So Long Little Steve, Hello Keegan

Keegan was delivered by cesarean section at eleven forty nine. Brandi was on the table, swathed in blue and green. Before they led me into the operating room they warned me not to touch anything. Her hand was sticking out from beneath the drape and I held on to it for dear life. She said she was sleepy and her eyes kept closing but I wouldn’t let her fall asleep because I didn’t know what I would do if she didn’t wake up.

It’s hard to say he was born. When a baby is delivered cesarean, it isn’t quite the same. The classic elements of story, rising action, climax, resolution, don’t present themselves in a neat tidy manner. Blissful denouement doesn’t immediately follow the baby’s arrival. I was staring at Brandi, splitting my attention between a deliberately vague recognition of the doctors at work upon her and the objective truth of the blood pressure monitor, when I heard them say ‘Baby at eleven forty nine’. A blue green huddle spirited Keegan away from her. Brandi was asking me when she would see him. I was praying as hard as I could and fighting back tears with all my might. They came on like Spartan warriors, fierce as any I have ever known.

They brought Keegan to us and showed him to Brandi and then took him to the nursery and me with him. I had to leave her lying there. I felt no thrill, not even thankful relief. The doctors were still hard at work. I left her life literally in their hands and did as I was told.

He wasn’t as lively as they would have liked and they poked and prodded and monitored him for awhile before finally they were satisfied and left the two of us more or less alone. When he cried I stroked his chest or forehead and he seemed to like that. I asked them where Brandi was and when I could see her and they said that she would be in the recovery room soon but that was all they seemed willing to offer. It was several hours before I saw her and they had told me nothing so when her mom called to ask how things were going I could only respond with fearful uncertainty. All I knew was that there was just Keegan and me, so I focused on that. His hands were tiny but when he wrapped one of them around my finger I was impressed by how tightly he held on.

After what seemed like eternity they brought Brandi out and we were reunited. She had lost a great deal of blood but even pale and weak her appearance was to me like that of an angel. When they arrived late that night, the McCoy’s description was perhaps a bit more apt, and certainly more accurate. I looked like a zombie, they said, and Brandi a ghost. Admittedly, I felt utterly spent and exhausted. Keegan had been released from the nursery and was with us then and we all visited awhile before Cindy took over the watch. I went home and slept so hard that I awoke having hardly moved a muscle.

Keegan’s arrival was a miracle, and Brandi’s performance nothing short amazing. When she was lying on the operating table she told me, “I want two things … first, I want to hold him, and, second, I want some food … I’m starving.” Of course, it was awhile before she was allowed either, but when she finally came out of surgery, she smiled at me like she meant it. The only time she seemed down was when they told her she would be on a clear diet. “Does that mean no food?” she asked.

Common lore holds that childbirth is a magical experience, and in many respects it is, but it is also a frighteningly visceral face to face encounter with mortality. I would like to say it was beautiful, and maybe it was, like a mushroom cloud can appear to be, but I’m not going to. I could make some cynical comment about the massive amount of hospital waste our visit generated, but I won’t. I’ve already filled an entire trash bag with disposable diapers, and I don’t really even feel bad about it. At this point, I haven’t the energy for such sarcasm. Right now, I can only be relieved that the color in my loved ones’ faces has returned to an appropriate shade. I’m just happy to be home, listening while Brandi and Keegan get acquainted in the next room. I’m content in the knowledge that my best friend has strength enough to laugh once again. In this, I’ll take product over process. For me, that is where the beauty lies.