Avery Peppermint Taverner
Welcome to the world, little bunny. I’m going to make sure you love it here.
You were born at 9:49am on Monday, September 17 at Beth Israel here in New York. You were 7lbs, 14.4oz, and 20.5″, which is a nice average weight and above average length. We all worked so hard to make it happen – you included. You have these adorable big feet, and your daddy’s nose (which he got from his dad) and so far you have your mum’s eyes, but you never can tell at first.
It’s hard to know how much of the story to tell here. We think we could do some good by sharing our experience, both the positive and the negative (nothing about you is negative, bunny!). Let’s see. Marjorie’s pregnancy was just about perfect – all the right things happened at the right time, and every check up showed Baby growing just right. As pregnant people do, we worried that things were going too well. Silly people, I know. Mostly we enjoyed the thrill of imminent parenthood.
As the due date approached, came and went, Braxton Hicks became contractions, which poked their heads around the corner every once in a while. But they sure took their time. A whole week. Nevertheless, as they say, Things Were Starting to Happen. Then they really Started to Happen.
After 40 hours of labor, much of it in Marjorie’s back, we finally got her contractions pretty consistently under 4 minutes (walking is definitely the secret). Many of them lasted over 2 minutes (nobody mentioned that in the literature), and only hip compression made them bearable. Thank you, Bradley Method! At the hostpital, we were devastated when Joyce, our midwife, told us the cervix was only 1cm dilated. One centimeter! She offered us three options –
- Go home and keep working on it; go for walks; climb some stairs. This wasn’t really an option after 40 hours. We were exhausted.
- Active management; check in to the hospital, try some natural techniques to get things moving. Go to an epidural if all else fails. This was marginally better, but again, 40 hours had left her pretty wiped, and we still held out for our Bradley Method-inspired natural Birth Plan.
- Morphine. Give Marjorie 4 hours of rest and pick up where we left off. Very tempting, but people that go to Bradley classes are not usually the people who embrace the idea of opiating their babies.
So we started active management. Hot shower, a few other tricks. After five hours, things were indeed moving along – but we only had 2cm and the pain was almost constant – front, back, front, back – and close to unbearable. Time to talk more seriously. The Birth Plan was going to have to take a step back. At 48 hours, Marjorie needed that epidural.
Over the next five hours, we were left as alone as possible to rest. For me, the heart rate monitor was a comfort. I had watched it vary reliably for hours already, and listening to it allowed me to slip into an exhausted sleep. As a mom, Marjorie is wired differently, and she stayed wide awake, listening to every beat. Five times during the night, Avery’s heart rate would decelerate (normal) and recover slowly (not normal), and doctors would bustle into the room to get Marjorie to roll to her opposite side (hello, epidural – not bloody likely). It was far from a restful night.
When Joyce came in to check the dilation in the morning, I found some cheerleadery enthusiasm and Marjorie smiled hopefully.
6cm.
On the one hand, things were progressing. On the other, mother and daughter were near the end of their ropes. We talked about the possibility of C-section. Unlikely, but best to be prepared. Nobody was happy with those slow heart rate recoveries, which were a sign of distress and could lead to brain damage. After all our optimism and careful research and planning, the strings were being tugged out of our hands. As Bradley coach, I clung to the bright side – this wasn’t failure. Just a different path. And besides, it was just a maybe. After all, 6cm is well on the way.
The nurse (Lorraine – sweet as candy) took me for a tour basically to the end of the hall to show me where I’d wait while they prepped Marjorie for surgery (in the unlikely event). She pointed out the surgery theater and reassured me with lots of information like how the room would be arranged, where I would sit, and what would happen after. She reminded me to bring my camera, which was brilliant of her.
When we got back, the room was full of doctors, and midwife Rochelle had joined Joyce. Avery’s heart had dipped again and play time was over. Things were suddenly fast and scary. I didn’t even get a chance to reassure Marjorie before she was whisked away. Out of it all, that is what bothers me – if she and I just had a minute to get centered, we could have approached the emergency together and with determination. It’s a very common surgery, after all. As it was, we were terrified and separated.
I put on my sterile blue paper coveralls. I waited. Through the doors I could see Marjorie, pale and limp on the operating table. Doctors and nurses buzzed thickly around her. I tried not to think about anything but a shining golden outcome. I clutched my iPhone and thought about taking pictures of my new daughter with her beaming mother.
Lorraine came out to usher me in. I was shaking. A wall of medical professionals efficiently blocked my view of everything below the fabric curtain across Marjorie’s chest. I dug deep, trying to breathe, trying to find a place from which I could be her rock. I brushed her hair from her eyes, stroked her arm, held her hand. I talked about how we were going to meet our little girl in just a few minutes. We tried to stay positive. It was really hard.
I will never forget her body lurching around as the doctors worked. You’ve seen the end of Braveheart – where Mel is strapped to the torture table. The camera stays on his face as the executioner hooks him through the bowels and yanks. It was like that. That was hard.
We heard several ooohs and ahhs from which I took enormous reassurance. Our girl was being born. The lead surgeon, a briskly efficient woman, said congratulations to us from the other side of the blue wall. Then there was a moment – only three or four seconds but Marjorie swears it lasted for days – before we heard our girl cry out.
Yep. I burst into tears. I sobbed. I kissed Marjorie’s forehead through my paper mask and we cried in relief and joy and still more fear. After a few long minutes while they sorted my two girls out, I was brought over to the warming table where the most perfect little bunny you ever saw was blinking brand new eyes and flexing brand new lungs.
Then, well, there was a long while of anxiousness while they mended Marjorie and logged Avery. I bobbed back and forth between them with updates and pictures for Marjorie (thank you, iPhone). Finally, while surgeons and nurses counted sponges and instruments (twice and with great care), Marjorie was wheeled to Recovery while I followed our bunny to the nursery. There I stayed while she was weighed, measured and tested. That’s where Marjorie’s mom Judy found me an hour later. We hugged and she gave me a strawberry Yop, the single most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. The two moms texted and talked and I was relieved of sentry duty to go find some proper food and fresh air.
And eventually, after Marjorie could move her legs, we were all reunited in the post partum ward. Our eternal gratitude goes to the nurses of L&D and of Dazian 5, who make a cold place feel human, and took the time to give a lot of information some context.
And through it all, Gramma Judy, who brought her years of expertise as a maternity nurse herself to the table. We could have managed without her, but that’s what it would have been – managing.
With Judy, well: The next day I went home to shower and nap for a couple hours (do I never learn? Do not leave the room!). As I was pulling myself together to return, Marjorie called, saying we’d just had a scare. Avery had coughed, then choked, then stopped breathing altogether. Judy and Rochelle tried to aspirate her nose, but weren’t winning. As Avery turned blue, Judy yanked the call button cable out of the wall, which brought the floor team running. They flew her down to the intensive care unit and brought her through it.
My mother in law is welcome in my house anytime.
As testament to the awesome power of motherhood, Marjorie was up out of bed, stomach staples and all, and charging down the hall with the rest of them – do not mess with mama bear.
Life in the ward is surreal. It’s very simple. Take care of the baby. Take care of mum. Eat. Sleep. Well, try to catch a few minutes of sleep. Time has no meaning. The rest of the world is unimportant. Your list of priorities fits comfortably on the fingers of one hand. Texts, emails and calls would flow in, around and away from us. We didn’t respond much. My apology isn’t very sincere, but… sorry about that. Our world was very small.
Eventually, they sent us home. As the culmination of nine months of deliberation, we named our little girl Avery Peppermint, filled out the paperwork, and we left. We’d arrived as a couple on Sunday afternoon; we left as a family on Thursday. We caught a cab and came home.
Life is still pretty simple. We’re slowly letting the rest of the world blend back in. A few times now, we’ve managed three straight hours of sleep, and we’re starting to feel like people again. I vacuumed today. Cleaned the kitchen. We’ve returned texts and emails and calls. We’ve introduced Avery to most of her New York family, and Skyped with the Phillips clan in Vancouver. Gramma and Grampa Taverner get their turn to meet her on Skype tomorrow, and they’ll be down to visit in person in less than three weeks.
Avery is strong. She’s alert. She’s solemn and she’s curious about everything. Every day, she’s more present. She’s grown half an inch and hasn’t lost the usual newborn weight. The plumbing works (oh it’s working, people) and I don’t mind changing those diapers one bit. It’s my very great pleasure.
My shining golden outcome.
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