The son also rises

I was in my call room at 3:45am. I had been asleep for a few hours during the tail end of a heinous 24 hour call shift and woke up to more contractions. I better use the restroom, I thought. I stood up and my water broke. In retrospect, I should have expected this. For the last few days I had been experiencing painful contractions. I timed them the evening before and they were occurring at 7-8 minute intervals. I was only 36 weeks, so I shrugged it off. This could not possibly be labor. But there was no denying what had just happened.

I generally am in control and have a plan, but this situation caught me off guard. I called for a second opinion on the matter. Adam was sleeping with his phone at bedside these days. His years of EMS had been good training for a panicked phone call at 4am.
"My water just broke. What should I do?" The answer should have been obvious. Before he could respond, I was telling him to meet me in the call room. "No, no, just meet me in the birthing pavilion. No, actually, just meet me here." He told me to get a grip and call my attending, then head to the birthing pavilion. Of course, I had not packed a bag yet since I knew I would not deliver this early. He assured me that he would pack some belongings and food and be there in 30 minutes.

Next, I made the phone call no attending physician wants to get in the pre-dawn hours. "Um, hi, my membranes just ruptured and I'm heading to the birthing pavilion." My attending was very nice and offered to come in. We negotiated that I would take phone calls and he would come in if there was an emergency. It was only a few hours until my colleagues arrived.

At the birthing pavilion, I was met with suprise. I was ushered into triage and the resident came to examine me. She told me we needed to do a pelvic exam to assess for membrane rupture but changed her mind as she saw the puddle of fluid I was sitting in on the stretcher. I was placed in a birthing room and given a few hours to see if labor would commence on its own. I was only one centimeter dilated. Pitocin was started when this failed to occur. I was consented by anesthesia "just in case" but was convinced that I wanted a natural birth. Adam came but I sent him off to retrieve our camera and more supplies. I started having painful contractions but was so exhausted I just laid in bed, resting with my eyes closed in between. The nurse took this as a signal that the pitocin was under-dosed. By the time Adam returned I was cowering in pain, crying and begging for an epidural. After the epidural I was comfortable, and by afternoon I was fully dilated and ready to push. This was fortunate because I was having late decelerations, a sign that the umbilical cord was wrapped around baby's neck, cutting off oxygen. Any longer and I would have been taken to the OR suite.

Ryland was born at 5:16pm. He weighed 5lbs 2oz. He did well for the first hour or two, but then I noticed his hands and feet were cyanotic. His body temperature had dropped to 35C (95F). He was rushed to the NICU for warming. In the midst of this situation, I got more shocking news. My mother was en route to New Hampshire. I had spoken with her earlier and we decided it was best for her to wait two weeks to visit. She told me she respected that and understood. I got the phone call asking for directions, and telling me she would be at the hospital at 2am. I told her this was unacceptable and gave her directions to my house.

The NICU team placed Ryland on IV fluids for the night so that I could get some sleep. I had gained infamy during the day as "the resident who's water broke on call". He did well overnight and was released from intensive care the next day.

We made it home and my mother left.

The birth was far from the controlled, natural experience I envisioned. But I have no complaints and I'm happy to have Ryland here, safe and sound.

The Grandfather

July 1, 2009 was my first day as a neurology resident. It was Adam's 30th birthday, marking a new decade in our life. It was also the day I lost my father figure.

My grandfather was a simple, practical man. He taught me to swim in my youth. I spent endless summer days at his resort, splashing in the pool and eating ice cream. My brother would ride the lawnmower with him on an endless expanse of green. He worked hard but loved coming home for a good dinner and chocolate cake for dessert. Before we ice skated in the winter, he would walk out on the ice to make sure it was solid. He came to all my ballet performances and handed out our gifts on Christmas day. The summer before I turned 16 he bought me a turquoise Geo Storm. By then the resort was a retirement community and my grandparents were furiously trying to sell the last of the condos. Grandpa always had time to patiently endure 10 mile per hour laps around the development as I figured out how to drive.

When I brought home the man I intended to marry, my father did not ask him one question about himself during a five day trip. Under my grandfather's roof Adam was drilled with questions about his plans for the future, what his parents did, and his hobbies. Adam came prepared and soon after Grandpa was an enthusiastic fan of kayaking videos.

As he became sicker, I grew to admire my Grandpa even more. He was first diagnosed with prostate cancer in 1985. It was in remission until 5 years before his death. Illness stripped away the fire that inspired a juxtaposition of love and fear in those closest to him. The most stark features of his soul were exposed. His stubbornness was apparent when he insisted upon being the patriarch at my medical school graduation. My father had cancelled at the last minute. By then the cancer was eating through his ribs and pelvis. He left the auditorium after my name was called and walked off the pain in the bright meadows of the VA campus. He never hesitated to tell me how proud he was of me.

I saw Howard a month before he passed. He knew he was dying and we spoke frankly about his wishes. Ever practical, he said "Just cremate me and throw my ashes out the car window. I won't know the difference." We talked about finances and I assured him that I would care for his wife, should her life exceed her means. He had no regrets and told me he was ready. He was scared of the pain, but not of dying. He wanted Grandma to travel and enjoy life after he was gone. As I pulled out of the driveway, I looked back at his skinny figure, baggy clothing hanging off his once robust physique. I knew I would never see him again.

I called my father that night to tell him it was time to get on a plane and say his goodbyes. Unfortunately, he was not ready to face the truth. He never got to see Howard off. Later he told me he could not believe he went so suddenly. We had a strange memorial service at my childhood home. Howard's twin brother could not stop sobbing. Other relatives made meaningless chit chat. My dad kept repeating the lyrics to a country song when others expressed their condolences. "Well, life's a dance. Sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow." My grandmother refrained from getting drunk until after guests left, then we kicked back martinis and she cried on my shoulder.

Howard had many characteristics that I treasured. He worked hard, pulling himself from poverty with a meager 11th grade education. He was brutally honest. He loved simplicity and found contentment in a good meal or a job well done. He was my father figure, and I miss him.

So this is the new year

I'm not enthusiastic about holidays. The notion that one can designate one day and announce that everyone must celebrate and have fun is ridiculous. Against this usual belief, for several years Adam and I had a New Year's tradition that we thought will last forever.

I met Adam in late 2001. We exchanged stories about New Year's Eves gone wrong. In 2000 I was wishing the world would end. But I was far less despondent this year. Adam told me of his plan to have a New Year's Day dinner, complete with ham and black eyed peas. He argued that it was the perfect unclaimed holiday. After all, everyone was home and hungover. They were ripe for food and good conversation. I planned to come as a sort of second date, but at the last minute fielded a desperate call from my former restaurant manager. I negotiated terms for working a shift including a free meal for two. I stopped by Adam's house to check on the progress and break the news. He was marinating ham in coke and chopping collard greens. I told him I would take him out to dinner to make it up to him.

The next year we were living together and decided to make the dinner again, complete with several vegetarian additions including risotto and collards sans ham hock. We had friends over and learned to love New Year's Day over the next few years. Upon moving to Johnson City, we tried to carry on this tradition. It was much less successful. We had a group of friends by this point, but they were all home for the holidays. Awesome, I thought, there are so many people I would like to get to know. We secured 8 guests, bought food, and started work on dinner. One by one, every guest cancelled within 2 hours of arrival time. We were left with a 12 pound ham, 10 cups of collard greens, and a complex. For the next year, we panicked every time we invited someone over for dinner. Are they going to show up? We vowed never to celebrate New Year's again. We now enjoy a quiet evening at home. It might be hard to get collard greens and black eyed peas in New Hampshire anyhow.

Reality Bites

I struggled to keep my eyes open on the drive from Manchester Airport. It had been a trying day and I was ready to be home. After a week in Italy we were on our way. Arriving at Fuimicino in Rome we found out our flight to Dulles had been cancelled. "Snow" they told us. "Didn't anyone tell you?"

Who would have told us, I wondered. You're the flight people. Luckily we were re-routed through Munich on a congenial German airline. Adam was sloppy drunk before we boarded after spending three hours in a German bar. He continued sucking down scotch for the better part of the nine hour flight. I spent my time reading Antic Hay and wishing I was a 1920's jet setter. After landing in Boston, we spent $150 on a rental car to drive the one hour to Manchester. It was worth every penny to get home. As we drove North on Route 89, I could not wait to see my cats and climb into bed.

We unloaded our bags and entered the narrow stairwell to our apartment. There was construction equipment blocking our way, and I had a bad feeling about what was behind the door. Our landlord said she planned to do a little work to our closet and promised she would carefully remove our clothing and put it back in place before we came home. "No big deal" we said.

We climbed over the shop vac and lumber and opened the door.

Oh my god.

The entire contents of our life were strewn around the living room. Our pictures, stationary, and journals were crushed. Chairs and floor were piled high with camping equipment, kayaking gear, and linens. We were not sure where to drop our bags because we could not walk through the house. Everything was covered in sawdust and plaster. Dirty footprints led the way to the bathroom. Our bed was piled high with clothing and there was used cat litter on the floor of our bedroom.

Where are the cats? I began to panic. We found them cowering under the bed, unkempt and frightened. Omega ran from me as I chased him around the house. I wondered if this was all a delusion brought on by lack of sleep. We spent two hours making a walkway through the house, unclogging the toilet, and clearing off the bed so that we could sleep. We slept from midnight to three a.m. and then woke up jet lagged and started looking for a new place to live. Later that morning when we confronted our landlord she was very apologetic. We told her that we were moving out, but would give six weeks' notice. She told us that she understood completely and respected that. "But, New Hampshire law requires you to pay rent for the duration of your lease" she smirked.

I was livid. Adam pleaded and tried to appeal to her sense of decency to no avail. I told her I supposed we were not leaving. We sulked back upstairs and got to work cleaning and reorganizing our belongings.

The next morning we had a strange text page from her stating that she had listed the apartment but was out of town. Could we show it for her today? I almost threw the phone through a window. I consider myself a rational person, but this sort of audacity is hard to swallow. Now I'm still cleaning, suffering from allergic rhinitis, and have not slept in two nights. All I can say is, reality bites.

Only happy when it rains

I glanced out the window through a narrow slit in the blinds. Raining again. Damn. The clock in his room said 6:15. I rolled over and fell back to sleep, wondering how hungover I would be when I aroused. We had been out late at a comedy club with friends. I discovered a love for our local beer, the Highland Gaelic Ale. I had the day off work, so my plan was to sleep it off. Half an hour later I was abruptly disturbed by a cell phone ring. Who would call at 6:45 on a Sunday? I was about to put my pillow over my head when my sleeping partner lept out of bed to grab the phone.

Adam and I had been dating for a short time. I knew that I liked him. He was an Asheville man- enlightened but masculine. He had read all my favorite books and knew about my girl bands. But he was no pansy- he loved to eat bloody rare steak and his arms rippled with muscle. He was mild mannered and knew everyone in town. He held the door open for me, but let me pay for meals half the time to respect my feminism. The quality that struck me most was his complete honesty. He did not hold back, unlike myself. I knew that if I asked him a question his reply would be entirely candid.

"Hello? Yeah, dude. I can be ready in 10 minutes. Come on over."

What was happening here? I found out soon enough when a 1987 Ford truck loaded with four grungy men, kayaks, and gear pulled into the driveway. They entered without knocking and sat down in his kitchen. I was still in pajamas and had not brushed my teeth. Adam introduced me to the crew. They were suprisingly polite and engaging. After a few moments of chit chat, the conversation turned serious.

"Where are we going today?" Adam was clearly their leader, and all eyes were on him. He launched into the kayaking equivalent of the Gettysburg Address.

"Today is high water heaven, just name a river and we can go there. On a day like today, the question is not what's running, the question is what's not running. This is the kind of day people lose jobs over. Let's go get it boys!"

With that, they departed to chase water. Later that day Adam called me to say that they were completely shut out. They ended up passing the afternoon drinking whiskey in a small town bar in North Carolina after eight hours of driving.

This was my shocking introduction to the world of kayaking. I was some girl who spent the night at a kayaker's house and was left behind the next morning. Luckily, Adam always comes home to me when the river dries up.