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October 24, 2001

First, there was the waiting.

As my final weeks of pregnancy crept by, I became more and more anxious to get this person out of my stomach. 34 weeks, 35 weeks, difficulty breathing that resulted in a trip to the emergency room, 36 weeks and almost constant trips to the bathroom ensured I slept very little at night. 37 weeks and I walked [lumbered] very slowly, some of my maternity clothes began to cling to my stomach, my legs and feet began to swell just at the time of year when forgiving summer sandals were no longer an option. 38 weeks and she showed no signs of descending; no dilating; no indication that she was preparing to be born. And she was big. And I began to worry about how she'd get out, when she'd get out. 39 weeks and my doctor suggested I have a c-section because she, too, was worried about how and when this growing baby would get out safely. After talking about it for a long, long time, Andy and I decided to schedule her birth.

And then there was no more waiting. Because she was coming, it was official, in two days.

And then there were the nerves.

I hadn't finished all the projects I wanted to complete before she was born. I hadn't finished redoing all of my photo albums: I'd only made it to 1988. I hadn't finished reading all of my parenting books. I hadn't learned to cook. And she was coming. Before the week was out.

I decided that the busier I was, the better off I'd be. Instead of packing on Wednesday, I spent the morning at Colleen's with Sue and Kim and their offspring. When I got home at about 1:00, there were eight messages on my answering machine; two were from my mom, who was frantic that I had been out of touch for so long. Instead of packing on Wednesday afternoon, I went to Hobby Lobby with Ericka and Katie to buy stuff for my birth announcements. Instead of packing on Wednesday night, we went to dinner with Ericka and Katie and Joe. Then we stopped at my mom's house, just to see her face when we told her that it was 7:00 p.m. and I still wasn't packed.

I finally had everything on my "absolutely must do" list completed by 11:00 p.m. on Wednesday night, just six hours before we had to report to the hospital. I don't think I even slept; I lay in bed and thought about how much I hated operations, even though this one would be anesthesia-free. I'd only be numb from the waist down. But still, my mind raced as I envisioned all sorts of terrible things happening to me in the operating room the next morning. I wasn't even allowing the thought of newborn baby to creep into my consciousness...I think that would have sent me over the edge.

At 4:00 a.m. on Thursday, the alarm went off and it was Rod Stewart singing "Young hearts be free tonight" and Andy leapt up and danced frantically across the room.

We left our house at 4:55 a.m. and were only five minutes late reporting to the hospital. They showed me to my room for the next few days, put me in bed, and started taking blood and listening to Quinn's heartbeat. Every time Andy made me laugh, I'd shake her away from the monitors and they'd have to find her again. "That's OK," they kept saying when I'd apologize. "We'd rather have you laughing than not."

At 7:25, they transferred me to a rolly cart and pushed me towards the operating room, which was on the same floor as my room. Suddenly, there were seemingly dozens of people surrounding me. I had to say goodbye to Andy until the surgery was underway, and then strangers in scrubs and funny hats were touching, pulling at, and talking about me. The operating room was cold--so very cold. I transferred myself over to the narrow operating bed, then sat on it hunched over, waiting for my spinal, the shot that would make me numb.

And then there was the fear.

I began to panic. "Arch your back like a cat," a nurse told me as she wiped alcohol on the base of my spine. I arched. "No! That's a hunch! We need an arch!" I arched. "No! An arch! Like a CAT!"

"Oh my God," I told them. "I hate cats! I don't know what you mean!" I was almost crying. A young nurse squatted in front of me and took both of my hands in hers. "It's OK," she told me. "You're doing great."

"What's your name?" I sniffed.

"Hayley," she told me.

"I'm scared," I whispered to her.

"Everyone is scared when they do this. But you're going to be great. You have wonderful doctors."

I nodded, and felt the needle go in. Hayley gripped my hands tightly.

"OW!!!"

"I know."

"Ow! Shit!"

"I know."

"...is that it?"

"That's it! That was the worst part!"

"It doesn't hurt any more! Are you sure that was it?"

"Yep! Now let's have you lie down before you can't move your legs."

I lay down and Hayley disappeared. There were people buzzing around everywhere. Machines were beeping. Someone tied my arms down, like I was on a cross, and when I tried to move my feet I found that couldn't. I had absolutely no control over anything. Everyone in the room was busy except for me, who had no idea what was going on.

Tears squeezed out of my eyes and down towards my ears. A nurse putting oxygen in my nose took a Kleenex and wiped them for me.

"You'll be fine, dear."

She disappeared.

I looked up at the ceiling and thought to myself, "What if this were an emergency operation? How scared must those people be? At least I knew this was coming. I have to be brave."

Suddenly, there was a drape in front of my eyes. I couldn't see anything but blue cloth. The people who had been scampering around the room fell into formation, most of them circled around my torso. The only people back near me were the anesthesiologist and his nurse. Were they going to start and not even tell me? Shouldn't there be some type of opening ceremony?

I looked up at the ceiling again, fighting to stay in control, to not start sobbing like a ninny. Then I remembered Quinn's namesake.

"Hey! Aunt Marilyn!" I addressed my aunt who died last August. "You need to help me out, here. I'm a little stressed. How about if you help me out? How about if you help me be less stressed?" I kept repeating these lines to the ceiling, and suddenly the fear was gone. Relief washed over me, and I felt the need to tell everyone in the room.

"I feel much better!" I announced to the anesthesiologist's nurse, who was the only person near my head.

"That's wonderful, dear," she said, stroking my cheek.

My doctor peeped her head up and looked at me.

"How are you doing, Amy?" she asked.

"I feel much better!" I told her. "Much better!"

"Great..." she said, and bent over again.

"So, have they opened me up? Where's my husband? What's going on?" I was suddenly all chatty with the nurse by my head. She was polite and soothing, but gave me no real information. In fact, she didn't tell me that they had started operating on me until they almost had Quinn out. I don't know why...maybe they thought I'd panic? Or maybe she wanted to make sure everything was all right before she told me anything? I don't know. All I know is that the nerves and fear were gone, and I was suddenly very excited to be having my baby.

Someone finally let Andy and his many cameras in and directed him over to me. I have never seen Andy like this before. He was wide-eyed and subdued, and I could tell he was scared. He was propelled over to the spot near my head and he was trying to look at my stomach to figure out what was going on.

"Hi, Sweetie," he said to me distractedly.

"Hi! Hey! I want to tell you something!" I told him. He took one of my hands as best he could, tied down as it was. "I was very scared..." I started to choke up, and it was hard to talk above a whisper because of the activity taking place in my torso. "I was scared..." Andy nodded at me, but kept sneaking glances over at the doctors.

"What?" he said. "Are you all right? What's wrong?"

"I just want you to know that I'm not scared any more," I told him. "It's all good. Don't be scared, sweetie. It's all good. I know it is."

He kissed my cheek, but I don't think he understood because he still looked petrified. Then he stood up and tried to peek over the blue curtain to see what was happening. The anesthesiologist and his nurse both yanked him back.

"You have to stay back here...that's a sterile field up there." Andy looked sheepish and plunked down next to me again.

Just a few seconds later, my doctor said, "OK Andy, look! Look!" Andy leapt up and started filming with our camcorder before he even knew what he was looking at.

"Oh my gosh," he said. "Oh my gosh."

I heard crying.

"Here she is!" someone said. "Look at all that hair!"

More crying. Not continuous. But in bursts.

Suddenly my doctor was next to me. "Here's your daughter, Amy!" I looked to my left and saw Dr. Perlis holding up a squawking baby, but before I could really focus on her, they were gone.

"Come on over here, Andy!" Andy stood up to follow, then turned back to me, torn.

"Go!" I told him.

"Are you sure?" he asked, already moving towards the baby.

"Go!"

And that was the last I saw of Andy for quite some time. I could hear him talking to the nurses as they checked Quinn out and suctioned and rubbed and did all that stuff they do with newborns. She immediately made a gigantic poo, which Andy marveled over, and everyone wanted to know how we had picked her name.

I lay on the operating table with no one to talk to, with no information about my daughter or even about my condition, but it was OK. Because I could sense by all the chitchat and laughter I heard that she was healthy, and that I was all right, and that everything was all good.

Because it was.

part 2