The ink hadn’t yet dried on my wife’s admission papers before we were on our way to the NICU. Alanna’s nurses knew Jan was coming and that she’d be trying to breastfeed, so there was hint of excitement in our little corner of the room. Jan and I were both nervous. The words of the neonatologist weighed heavily on our minds: NICU infants who were able to breastfeed successfully had a significantly higher likelihood of being neurologically intact. Jan picked up Alanna and hugged her for several minutes. It was their first encounter.
When we felt we were ready, a nurse led us to an adjacent room and closed the door so we could have some privacy. Jan sat in a chair, slid part of her hospital gown to the side and undid one of the flaps of her nursing bra. She then put our daughter to her breast.
Alanna rooted around aimlessly for what seemed like an awfully long time. Our hearts sank. We put her mouth closer to its target. She fussed and fidgeted a while longer, then suddenly latched on and began gulping milk down at a furious pace. When the breast was completely drained she fell asleep, content. Jan and I were delirious with joy. Our baby was going to be fine.
Alanna hit all her milestones early. She’s a crackling ball of energy who enjoys gymnastics, trampoline, volleyball, piano, art and reading. She has never exhibited any ill effects related to her traumatic birth. We consider ourselves to be extremely lucky.
Snip, Snip
When I was single I always said I wanted to have eight kids. Eight kids! Can you imagine? I got a serious reality check when our first child was born. Ellen was a wonderful baby, but caring for her was a lot more work than I had anticipated. Feeding, burping, bathing, changing, rocking, walking, entertaining – it was a full-time job.
Kristen arrived 15 months after Ellen. She was equally marvellous, but following her birth our workload seemed to triple rather than double.
Alanna made her dramatic debut 13 months later. Suddenly we were up to our eyeballs in dirty diapers. Jan started using the word “vasectomy” a lot. Naturally, I pretended not to hear her.
One frisky night about two months after Alanna’s birth, Jan and I forgot to take appropriate precautions. The next morning I went to my office and returned with the morning-after pill. The first dose left her feeling queasy, so that evening when it was time for the final set of pills Jan considered not taking them. She telephoned her mother in Manitoba for her opinion on the matter. My usually demure mother-in-law mulled it over for about one-tenth of a second before hollering: “For God’s sake, Janet, take the pills!”
Jan took them. The next day I visited Miles and requested a vasectomy.
When you’re an MD in a small hospital it sometimes feels weird shedding your lab coat and morphing from doctor into patient, but what’s the sense of driving hundreds of kilometres to undergo procedures that can very capably be performed by your own colleagues? On V-Day I arrived at the hospital bright and early. After registering at the front desk I went to the patients’ locker room and changed into one of those ridiculous Barbie-sized gowns that always leave half your backside exposed. Who designs those things, anyway? As I walked to the operating room, a trio of ER nurses I work with passed me in the hallway.
“Snip, snip,” they cackled.
“Yeah, I love you guys, too. Say hi to Macbeth for me!”
I stepped through the sliding doors and into the OR.
Irene the head OR nurse was a cheerful, matronly type.
“Dr. Gray, I see you’re here to get ‘fixed’ this morning! Har-har! Come, lie down!” She patted one of the operating room tables. I reclined on the cold table and tried to relax, but it’s hard to unwind when you’re minutes away from having the family jewels carved up. After Irene finished setting up the surgical accoutrements, Dr. Hill arrived. The quintessential man of few words, he pulled on his gloves and padded over to me.
“Ready?”
“I guess.”
Irene lifted up the front of my gown to expose “the field.” The room was chilly, and as a result “the field” had shrunken considerably. Fortunately for my self-esteem, there were no gales of hysterical laughter. After scrubbing the area with antiseptic solution, Dr. Hill picked up a syringe.
“Freezing,” he said. The injection wasn’t nearly as painful as I had expected, but I broke into a sweat nonetheless.
“It’s all right, Dr. Gray,” said Irene. “Here’s a cool cloth for your forehead.” The cloth was surprisingly soothing. I closed my eyes and felt my body begin to loosen. A few seconds later Dr. Hill began cutting.
I daydreamed.
Hey, this isn’t so bad… .
“Gauze,” said Dr. Hill.
My afternoon office is pretty reasonable today, so with any luck I should be home by 4:30… .
“Forceps,” said Dr. Hill.
That’ll work out well, because we have a 5:00 appointment for a family portrait at the photo studio.
“Sponge,” said Dr. Hill.
As long as I don’t have to lift the kids, I’ll be fine… .
“Cautery,” said Dr. Hill.
What’d he say? Cautery? Down there?
Zzzzt! Zzzzt! ZZZZZZZZZZT!
The world’s biggest lightning bolt crashed into an exquisitely sensitive part of my anatomy. I arched so rigidly, only my heels and the back of my head remained in contact with the table.
“Yaaaaaaaaugh!”
Dr. Hill looked sideways at me.
“Did you feel that?”
“YES!”
“Oh. Sorry. Irene, could you get me some more freezing please?”
Even though the rest of the procedure was completely painless, I was so paranoid about the possibility of another close encounter with Thor that I wasn’t able to relax. When everything was finished I thanked Dr. Hill and Irene and gimped back to the locker room.
Due to a few last-minute add-ins, my office didn’t finish until 5:00. I raced home to get ready for the portrait. While I changed into fresh clothes Jan asked me if I was sore.
“It throbs like hell,” I replied. “I’ll take some Tylenol when we get back.” We rounded up the kids and drove to the studio.
“Okay Janet, move Ellen a little bit closer to you. Donovan, could you please lift up Kristen and Alanna and put them on your lap?”
“But - ”
“Trust me, it’ll make a great shot.”
“But - ”
“I’m telling you, it’ll be perfect. That’s right…now Alanna… good. Um, Donovan?”
“Yes?”
“Are you okay? You look like you just got kicked in the you-know-whats… .”
Last Call
Recently I was paged to the emergency department at 3:00 a.m. to stitch up another Jethro. This guy was totally hammered. The story was that he was drinking peaceably with his honey when all of a sudden she up and smashed him in the head with a beer bottle. Damn! Second time she’s done that this month! Funny how these guys fall prey to so many unprovoked attacks. I’ve had several drinks with my wife over the years, and I honestly can’t remember her ever bashing my head in with a beer bottle.
Anyway, I set up all of my suturing material, cleaned off his shard-filled forehead and was just about to begin stitching when he yammered, “Hey! W-w-w-wait a minute!”
“Why?”
“I gotta take a leak.”
He rolled off the stretcher, staggered to the adjoining bathroom and slammed the door shut. Moments later I was treated to the sound of a torrential stream of used beer. Within a minute he was finished.