Seven years ago today I was writhing on my parents’ couch with a pain band circling my ribcage, seven days into the worst of HELLP syndrome, seven months pregnant. I’d seen countless doctors who waved me away as a hypochondriac and told me to go home and drink Maalox.
But on this night, seven years ago, my mother drove me to the hospital for the third time in a week and demanded the doctors run a series of tests. Blood pressure was unusually high, blood platelets were astoundingly low, and my consciousness ebbed. The doctor returned to my room bearing a regretful face and told us that the only cure was to give birth as soon as possible. I begged for a cesarean section*, and though this was on their itenerary should my condition worsen, they refused the procedure for fear that I would bleed out. And because they knew I was blonde, they gave me a tic tac and told me it was Demerol.
They told me they couldn’t give me any painkillers, and knowing I was in pain they decided to stick me with needles and IVs and strap some awful thing around my stomach that I ripped off whenever possible. And I found myself lying and retreating to the bathroom to “pee,” when I was actually crouching on the cold bathroom floor, holding my IV stand with one hand and flipping the nurse off with the other, trying to get away from these people that buzzed around the room to take constant vitals and measure my whatnots. At one point a nurse measured my whatnot and found that I had only dilated to 3 centimeters. Ten minutes later she measured me again and called the doctor. It was time.
Ethan’s was the only birth my mother ever experienced. With my sisters and me, she was put into a twilight sleep, pregnant one moment and mother the next.
I didn’t get to see Ethan for three somnolent days, and he wasn’t named until after I did. His father wheeled me down to the ICU where he was the biggest, healthiest baby in the room. The other babies were as small and quiet as mewling kittens, and in the two weeks Ethan stayed in the ICU we saw several of them die. We were lucky — very, very lucky.
A couple of years ago his father gave me a montage of movies from E’s earliest days. The first scene: Me holding Ethan, swollen with edema, IV tubes coming out of each arm. Ethan was a tiny, shriveled thing with an IV in his forearm, and one in the soft spot of his head. His eyes were covered with a little blindfold so that they wouldn’t be hurt by the UV light meant to cure his jaundice. We were a tangle of tubes, pumped full of drugs, too weak to eat, both of us teetering on the edge of life.
Occasionally Ethan’s dad would wheel me past the nursery for normal babies and we’d marvel at how enormous they were. But E was one of the healthiest ones. The doctors had me feed him a weight-gaining formula for the first year, Baby Beefcake 5000, and he developed into a fat little thing beset with chubby rolls in the oddest places. He grew a fluffy mohawk. He learned to smile and to crawl, and we’d take long drives together. He’d fall asleep to quiet music and the lull of a vibrating car while I made grand plans for our futures. We played a game at the dinner table when he would refuse to eat and I’d ask him to make his angry face. He’d wrinkle his little nose and breathe like a dragon and eat whatever I gave him. Mostly sweet potatoes.
Ethan is still a good eater. He exclaims the wonders of Chef’s green beans and asparagus, he loves a fancy cheese plate and a medium steak. He is impressed with a gourmet ice cream, and asked for pumpkin ice cream for his birthday. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow my baby turns seven, and I can’t figure out how this happened, how both of us aged, grew seven whole years, how he learned to talk and read when I wasn’t looking, when I was at school, at work. The time, to be cliche, shot past me. He builds elaborate things out of Legos and concocts absurd soap operas between Superman and Batman, in which Batman is the brusque but lovable bully. Superman cries and Batman eventually comes around. They’re friends, after all. He writes now, whole stories, and he’s seven. Seven! He tells me jokes. With punchlines. And they’re funny.
Seven years ago today I was scared and helpless and on the tip of a life unknowable. I still am. These aren’t easy years we’ve experienced together — I can’t pretend otherwise — but the ground beneath us broadens and the path becomes clearer, if still sometimes obscured. I carry him with me the best I know how, and I’m proud, so proud, to be his mama.
Happy seventh birthday, Ethan.
______________________
* Speaking of cesarean, did you know that Caesar salads were invented in Mexico? Tijuana!
Happy Birthday Ethan!
Lauren and I met (and began our courtship) more than twelve years ago. We’ve alternately loved and hated one another throughout our years spent together, and i can’t help but love her throughout the years we’ve spent apart. This is a testament.
Around the time i turned 16, i admitted to my BFF that i might have some serious FEELINGS for Lauren (after being introduced to one another in a Burger King). I was immediately warned off. Not only was Lauren crazy, but she also posessed certain degrees of intelligence, wit, and spontanaiety… all undesirable qualities if one happens to be looking for… someone to spend their life with. Apparently.
Fast-forward many years…
I am fortunate enough to be able to spend my free time with the woman that i love.
She also happens to be the BEST mother in the world, raising a sensitive, considerate, and beautiful son, who also happens to be sweet, sensitive, and kind of turd-like at times…
Happy Birthday Ethan!
I love you,
Chef
Someday E. will read stories by Warren Ellis about Apollo and The Midnighter, and discover that he’s been right the whole time. Happy birffday to him.
Although there are two-and-some-change years between E and Augustlet (the younger), with every description of E’s personality I remain convinced that we must arrange a meeting between the two. Augustlet plays Superman a little more butch, though.
By my calculations, Laramie, Wyoming is the halfway point. We’ll meet you guys at the Applebee’s.
A happiest of birthdays to young master Ethan and a fond birthday wish for the settling of his nerves, from another nervous child of yesteryear.
What wonderful wishes!
Happy 7th (holy crap! 7th) birthday, E!
My kind of kid! You’ve both come a long way. Happy birthday, Ethan!
What a lovely post, Lauren! One of the best “mommy blogging” posts I’ve ever read. Happy birthday, Ethan!!
Happy Birthday, kiddo!
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday dear Ethan
Happy Birthday to you!
…and many more!
Happy birthday!
Ethan was a tiny, shriveled thing with an IV in his forearm, and one in the soft spot of his head.
They stuck a needle??? In his HEAD?????
One more happy birthday for Ethan and a “I’m so glad you’re blogging again” for Lauren.
Bright Blessings to you both.
Herzliche Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag, Ethan!
(Never too early to get him started on foreign languages…)
They stuck a needle??? In his HEAD?????
And called it macaroni!!!1!1
Of course I knew they invented Caesar salad in TJ. Who the hell did you think Caesar was? Happy, Happy E!
If, to paraphrase Milne, he was “clever as clever” at age six, what will age seven hold?
Happy birthday to a clearly remarkable little guy who is, equally clearly, extraordinarily blessed.
Thanks, Lauren, for telling the story.
They stuck a needle??? In his HEAD?????
Yeah, it’s pretty common for babies when they need IVs. The veins in the fontanel are close to the skin. Their arm veins are often too small anyway.
That didn’t stop me from being horrified when Augustienne brought Augustlet out from the prep room before an MRI at about eight months. He was facing away from me at first, and as I went to say hello, he turned his head and the IV start flopped around with it.
I felt like Bruce Campbell.
Happy Birthday Ethan!!
And what a great post, Lauren. Made me tear up…
Beautiful, Lauren. And those years do creep by, too. I wish both of you great joy.
Happy birthday Ethan.
Lauren, I’m impressed. We’ve got all the support and resources in the world, and being a parent is still scary and challenging. I can’t imagine doing it on nothing but guts and willpower.
Happy Belated Birthday E!
Lauren - beautiful post.
Happy Birthday, Ethan. Take good care of your mama, and read lots of books!
Helluva story, Lauren. I had a “NICU baby” too. She turns seven next month. Time sure flies….
Enjoy.
Chronia polla, Ethan! (May as well add another language.)
It’s almost seven years since my niece was in the NICU; I still have the video I took when I visited her there, and the card my sister sent me celebrating her getting out of the hospital.
Seven Years Good Luck
I had a “NICU baby” too. She turns seven next month.
It’s almost seven years since my niece was in the NICU
Damn! 1999 was a bad year for infants.
Well, and a good year, too, since they ended up with such good mothers (Lynn, I’m assuming that, as your sister, that’s a safe statement…)
Yes, my sister is a great mother, and my niece is a fun kid.