See you in a few hours."

She grimaces during contractions, then dresses and does her makeup in between. Because there's no way she's going into public without her makeup and the baby can just wait her turn.

I pack the car (Camera? Check; cell charger? Check; laptop? Check; missing anything? Oh, how about the pregnant woman?) and we leave for the hospital at 12:50-ish, in the Go-Fastermobile.

Lights are against us. My conspiracy theory is that the oil companies and brake companies pay off Orange county to time all their lights against traffic, to increase the amount of time you spend accelerating and decelerating, thus increasing fuel consumption and brake wear. Even with the Go-Fastermobile's 325 horsies, I can't get up past 70 between red lights. And the other cars don't just move out of the way because move-it-you-nonagenarian-cataract-patient-we're-having-a-baby-here.

We arrive at the hospital around one. A car pulls out of the "expectant mother" parking in front of the hospital entrance right as we arrive. Yeah, I'm pretty sure we're expecting. The Wincing Murloc can't stand at this point, so asks me to run in and get a wheel chair for her.

I get to the front desk, which is staffed by a man who I'm pretty sure is a patient in the geriatric ward who just wandered over there. There's a woman in front of me asking for directions to someplace, and he spells them out for her in more detail than was used in the space shuttle design blueprints. The constant drumming of my fingers on his desk doesn't alert him that I'm in a hurry. He finally turns to me.

"Yes?"

"I need a wheelchair. My wife is in the car, but can't walk."

He looks at me like he's puzzling over why someone would need a wheelchair in a hospital.

"Where's your car."

"Just outside."

He glances over my shoulder. "And you need a wheelchair?"

"Yes, my wife's contractions are too strong for her to walk."

"You'll need to pull your car up."

"It's right outside, in the expectant mother parking, like twenty feet from the entrance."

"OK," he turns to the phone on the desk. "Let me see if I remember how to do this." I'm pretty sure the buttons on the phone confuse him. I think he was expecting a rotary dial, or perhaps a straight key.

He calls for the wheelchair. I'm about to head back to the car to be with The Murloc. "You'll need to wait around here, to tell the person bringing the wheelchair where to go."

About a minute later an older woman shows up with a wheelchair, probably unprepared for what's about to hit her. She walks out with me, then waits by the main door while I get The Murloc out of the car. I'm about to get my bag (with the camera) out of the back, when she barks at me, "forget the bags."

She hobbles the twenty feet to the entrance, and takes a seat in the wheelchair, emitting as few cuss words as I'm sure she can manage. The wheelchair-pushing person starts wheeling her into the women's hospital, and I follow behind. After a turn or two, she stops and looks around.

"Now, I think the elevators are back this way."

I push past her and head in a different direction, for the elevators I know from our tour earlier in the month. "Oh, you know where you're going."

We arrive at the elevators, one arrives, and we get in. A doctor and a couple nurses are already in, and ride up with us. They notice The Grimacing Murloc's face. "Remember your breathing," says one.

"Easy for us to say," says the doctor.

The elevator arrives at the maternity level, the wheelchair-pusher exits and looks around, while I walk past towards the nurse's station. There, I point to her and they nod, knowingly, asking only for the name. Nurse Sue comes out to lead us. She takes us down the hallway, towards the triage room—where they ascertain if the pregnant woman is really in labor and, if so, how far along. Sue glances into the room, looks at The Murloc, then walks right past.

They wheel her into the delivery room. By this point, she's a wreck. She can't move, can't stand. Sue, who is as much a drill sergeant as a nurse—not in the R. Lee Ermey sort of way, but in the no-nonsense, take-charge, get-things-done sort of way—gets things moving. In the space between a contraction, she gets The Murloc into the hospital robe, gets her into the bathroom for one last pee, then gets her back into the hospital bed. Whenever The Murloc is about to stop or slow down, she grabs her by the arm and pushes her to where she needs to be, barking encouragement, and telling The Murloc how great she's doing, all the way.

I take a moment to ask if there's time to run down to the car to get my bag with the camera. "No," Sue barks. "Do you have a camera with you?"

Just my cell phone. Oh, well.

Sue checks The Murloc. She's 10cm and ready to go. The Murloc is also GBS-positive, so requires an antibiotic to prevent passage of the bacteria to the baby in the birth canal. You may recall that during her first labor, it took three nurses five tries to get the IV in—in good conditions, where The Murloc's contractions had barely started. Drill Instructor Sue gets the IV in the Squirming Murloc in one. While barking orders to the rest of the staff.

She calls the nurse's desk. "Is Doctor James here yet?"

"No, he's still in his car."

"We need a doctor." She steps out and accosts the first doctor who passes by, a Dr. Han, who was on her way to lunch.

Dr. Han comes in to assess the situation. The Murloc has one contraction, and Dr. Han says, "I think we should let her push."

The bed comes apart, the stirrups come out. "You," Sue says, to me. "I need to you to grab her arm." I hesitate, not quite sure what I'm doing.. Sue grabs my right arm and places it under The Murloc's shoulder. "Put your arm here and lift." Together, we move the murloc up on the bed, into position.

The next contraction comes. "Pull those legs back!" Sue barks. She and I each take one of The Murloc's legs and pull them up to her ears. Then, at 13:27—

* * *

1:27pm on 1/27. According to Wikipedia:

As a Mersenne prime, 127 is related to the perfect number 8128. 127 is also an exponent for another Mersenne prime 2¹²⁷ - 1 (2¹²⁷ - 1 was discovered by Édouard Lucas in 1876, and held the record for the largest known prime for 75 years - it is still the largest prime ever discovered by hand calculations). Furthermore, 127 is equal to 2⁷ - 1, and because 7 is also a Mersenne prime, this makes 127 a double Mersenne prime.

1/27 is also Mozart's birthday.

The room in which he was born is marked by the crest.

* * *

—a fuzzy little head, and after another half-push:

Yeah, a lot of women give birth, but only The Murloc looks this good right afterwords.

The Queen Arrives.

Dr. Han clamps off the umbilical cord and hands some scissors to me. I stare at them for a second with a what-am-I-supposed-to-do-with-these sort of look before I realize I'm expected to cut the cord or some such nonsense. I never understood that. Why do dads have to cut the umbilical cord? Do they do it because they need to feel like they're a part of the process? "You did great, honey; now it's time for the man's job."

I kind of wish I had a Ka-Bar with me, so I could pull that out and say, "No thanks, I brought my own." I'm sure that's how Marines cut umbilical cords.

I play along, though.

About ten minutes later, Dr. James pops in, with a my-work-here-is-done sort of sly grin. Dr. Han's just finishing with the stitches.

Sue, who had stepped out, comes back. She had just gotten out of a C-Section before we arrived, she explains. When she stepped out after Regina was born, she ran into the other nurse who was assisting the C-section and who had stayed behind to clean up. Sue told the other nurse, "While you were finishing, I delivered a baby."

Sue has the paperwork to sign, giving the hospital permission to deliver her baby, and do the medical work they deem necessary. We're a bit backwards today.

In the meantime, I'm at the baby station with the pediatric nurse. Regina is healthy, and vocal about it. When the nurse is done, she bundles the baby up, and hands her to me.

"Would you please pass your daughter on to her mother?"

"I will. In an hour or so."

This is normally the "golden hour" after the delivery, when the medical staff leaves you alone with your new baby. The Murloc is otherwise occupied for most of the hour.

But it's golden for me.

I feel like Gimli: "I asked for one hair from her golden head; she gave me three."

* * *

The Queen of Heaven came down to Earth,
Our hearts to fill with joy and mirth.
No sadness or sorrow would she permit,
And drove them away all by her birth.

The Queen of Heaven came to us below.
Her courtiers came too, Bliss and Cheer.
Dark skies or grey hearts, no more this year;
To us, grace and gladness she does bestow.

The Queen of Heaven told at her birth,
"Too long hast your hearts been full of grief.
I come to bring all a sweet relief.
And so did I come then down to Earth."

* * *

Her theme song:

* * *