MWFS' Arrival

I had planned on spending the morning with Miles, but he woke up late so I woke up late and before I know it, it's 730am and Boris and I are still at home. We're supposed to be at the hospital. Oh well. I shower quickly, make-out with Miles, tell him I'll see him tomorrow and introduce him to his baby brother, and Boris and I jump in the car. It's raining. And it's L.A., so everyone is driving 2 miles per hour. Since cancer, I don't stress at all about trivial things like being late so I'm a little surprised at my anxiety over the time. I suspect it's really that I'm driving to the hospital to have MWFS, but regardless, I'm anxious and being a total backseat driver. Boris just smiles at me.

We arrive at St. John's close to 800am and the parking lot for the new building that houses the maternity ward is closed. Of course. We park elsewhere and have to walk through one of the older buildings to get to where we're going. As we're making our way through the halls, I notice where we are. Radiation Oncology. I turn to Boris and say "the irony of having to walk through the Oncology Department to get to Labor and Delivery is not lost on me." He chuckles. I feel a little sick. We finally make it to Labor and Delivery and are greeted by a nurse who asks me if I'm Mrs. Shimanovsky. My first instinct is to say no as being called that often makes my skin crawl. Mrs. Shimanovsky is my mother in law, who as far as I can tell only has one redeeming quality and that is she gave birth to my husband. Not how I want to start the day off. But I say yes and Boris and I are escorted to a delivery room.

A young and very sweet nurse enters the room and asks me to fill out paperwork while she asks me a ton of questions about my health and pregnancy. When she asks about the medications I've taken during my pregnancy I answer "6 rounds of FEC ." She looks up from the computer and stares at me. "I have cancer," I tell her. She wants to know what kind. "Breast cancer." She feels compelled to tell me her "experience" with breast cancer. "My grandmother had breast cancer a few years ago. 4 years later, she got ovarian cancer and died. I just wanted to tell you because they're related, so you should be cautious." I look at Boris, puzzled. Why people feel the need to share death stories with me is a mystery and why anyone would think I'm not cautious about cancer when I fucking have it is beyond a mystery. But, I'm about to meet MWFS and don't really care what stupid and ridiculous things people say to me. Besides, it happens on a regular basis so I'm kindof getting used to it.

The nurse tells me that she's going to start an i.v. with fluids and then the anesthesiologist will be in to talk to me. I tell her that I have a port and that Dr. Ottavi already spoke to someone about accessing it so I don't have to get stuck unnecessarily. The nurse pulls something out of my chart, says "oh right," and makes a call to Oncology. An oncology nurse enters the room a few minutes later and accesses my port with no problems or complications. Phew. She starts the fluids and I wait. However, the Labor and Delivery nurse says that the fluids aren't flowing fast enough. The oncology nurse explains that all she needs is an i.v. pump. She says that the port is the fastest way to get fluids into someone - hence its use for chemotherapy. Duh. But this is Labor and Delivery and they don't know shit about pumps and ports and apparently it's too difficult to find a pump, so after I get stuck through my port, the Labor and Delivery nurse takes it out and starts a regular i.v. So annoying. But, I'm about to meet MWFS, so I can deal with multiple pricks.

Before she leaves, the nurse tells me that I'm a rock star, which I appreciate. I'm told that a lot. Boris wonders why I'm compared to rock stars so often when really, rock stars don't have the best reputations. They're generally not known for strength and courage but rather for drug and alcohol abuse and a penchant for destroying hotel rooms and cars.

Dr. Ottavi comes early to see me and we start chatting about how exciting today is. While we're chatting, 2 anesthesiologists enter the room. Roger and Kathy. Roger introduces himself and then introduces us all to Kathy. He tells me that Kathy is going to be my anesthesiologist and that I should pretend he's not there. I'm afraid she's a resident or something so even though she's asking me a zillion questions, I'm looking at Roger in slight terror. I finally look at Kathy and ask her how many epidurals she's performed. I don't mean to be rude or anything but today is really not the day for a new doctor to gain some experience. At least not with me. Today I will tolerate only the best and most experienced doctors. Kathy explains that she's been practicing for 6 years and has performed countless epidurals, she's just new to the Labor and Delivery floor. "Good question though," says Dr. Ottavi. Just checking.

As Kathy is preparing the epidural, Dr. Ottavi stands in front me as I sit up at the edge of my bed. She tells me to put my arms around her waist. I do. I start to do my yoga breathing as she rubs my back and strokes my hair. She's the best. Ever. Ever. Through my deep breaths, I ask if an epidural is painful when you're not in labor. I don't even remember it with Miles because I was in agony. They could have shoved a jackhammer into my back and I would have thanked them if drugs came out of it. Dr. Ottavi says, "compared to what you've been through, it will be nothing." "It's much better when you're not in pain," Kathy chimes in. Wrong. It's much, much worse when you're not in pain. When you're in excruciating pain you barely notice that a giant needle is being shoved into your spine. When you're not in pain, um, you notice. The whole thing is pretty gross since I can hear the needle grinding into my bones. Kathy and Roger say many times that I'm "about to feel a lot of pressure." "Pressure" is apparently code for "this is going to hurt like hell." I think I scream "ouch!" several times, but then it's over. My back hurts as I get up to use the bathroom for the last time before I go into surgery. When I come out of the bathroom, there's a wheelchair waiting for me and I'm wheeled into the operating room.

I'm transferred to a bed while the doctors are preparing the room. As I'm staring up at the stark white ceiling with alien looking fluorescent lighting, I can't help but think how unnatural this all is. It's so far from my wanted natural birth at home in a bathtub. True I'll suffer no pain, but the sterile hospital and planned birth is so odd. I can hear the doctors setting up all of their equipment and the chatter of their conversation. Roger and Kathy are discussing food. One of my favorite topics. Roger is telling Kathy about a Chinese dumpling restaurant in Monrovia. I don't know where Monrovia is, but ask if it has soup dumplings. Roger says it does and then almost simultaneously we both ask the other if s/he has been to Joe Shanghai in New York. We both have and agree it has the best soup dumplings ever. We also discuss Pizzeria Mozza and our favorite burgers (In n' Out because neither of us like thick patties). Roger and I continue to chat food while Dr. Ottavi says she'll have to write all of these restaurants down later on. And then it's time to begin.

Boris isn't in the room yet and before he arrives I smell burning. It's disgusting. Within a minute though, Boris is by my side and tells me to try not to smell anything. He knows me so well. Apparently, I've already been opened up (hence the burning smell. I just didn't realize it was my flesh). I ask for more drugs several times as the "pressure" I'm warned about hurts. After what seems like too long, Dr. Ottavi says "we're close to the baby. Just a few more minutes." And then I hear the best sound in the whole world. Crying. Loud, strong, healthy crying. Although Dr. Ottavi was under strict instruction to clean Miles off before handing him to me (yes, I'm his Mom and love him no matter what - but if I have the choice I'll skip the blood and goo from childbirth), she hands my baby to me immediately. Blood, goo and all. I sob and sob as I look at his perfect little face. "Is he okay," I ask her? "Does he look healthy and normal?" "Perfectly," Dr. Ottavi boasts.

"What's his name?" she asks. "Baron. His name is Baron."

Boris and I take turns holding Baron as I'm closed back up. And then we all go to the recovery room. I hold Baron for 2 of the best and most tender hours before he and Boris go to the nursery for his first examination and bath. "Hurry back," I tell Boris as they walk away. "I want to hold him every second I can."

Dr. Ottavi comes to say goodbye to me before she leaves the hospital. My eyes well up with tears as I tell her that I worship her and am so appreciative of everything she has done for me and Baron. And how relieved I am that he's healthy and perfect. "I worship you, too," she says as her eyes also well up with tears. "You are so brave," she tells me and kisses my cheek. "I know you have a long, long road ahead of you with a lot of uncertainty, but you have come so far and what a relief to know that Baron is here and safe and healthy." What a relief indeed.

But Boris and Baron are gone for way too long. I start harassing the nurse after 20 minutes asking what's going on. "Baron's having a little difficulty getting warm," she says. "He's under the heater. Not uncommon at all." That doesn't sound so bad. But the minutes continue to slowly pass and I'm still waiting to get him back into my arms. After an hour I can't take it anymore and I ask the nurse to get Boris. Boris comes in to tell me that Baron is still having some difficulty breathing and the nurse wants to take him to the NICU for examination. My heart sinks. This can't be happening. I am terrified that something is terribly wrong. Boris tells me that he's going to the NICU with Baron and will come back with more information.

Another hour passes. I'm wheeled up to my room. It's been 2 hours since I've seen Baron and I'm dying. Dying. Finally Boris appears. "Baron is still working too hard to breathe," he whispers. "The doctors took a chest xray and there are some patches on his lungs that could be a sign of infection. I start crying. "I can't believe my baby is 4 hours old and has already had an xray. This is all my fault. I've ruined his life." Boris reminds me that he wouldn't have a life at all if it weren't for me and says that the neonatologist will be in shortly to talk to us. Dr. Trintou is blunt and to the point. "Your baby will be just fine, but he'll need antibiotics. We're waiting for results from his blood test to know how long." I learn that Baron will have to stay in the NICU for the night.

I am beside myself. Babies should be held by their mothers when they are born. Not whisked off to a cold and sterile room with strangers while medical tests are performed on them. This is so far from what I had envisioned. I was to have a perfectly healthy baby whom I would hold non-stop for 3 days in the hospital before we were allowed to go home to enjoy a week and a half of family bliss before I start chemo again. Now I'm in a room without my baby and don't know how long he and I will be separated. And I still have almost zero information about what's actually wrong with him and why he's in there at all. My nurse comes in to take my vitals. I tell her that I need to go to the NICU immediately. She tells me she has to find a wheelchair for me. I wait. And wait. And wait. Almost an hour passes. I lose it. I tell her that it's been 5 hours since I've seen my baby and I have to see him NOW. "We just need a wheelchair," she says and smiles." "Well you have to find one now. Or I can walk," I tell her. She doesn't think I can walk since I had massive surgery a few hours ago, but she doesn't know me. They could have cut off my legs and I could still walk to see my baby. "I can walk," I say again. She says no. "Or you can wheel me in my bed and then I'll just take a few steps to a chair in the NICU." She says no. "My parents have a wheelchair at their house. They can bring it here." She says no. So I have no choice but to cry and say "I have cancer and am starting chemo in 2 weeks. I will have far less time to be with my baby once that happens. So I have to see my baby right now." A wheelchair appears in my room 5 minutes later.

After 5 hours, I finally see Baron again.