Parker

I wrote this shortly after Parker's birthday party. Then I revised and revised and revised until I came up with this. Why all the revisions? One reason is because that's what writers do (and now I'm calling myself a writer?!). The other reason is because I had thought about entering this particular piece in a writing competition. I ended up submitting a different paper though. Several people had a hand in this piece about Parker. I owe them my deepest and sincerest gratitude for helping me to write effectively, for taking an interest in the random thoughts in my brain, and for encouraging me to write, write, write: David Kendrick, Karina (Kari) Harris, Dianne Sharit, Jackie Holcomb, CSD, Kenith Jolley, Shelly Ann Edge McDonald, Kevin Allen, Mark Hyatt, Captain Larry Turner, KC and Rose Kyle, Celeste Stapler, Courtney Kyle.

            I am cleaning up the veritable carnage left after my son’s third birthday party – torn streamers, deflated balloons, smashed cake, abandoned favors. I am already exhausted from baking cupcakes and setting up birthday decorations. The house is a monumental mess.  And though I have “miles to go before I sleep,” I could not be more thankful to be carrying on through this exhaustion.

            Three years ago today, I was in the delivery room trying to bring my son, Parker, into the world. I had been in this place before when my first son was born. I will never forget the moment Parker’s older brother, Nicholas, was laid on my chest. Our eyes locked, and I distinctly remember thinking, “This is the moment – this moment of surreal recognition and unfathomable joy – THIS is why we bake a cake and hang streamers and inflate balloons and invite everyone we love to celebrate the anniversary of this incredible day, year after year after year.”

            Parker and I never got to have “that” moment. I could tell something was not right. I pushed for two hours, but I still had no newborn.  Parker’s vital signs were becoming more erratic with every contraction. I was beyond discouraged to have come so far only to hear my doctor announce that I needed to have a C-section.

Mark, my sweet husband, was beside himself. Only days before, we had watched a documentary film about several different expecting couples, each with their own unique birthing stories. The couple whose wife had a C-section scarred Mark for life. It is, after all, an invasive surgery. Bear in mind that this was not on a “regular” television station; this was on one of the premium movie channels, and it showed EVERYTHING! Mark said (and rather confidently, I might add), “I’m so glad my baby won’t be born by C-section. I don’t know how any woman could recuperate from that AND be able to enjoy her baby.”

So when an emergency team was assembled, and I was prepped for surgery, Mark went into a sort of shock. There I was comforting him, telling him everything would be all right. Who was having this surgery again?

The medicine administered through my epidural allowed me to be more or less awake, at least to begin with. I remember that everyone, including Mark and me, was wearing blue, and that the lights were very bright. I remember there was a blue curtain dangling over my chest. I remember that my voice went away completely. I felt dehydrated. I remember desperately wanting to be awake. I could not imagine my youngest son coming into the world to a mother who had closed eyes. But the urge to slumber became more powerful than my will to stay awake. I slid in and out of consciousness, and then surrendered to sleep.

I awoke to some activity. Although I could feel no pain, I could tell that I was being sutured. There were some soft voices from the doctors and nurses. They were using soft voices? I was being stitched up, so I knew my baby had been taken out. My baby was born! Where were the whooping and hollering and other sounds of merriment? Where was the joy? Where was the birthday party? I managed to look at Mark by my side. His head was down and he was soundless. He didn’t even know I was looking at him, and I could not speak or move to gain his attention. Then a female voice said, “His color is improving.” Were they talking about Parker? And why in the world did his color need to be improved upon?

That blasted blue curtain was blocking my view. My brain earnestly tried to tell my right arm to move that curtain, but my arm felt like a ton of bricks. I kept trying though, and I finally managed to push the curtain aside. I saw a half dozen or so people hovered over my lifeless baby boy. I saw the bag valve mask over his little face, and a nurse was using it to squeeze air into his lungs.

I could not cry, for I was too dehydrated. I could not ask what was happening, for I had no voice. I could not sit up to better lay my eyes on this angelic little creature that I had loved for the last nine months, for I was weak. All that I could do was turn my head into Mark’s knee and close my eyes. I lay there knowing everything in my world was all wrong, and there was nothing I could do about it. The only thing I had any control over was prayer. I did not bargain with God; my prayer was not negotiable. I did not even ask God if he could help. I commanded God to make Parker be all right. “Help him. Fix this right now.” I had no intention of going home to an empty nursery.

The wait was agonizing. The only thing that kept me from acting like a disquieted bundle of nerves was the lethargic effect of the drugs I had been given. This was probably a blessing to everyone in that operating room, now that I think about it. Finally, someone said, “He’s going to be OK.” I heard him whimper for the first time, and the nurses sounded their approval. Then I heard him cry – really cry – and there were more expressions of joy from these blue-clad people. Mark and I smiled. The pediatrician wanted to keep a close eye on Parker, but said it was all right for Mark to go with him to the nursery while the nurses attended to me for post-op procedures.

As my drugs wore off, my voice came back. I had lots of questions for the two nurses preparing me for recovery, and I did not hold back. I learned that the umbilical cord had been wrapped around Parker’s neck. He was nearly suffocated. He did not breathe on his own for a full five minutes. I asked about his Apgar score. An Apgar score ranges from zero to ten. Anything above seven is favorable, and anything below three is “critically low.”  His initial Apgar score was a meager two.

The nurses tending to me wheeled me into the hallway where the windows to the nursery were. Much of Parker’s extended family was there, cooing and chattering over how beautiful he was. Mark stood on the other side of the window with Parker, taking pictures and touching him and laughing. The two nurses and I gave each other a poignant, knowing glance. We knew that this tender moment almost had not transpired. The nurses held back their tears. I did not, and could not, even if I had wanted to.

Parker’s journey these last three years has been delightful. He is a perfectly healthy, happy, rambunctious, assertive little boy. Mark and I have truly enjoyed every midnight bottle feeding, every scream and cry, every laugh and smile, every milestone…even every “terrible two” tantrum (and there have been many). Nicholas and Parker are at once the best of friends and the worst of enemies, as brothers often are. I cannot imagine my life without either one of them.

So tonight, three wondrous years later, I sit in my house amidst the aftermath of my child’s birthday party. My husband and I have done all the cleaning we can for today. It is time for dinner. As is usual in our house, we hold hands while Mark says a prayer before we eat. He thanks God for our food, for the day, and tonight, he also thanks God for the last three years we have had with Parker. But when we say, “Amen,” Parker has not let go of our hands. We look at him, and he looks at us. Then Parker says, “And presents…and balloons…and [Hotwheels] cars.” Such simple things make our three year old happy. He knows he is loved. He knows he is important. He knows he matters not only to us, but to God as well. That is really all I could ever ask for.