It was a cold, dark December morning. I had been sound asleep for hours while J laid awake in agonizing pain as the inevitable birth of our one and only child was just hours away. Three taps to my shoulder jolted me awake. “I think I'm going into labor!” she said. Though groggy and still half asleep, I suddenly felt a wave of joy and excitement come over me as I came to the realization that the time was finally here. I looked over at J and could immediately see the intense pain and discomfort in her eyes as I gathered the supplies and diaper bag we had prepared for this moment.
A short time later, approximately 8:00 am, J and I arrived at the Salem Hospital where it was determined that she was only three centimeters dilated. This was a bit of a relief as it gave us time to relax, get comfortable, and notify our families of the news.
J and I had grown very close over the years and have known each other since the beginning of elementary school in the early 90's. Throughout the years, I was always drawn to her because of her unfiltered humor that was often interpreted as offensive to those who don't know her. She has a very happy and extremely positive aura about her that is most certainly a staple of her personality, all the while has no problem letting you know exactly how she feels or perhaps, what's on her mind.
Several hours after we arrived at the Salem Hospital, J received an epidural, and as we waited for that to take effect, our families began trickling into the visiting room. One thing I have a vivid memory of was the period shortly before we began the delivery process. J was experiencing more frequent contractions and was undoubtedly in significant pain and discomfort. Her vibrant personality, however, continued to persist despite all of this. One of the nurses had given her a see-through oxygen mask to wear, and while our families talked and cracked jokes, I could see J's beautiful smile through the mask. Though I could never fully understand what she was going through, I tried to empathize with her to make her feel more comfortable. When I saw her smiling and laughing, it told me she was still engaged and reinforced my admiration for her unforgiving strength.
The doctor came into the room and began preparing for delivery. There was an aura of excitement in the room as the anticipation was building. By this time, J was in extreme pain and was noticeably ready to get this over. I was on J's right and her mom D was on her left — each of us holding her hands. It was discovered that the epidural had a greater effect than intended, which hindered J's ability to push during the contractions. This lengthened the process significantly as the progress was slow and painful for J. For reasons still unknown to me, the baby's heart rate began to slow, which alarmed the doctor. Two additional nurses came into the room and somewhat forcefully rolled J onto her side and briefly continued delivery efforts from that position. This development caused a lot of confusion within the room and had D and I deeply concerned. I continued to hold J's hand and reassured her that everything was going to be okay. After a brief scare, however, L was born.
Watching the birth of my son was unlike anything I had ever experienced in my life. I was relieved that it was finally over and was becoming increasingly overwhelmed with emotion as the reality of the situation was sinking in. There wasn't a time in my life that even remotely matched the feelings I was experiencing in this moment. When I held L for the first time, I couldn't help but to consider how my life had suddenly and instantaneously changed. I was so excited and proud to be a father, yet absolutely terrified of what I didn't know.
For J, this moment couldn't have come soon enough. She was exhausted and had tears running down her face when she held L for the first time. For me, it seems unfair that she had to endure all that pain as I stood next to her with such painless anticipation. As a couple, however, we couldn't have been happier. Together, we dressed L in a tiny Carhartt outfit we had gotten for him eight months earlier. I could see the relief in J's eyes as she laid in the hospital with L in her arms.
An hour or so later, J asked me to run home and grab a bag of toiletries we had forgotten early that morning. At the time, we lived about 25 minutes away from the Salem Hospital. I wasn't gone for more than 15 minutes and suddenly my phone rang, alerting me of an incoming text. "Where are you?" J asked. "Hurry up and get back." I figured she was just eager to take a shower and spend some time together with our son. "I'm hurrying," I replied.
About 45 minutes later, I arrived back at the hospital, and as I walked into the room, J was sitting next to D in a recliner chair with L in her arms. Her cheeks were red as if she'd been crying, but she had a slight smirk on her face. "What did I miss?" I asked curiously. With her dry and unfiltered sense of humor J replied, "Your son doesn't have an asshole!" I thought she was joking, but her facial expression didn't change. I glanced over at D and she nodded her head in agreement. "What are you talking about?" I asked, growing more and more concerned by the second. "The doctor is coming to explain everything in a few minutes," D said. I couldn't believe it! The idea of a human being not having that feature at birth had me both confused and terribly worried.
Suddenly, the doctor came walking into the room, took L from J's arms, and laid him on a changing table. After removing L's diaper, he looked at the area and immediately diagnosed our son with Imperforate anus — a rare birth defect that affects roughly one in 10,000 babies in the United States. The doctor informed J and I that neither he, nor any doctor at Salem Hospital was qualified to handle such a case and that L would have to be immediately transported to Legacy Emmanuel Hospital in Portland.
On the morning of Christmas Eve, L and I were transported by ambulance to Portland, while J was asked to stay for 25 hours for observation. I continued to assure her that everything would be okay, but in the back of my mind, I had no idea what was happening. I was heartbroken for L, because I couldn't, for the life of me, understand why an innocent child — my child — should have to go through this. I was also heartbroken for J, because she thought this was the result of something she had done wrong during her pregnancy, which is incorrect. I understood the feeling.
We arrived at Legacy Emmanuel, and I walked next to L's incubator where he slept so peacefully as the nurses wheeled him to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. Almost· immediately, I met with the head surgeon who told me they had been preparing for L over the last several hours. He assured me that everything was going to be okay, as he had performed dozens of these surgeries in the past. I was informed that L's condition was common and very much reversible, but it would not be possible until L was six months old, because his immune system would not be able to handle a surgery of that magnitude as an infant.
By now, J had been released from the Salem Hospital and had just arrived at Legacy Emmanuel. After getting her up to speed with what the surgeon said, we waited in angst for a clear plan from the doctors. The doctor attached an IV to L and instructed J not to breastfeed, because L could not release his bowels, and they wanted his system as clean as possible for surgery. J and I were informed that surgery would take place early the next morning.
J was a mess and it was obvious that she was looking to me for strength and reassurance. I did my best, but every so often, I would go outside to have a cigarette and break down. The night leading up to the surgery seemed to last an eternity. J and I sat next to each other on a couch, taking turns holding our son, snapping pictures, bragging about how cute he was, and playfully debating whose nose, eyes and ears he had, there was little question, however, that L looked just like her, and I was okay with that.
At 8:30 the next morning, two nurses took L to the operating room to begin preparing him for surgery. The doctor informed J and me that surgery would take approximately six hours. The plan was clear — a temporary colostomy was the only option. The surgeon made an incision at the bottom right-hand side of L’s abdomen, but his intestines in half, and brought both ends out to the surface, protruding out about a quarter inch.
By the grace of God, surgery was a success. When they allowed us into the room to see L, what we witnessed was the most difficult thing we had ever seen. He was on a small table that had a barrier about 8 inches tall so that he couldn't roll out. He laid flat on his back with tubes coming out of his mouth and an IV attached to his forehead. His body looked lifeless, as he hadn't yet woken up from surgery. Jess and I stood on each side of him holding his hands. We were so grateful for the efforts of the surgeon to give our son a second chance, however, we knew this process wasn't over.
Six months later, on July 4th, J and I took L back in for his final reconstructive surgery that would eliminate his colostomy and reattach his G.I. Tract. This was an exciting time for us, because let me tell you. That colostomy bag was an absolute nightmare! This surgery was a success, and L, now thirteen, is living a normal and healthy life.
I have always believed in the power of positive thinking and the importance of maintaining a positive attitude during times that test our mental and physical capabilities. Though I wouldn't wish this experience on anyone, it has strengthened the relationship between J and me and made me realize that nothing is guaranteed in life. This was, without a doubt, the most difficult time of my life, but as I look back, I am better for it. The experience, however, remains bittersweet! | CG
What an intense retelling of what must have been a harrowing experience. Perhaps it will offer hope to others going through difficult circumstances.