I will forever remember Finn’s birth with immense fondness;
our first moments with him full of love and joy and awe and wonder and oh-my-goodness
he’s so fresh from being passed from the hands of Jesus into my very own. Superfluously, the days surrounding Finn
Jameson- his fun and lighthearted entrance, his slightly chaotic, yet peaceful homecoming
and the warmth of the days following, will forever remain on the highlight reel
of life.
As I write this, he is almost eleven months old- but the
voracity of light and tenderness surrounding Mr. Finn Jameson, as he took his
very first breaths and lived his first days on this earth still simmer at the
surface, almost palpable. Finn, I want
you to know, always, how wanted and cherished and loved you are. Even now, the recollection of our first moments
together evoke such gut-wrenching, wonderful love, I almost forget the
rest.
But as for the details:
After a series of incredible blue skies and warm, sunshiny
days, Friday, 1.15.2016, dawned grey, threatening rain.
Be as the drizzle may, nothing could dampen the flood of
aloha in my heart as mom’s plane landed onto these beautifully unparalleled, (though
soggy) Hawaiian shores. No sooner had we
deposited her bag into the trunk than were off- in search of a quiet, cozy
table to gather around and a simmering plate of eggplant parmesan (because,
yes, at 9 months pregnant, I quickly digress to anything, including old wives
tales, which heralds itself as the “bringer of babies”). The zesty Italian dish had yet to hit my
bloodstream when I saw that it was already time for Matt and I to begin making
our way to our 3:30pm doctor’s appointment.
Good news. I was 3cm
dilated and 80% effaced. I was
ready. They stripped my membranes.
It was just Matt and I, on the car ride home. I vividly remember waiting at the Kamehameha stoplight
to make that familiar left-hand turn onto Kaneohe Bay Drive, watching the rain
hit the windshield, and asking Matt if he remembered how Ryker was born on the
brightest, clearest of Hawaiian days.
Then joking that, if perhaps, Finn was born on this gloomy, vacillating
Hawaiian day we could liken them to Thor and Loki. He actually laughed and I was pretty proud of
my comic book reference.
That evening I sat on the couch with mom, talking without
pause through tired eyes.
It was just after 8pm, with everyone already tucked up in
bed, when I first began walking the same seven strides of a dark living room- contractions
had riotously commenced. It didn’t take
long before I found myself keeled-over the island, simply trying to breathe.
From time to time, I tried to lie down, craving the comfort
of our bed, but movement seemed a familiar friend, helping me weather the storm. So in and out of the master I went. Matt
contemplated the couch to try and log some shut eye- bad idea. Terrible actually.
Eventually the wave-like rocking of my contractions were
solidly 3-4 minutes apart, crashing and leaving me breathless.
We left Ryker, sleeping soundly in his crib, in the care of
his Mimi, and snuck out.
Snuck out without a working gate key, mind you- in the pitch
black of night, with a seizing basketball for a belly. I tried to convey to Matt how I felt about
jumping over the top of condo gates when I couldn’t see or breathe, but I all
could manage to mutter was “I think my pubic bone just split
apart.”
At 11:30pm I was admitted to Queens. The monitor confirmed my contractions were intense and consistently 3-4 minutes apart. I was now 4cm.
Hunched over the hospital bed I didn’t even notice the nurse
had admitted us to room 1027. Honestly I
didn’t even know the significance of that room- till my husband repeatedly
insisted that this was, no doubt, the exact same room where, less than two
years ago, Ryker was born. He was 100%
correct.
I simply wanted to keep doing what was working at home- walk
the halls, stop, lean, just breathe, setting myself a goal of 1:15am. I can’t, however, remember if I made it
because Matt was already craving
relief and urging me to call the anesthesiologist. I do remember tears pricking my eyelids as contractions
just kept coming and continued to elevate.
So, whatever the time, we called for the epidural and I simultaneously gulped
down every single protein bar Matt could scavenge from the vending machine
three floors down.
I didn’t have much hope for pain relief. During the marathon of Ryker’s birth I had
three separate epidurals, given by three different doctors, and they all
failed- miserably they all, very much, failed.
Enter Dr. Chow, who stood there for an eternity of a good
fifteen minutes, staring at my scantily-gowned anatomy, talking backstory and
small talk with my husband- I did my very best to sit still and not emphatically
insist he hurry up.
At 2:30am he had the epidural in and medical grade tape
plastered over practically every visible surface of my back. He ordered me to keep sitting upright,
because gravity, and relayed to my husband that he set the drip to his new “experimental
program.” Yes, he said the words “experimental” and “trial” and something about
my rhomboids and placement; then told me relief would come.
Which it did not.
Instead there was the most intense back pain of my entire life; I was
certain I was doomed. I was about to
have the epidural taken out and just give up on the rest of my entire life,
when Dr. Chow returned, calmly made adjustments, allowed me to lay down and
gave me a bolus of anesthesia- which must have gone straight to the bloodstream,
because oh-my-word-just-wow.
In reality, breaking waves of pain had only been at me for a
few hours- nonetheless, relief felt like oxygen and the seismic, seemingly
intolerable agony of contractions quietly subsided and quickly drifted into
background subtly.
It was now a sunny 7am
Saturday morning and I was so happy (SO HAPPY).
I could breathe. I
could relax. I could nap.
What is this- get ready to have a baby whilst taking a
nap? I’m in love.
Unfortunately, this newfound nectar-of-goodness steadily and
progressively slowed down my contractions.
At 11am the nurses decided I’d had enough of the la-vida-loca happy-baby-mama
life and Doctor B ordered up a dose Pitocin.
I fortified myself with a chai latte.
Mom arrived at 11:30am- her sweet spirit breathing
gentleness and compassion and a smile into our day.
We were now two-stepping this strange dance of Pitocin to
encourage my contractions and epidural to combat the pain- but we began to make
progress. Contractions picked up. Anticipation rose to the surface. My husband’s laughter made me brave.
There was loud Irish music and hula dancing, and laughing and the
taking of bets.
Around 2:30pm, the epidural could no longer evaporate the
pain away. There was still Irish music
and more hula dancing, but there was now also breathing and rocking.
At 3pm Doctor B checked me and my water audibly broke with a pop. The contractions transitioned and within fifteen minutes I was at a 10.
Before I could catch my breath or get my mind around the
fact that this was actually it, everyone was telling me to push. I kept telling them I didn’t remember
how. Everyone was talking at once, I
just wanted a hot minute to take a breath.
They said I was doing it right, keep going. It must have been true because about 5 pushes
later, there he was-
Mr. Finn Jameson, fresh from heaven, snuggled right in, skin to skin, heart to heart, steeling himself against the outside world all wrapped in my arms.
I breathed it all in. Basked in the joy of it all. Thanked his Maker. Held him close. Whispered hello. Delighted in how he twisted his tiniest of fingers around mine. Smiled as he opened his eyes to the beauty and harshness of this new world we would weather together. Love overflowed. Right there in the very same room we fought so hard to meet his brother in. We lingered together, the three of us, and love spilled over in a way I can’t put words to. We lingered longer and waterfalls of love and tremendous joy spilled up and over our hearts, splashing rivers of thankfulness and awe over everything, drenching our hearts in worship and soaking each of us with the truth that “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the (good, good) Father…”
You are deeply loved Finn Jameson, always and forever.
Photo's by: Annie Groves Photography
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