March 30, 1984...
Twenty-seven years ago today, I lay shivering on a freezing cold slab covered with a thin scratchy sheet in an over lit operating room at Golden Plains Hospital in Borger. (You can blame your big brother for the insult of having to enter the world in such a stark, sterile setting. Your big-headed big brother, whose cranial circumference required an alternate mode of entry for all who came after him. Namely, you.)
So there I was...lying flat on my back, looking up at the bright lights and listening to the beep-beep-beeping of machines. I remember trying to control my shivering so as not to shake the sheet off my naked bloated body. And I remember trying to act tough, as though the prospect of near-evisceration during unconscious sedation was old routine to me, by now. To say nothing of the fact that God was once again allowing me to accompany Him in one of his finest miracles...the miracle of birth.
Dr. Ingham - sweet Dr. Ingham - had come into my room earlier that morning. He had prayed with Dickie and I, and had given me a little pewter cross. That cross was now clenched tightly in my fist beneath my shivering sheet. Truth be told, assisting in miracles was nothing short of terrifying.
The anesthesiologist must have smelled my fear. He blinked at me over his green mask and teased, "What are we having today - a he or a she?" "It's a he", I said confidently...heretofore void of any scientific proof (excluding peeing on Drain-O, with inconclusive results). "And just what are we gonna call this little boy?" asked the doctor. I smiled, and in my best Moses-Coming-Down-Off-The-Mountain voice replied, “Jacob. His name will be Jacob.”
The doctor's kind eyes crinkled above his mask in obvious approval. And as the numbing anesthesia slowly seeped into my veins, I fell deeply asleep to the sounds of an operating room choir spontaneously singing, “We are climbing Jacob’s ladder…”
(Okay...so maybe they didn't quite sound like the choir in the video, but you get the picture.)
Hours later, I woke up nauseated and groggy and mumbling for my baby. They wheeled my bed up and down the halls to the nursery and brought you out to meet me. I wasn't at all surprised to learn you were indeed a 'he'. A furiously screaming, red-faced, 7 lb. 14 oz. bundle of wonderfully made Cooper-Haney DNA. They laid you across my chest - your face inches from mine - and I was swamped with the glory of you. I stroked your downy soft head and told you over and over how much I loved you, how very happy I was to meet you, and shh, shh, baby boy...please don't cry. At the sound of my voice, you immediately stopped crying. And there we lay...nose to nose. Eyes locked in wonder. Souls connecting.
Twenty-seven years ago today, I lay shivering on a freezing cold slab covered with a thin scratchy sheet in an over lit operating room at Golden Plains Hospital in Borger. (You can blame your big brother for the insult of having to enter the world in such a stark, sterile setting. Your big-headed big brother, whose cranial circumference required an alternate mode of entry for all who came after him. Namely, you.)
So there I was...lying flat on my back, looking up at the bright lights and listening to the beep-beep-beeping of machines. I remember trying to control my shivering so as not to shake the sheet off my naked bloated body. And I remember trying to act tough, as though the prospect of near-evisceration during unconscious sedation was old routine to me, by now. To say nothing of the fact that God was once again allowing me to accompany Him in one of his finest miracles...the miracle of birth.
Dr. Ingham - sweet Dr. Ingham - had come into my room earlier that morning. He had prayed with Dickie and I, and had given me a little pewter cross. That cross was now clenched tightly in my fist beneath my shivering sheet. Truth be told, assisting in miracles was nothing short of terrifying.
The anesthesiologist must have smelled my fear. He blinked at me over his green mask and teased, "What are we having today - a he or a she?" "It's a he", I said confidently...heretofore void of any scientific proof (excluding peeing on Drain-O, with inconclusive results). "And just what are we gonna call this little boy?" asked the doctor. I smiled, and in my best Moses-Coming-Down-Off-The-Mountain voice replied, “Jacob. His name will be Jacob.”
The doctor's kind eyes crinkled above his mask in obvious approval. And as the numbing anesthesia slowly seeped into my veins, I fell deeply asleep to the sounds of an operating room choir spontaneously singing, “We are climbing Jacob’s ladder…”
(Okay...so maybe they didn't quite sound like the choir in the video, but you get the picture.)
Hours later, I woke up nauseated and groggy and mumbling for my baby. They wheeled my bed up and down the halls to the nursery and brought you out to meet me. I wasn't at all surprised to learn you were indeed a 'he'. A furiously screaming, red-faced, 7 lb. 14 oz. bundle of wonderfully made Cooper-Haney DNA. They laid you across my chest - your face inches from mine - and I was swamped with the glory of you. I stroked your downy soft head and told you over and over how much I loved you, how very happy I was to meet you, and shh, shh, baby boy...please don't cry. At the sound of my voice, you immediately stopped crying. And there we lay...nose to nose. Eyes locked in wonder. Souls connecting.
Love at first sight. Happy Birthday, Baby Boy.
Gotta love it. I was SO envious of Jacob because we were trying so hard to get pregnant and it was NOT working. That boy has had a spot in my own heart for 27 years, too :) LYIC
ReplyDeleteAnd God in all His glory gave you no reason for envy, but blessed you just as richly...a son who grew under your heart and a son who grew in it. Here's to boys and the mothers that love them ♥♥ LYIC
ReplyDeleteI love this today as much as I did three years ago. LYIC <3
ReplyDelete