May 15, around 5:30 a.m., I am awakened by the sound of a train whistle. It seems to be at the other end of the house. I realize that it is Marshall's ring on my cell phone, and fortunately not a train coming through Frisby Hall (it's a long story). When I answer, Marshall says something like, "we're going to have a baby today!" I clap, wake up the rest of the house (MP, Josh, and Simeon are staying with us until they close on their new house), share the exciting news, get dressed, and head to the hospital.
I am a bit stressed that I am going to miss the birth because I have a walking tour at 9:45. I stay as long as I can, then leave to do my tour. Who knows what I tell those children, for while my body is on the tour, my mind is at Vanderbilt Hospital. Periodically, I get text messages from Mr. Lincoln asking if I have news. We are ready for a baby to arrive. I return to the hospital to learn that it is probably going to be that evening before Baby Max arrives so I go home, rest, gather some things with the idea of staying at the hospital until the expected arrival some time later that evening.
Those who know me well, know that 9:00 p.m. is my favored bedtime. Some nights I only stay up until 9:00 because I find it ludicrous that a grown woman would go to bed before then. As I sit in the labor and delivery waiting room, which seats about 10, I am surrounded by 14 members of the same VERY loud, boisterous family, also waiting for a new arrival. Needing to join the fray, is a lady from Kansas who fancies herself possessing a Tina Fey sort of wit, and who feels no compunction in trying to entertain the crowd. I fear that I find her neither entertaining nor very nice as she bad-mouths her daughter-in-law who labored 30 hours before delivering a pre-mature baby via c-section. She says something along the lines of "the girl just needs to grow up." Really? Around 10:30, now an hour and a half past my desired bedtime, Marshall comes out to say I should just go home and rest. As I leave, I watch him and Sheri walking laps around the hospital hallways trying to bring on more productive labor pains.
The next day dawns as MP's first day back at work after having Simeon. It is my first day to keep him. I am torn. I want to be at the hospital, but I also want to keep Simeon. Enter, my sister, who saves the day by coming and keeping the baby while MP works and I sit vigil at the hospital. This morning finds me in the waiting room with not one, but two, extremely loud families, one of which includes a three year old. The mother of this family is there to be induced. Her husband is incredulous that they are having to wait. I am tired, grumpy, and incredulous that they have brought their three year old to a birthing!! Seriously, the father is popping wheelies with the stroller up and down the hallways. I am not amused. When Mr. Lincoln arrives to sit with me, he is not amused either. From one or the other of us, there are whispered threats of bodily harm to the loud ones if they do not SHUT UP!!
Periodically, Marshall comes out with reports. Sheri's sister, who is her birthing coach, shares news. It is like being on the world's most frightening roller coaster. C-section is thrown into the conversation, finally after about 33 hours Sheri has an epidural, the baby's heartbeat is dropping drastically every 3rd or so contraction. They try this medicine, and that measure, and this and that. I feel like a rubber band wound tightly enough to pop. And, still the loud man demands his wife be induced. Somebody, please make him go away!
Around 2:00 p.m. we get the word that Sheri is going to have an emergency C-section. The commotion in the hallway as the doctors and mid-wives and nurses scream at the wheelie-popping man in the passageway between labor and delivery and the operating room to "get out of the way," as they run Sheri across the hall to have surgery, is so scary. Sheri's sister comes out, exhaustion on her face, to describe the scene in the room right before the decision was made for surgery, and I find myself fighting back tears...quite unsuccessfully, I might add. Jessica hugs me. Jessica, the young woman who has basically labored right beside Sheri, coaching, encouraging, praying, hoping, all night long. Jessica, who has 3 young children of her own at home. Jessica is comforting me. Soon, we see Marshall walk across the hall with a mask on and paper scrubs. Baby Max is about to enter the world.
I sit down by a couple, a quiet couple from Louisiana, who await their grandson's birth. We chat for a moment, and then I get a text from Marshall. It is a picture of Max. Later, we learn of the fear in that room. We learn that Max was not breathing; he had no heartbeat. I am so grateful for good doctors and good hospital care. Mr. Lincoln and I see Max for a few moments before Marshall follows him to the nursery. We stand and watch through the window as they check him out and watch our son talk to his new son with words of comfort and love. It is lovely, but I am so sorry for Sheri, my warrior daughter-in-law, that she can not just enjoy that time holding Max and bonding with him. But, all is well...or is it?
When it is time for us to go home that evening, Marshall is dead on his feet. I tell him that I think he should not drive home, and that I will take him. He begins to complain about his eye hurting. It has been bothering him since the evening of the 14th, but with all the commotion, he has not mentioned it. I look at his badly bloodshot eye, and notice a speck of something on the iris. He tries to get it out with his finger. We try to wash it out. It is not moving. He is like a tired, wounded bear, desperate for someone to help him get this thing out of his eye. I arrange an appointment the next morning with my opthamologist. We learn that the speck in Marshall's eye is actually a shard of metal. It has to be pulled out followed by his eyeball being buffed with what sounds like a mini dremel. He is in a great deal of pain, but tries to be very wise and not mention that to his wife who has just gone through 30+ hours of labor followed by major surgery. But, all is finally well...or is it?On Thursday, I have to work. I am tired, and so I come home to rest, and give Sheri time to rest. I am fairly certain it is this day that we learn Max has a blood infection. At first they think it is e-coli. Do not, I repeat, do not Google such things. It will take years off your life. It is decided that he should be put in the NICU so that he can be more closely monitored. Every little report is scarier than the one before. The doctors tell us of this number being elevated and this culture being positive. Gradually, Sheri becomes ill, until she crescendos into a 106 fever. Good news, followed by bad news, followed by good news, followed by bad.
I do not remember all the details. Mr. Lincoln, MP, Josh, and I, along with Sheri's family try to meet what needs we can. The only real need they want met is Max and Sheri healed and home. We can not provide that, but we post countless emails and FB posts asking for prayers. Prayers are offered from around the globe on their behalf. I have said this before. I believe in the power of prayer. I have no explanation for those who pray and pray only to have their prayers seemingly go unanswered. I do not know what that is about. I have come to hate the words, "there but by the grace of God go I" because it makes God seem so capricious in his doling out of grace. I do not have answers. But, I thank God for Max's life and for Sheri's health. I pray, daily, that He commands His angels concerning Max and Simeon, and that He surrounds them with a hedge of protection.
Mr. Lincoln and I enjoy this holiday with our children and our grandsons. Today, I live as I wish to live everyday...in faith and in gratitude.
So, for today, I wish you joy in the presence of those you love, gratitude, and I wish you
blessings
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