The Start of Emry Claire

Hi. I'm Emry. I was just born. My dad says a lot of people, including Future Me, want to know what happened. So I dictated the following to him:

It started October 5th. My mom went in for her regular checkup, during which Dr. Rudy explained that she was already 2 centimeters dilated and 60% effaced, and that I'd put my head into the launch bay. This got me excited. I was holding out for 10-10-10. Not because of auspicious numerology. But because it'd make it way easier to fill out the trillion forms I'll be handed in my lifetime.

But the 10th came. And went. I stayed put. On the 12th, my mom went in for another checkup. Now she was 4 centimeters dilated, 70% effaced. Basically, in labor. Just slowly. Dr. Rudy decided my mom should be induced. She didn't want me to be born in the backseat of a car. She scheduled my mom for Monday the 18th.

On Friday the 15th, my mom's nose started to run. By the afternoon, her throat was sore. Then her ears. Figures. My mom is sick about three times a decade. On Sunday, she called Dr. Rudy and described her symptoms. Dr. Rudy immediately pushed our meeting back five days to Friday the 22nd. She didn't want me to start life with a cold. Thanks for the gesture, Cheryl (Dr. Rudy's 1st name), but at that point I was so cramped my toenails were denting my knee caps. And my mom was dealing with comments like, "Your belly's bigger than the rest of you." We both wanted to be done with the living arrangement.

My dad decided to stay home from work on Monday--partly to nurse mommy back to health, partly to stay close should I make a break for it. Contractions had been underway for three days, but were spread out a safe distance. But Monday came. And went. I stayed put. My mom was grateful for my dad's help, but instead of using the extra time his presence afforded to rest, she used it to nest. For example. She decided 10:15 p.m. was a good time to start painting a lamp shade. I've since learned that once she makes a list, sleep doesn't occur. Unless it's on the list.

Tuesday morning, my mom and dad decided he should go to work. My mom was already scheduled to see Dr. Rudy that afternoon, so they figured if something happened, we'd already be heading in the right direction. Plus, they figured fate wouldn't pass up the chance to start my delivery while my dad was 35 minutes away.

They were right to tempt fate. Almost immediately after my dad closed the door to go at 7:30 a.m., our contractions started in earnest. As in, less-than-five-minutes-apart "in earnest." But another thing I'm learning about my mom is that she likes pain more than inconveniencing those she loves. So she waited until 11 a.m. to call my dad. Once her contractions were coming at four minutes apart. By the time he got home--around 11:30, our contractions were less than three minutes apart. Dad packed up a few belongings--Mommy already had herself, Pearce and me organized--and we bolted. Our first stop was the Paets, who'd previously offered to host my brother Pearce for the day and the night. He won't admit it, but I think he was more excited to play with fellow 4-yr-old Kaleb Paet for the day than to hang with me on my birthday. I don't blame him. Things got messy.

We arrived at Kapiolani Medical Center for Women and Children (the same place my brother Pearce started life) at a quarter past 1. After parking, we headed up to the third floor, only to be told there was no room at the inn.

"What? We just keep driving till we find a hospital with a bed," my dad asked?

"No," the nurse answered. "You wait for a room to clear out."

So we did. For 45 minutes. My mom's contractions were hitting, at longest, every two minutes. Often less. And growing longer and more painful. But you wouldn't know it by looking at her. Which was the problem. The nurses were assessing my mommy's condition by surreptitiously watching her. What they saw was a carefree hottie, laughing in between bites of pastrami and calamari salad that daddy'd picked up at the cafeteria. Only at their worst did my mom honor her contractions with a wince. To the nurses, she looked like a typical newbie mommy, racing to the show at the first hint of it starting, only to be sent home for several more hours--or days--until the real performance started.

But when the contractions began clawing on top of each other, daddy got aggressive. Reluctantly, the nurse awarded us a triage room--which had been open the entire time. Another snotty nurse (turns out these were the only two in the entire hospital) started asking my mom the routine questions. She clearly didn't buy my parents' claim that the contractions were less than two minutes apart. She also didn't seem to hear that, as of a week ago, my mom was 70% effaced and 4 cm dilated because she kept saying things like, "We'll see if you're even dilating," in the same tone a bouncer uses to check the A-list.

It wasn't until she started listening to my heart beat that she started taking us serious. After the third contraction in less than five minutes--and my pulse's accompanying slowdown--she acknowledged: "Looks like your daughter may have punched your ticket. She's not responding well to the contractions you say you're having."

Daddy: "'Not responding well,' as in, 'we need to worry about her 'not responding well.''"
Snotty Nurse: "Nah. It's actually good ting. Means she com'n."

You think.

Next came latex and grouping.

Snotty Nurse: "Oh. She 8 centimetah already. Probly 80 puhcent effaced. Yeah. She in hurry."

You think.

While her hand explored, my mom announced that her water'd broke. The nurse shrugged it off too--apparently still struggling with the notion that patients are capable of truth. But as we started wheeling down the hallway into the delivery room, water gushed onto the floor. I really didn't like that. I'd taken my under-the-sea days for granted. The water'd been my buffer from the outside world. Now I felt shrink wrapped under a pile of rubble.

But my mom disliked it even more. The contractions went up on mommy's pain scale from a 3 to a 5. For the rest of humanity, that's equivalent to a 10. She asked for drugs. More specifically, she asked for an epidural. My mom's never had one. She was determined to make this time her first. But the nurse into whose deft hands we were being transferred, informed us that we were too late for Mr. epidural to rush in and save the day. The best she could do was Demerol. For the record, she then proceeded to publicly scold the snotty nurse and the one at the front desk for dismissing so much of what mommy had been saying, forcing the new team to play catch up, and my mom to suffer thrice the pain.

My mom readily accepted the Demerol and readily became high. Simple sentences turned into slurred discourses about the U.S. postal system and space exploration. But it didn't last. Fifteen minutes later she was back in reality, dealing with the full brunt of my decision to leave her body from a passage no wider than a quarter. She asked for and received more Demerol, but was disappointed to learn what all junkies learn: it's never as good as the first. The contractions were now tracked by their departures, not their arrivals. They were growing in length and viciousness. I was on the move.

By 3:00, Dr. Rudy was in the room. She'd been on her way to her Waipahu office to meet with a few leeward patients--including Mrs. Wendi Phillips--when the hospital called and informed her that I wanted to meet her face to face. She agreed to my proposal and made a U-turn. We were all happy to have her.

But mommy wasn't thrilled about everybody on Dr. Rudy's team. A Med student popped in a few minutes before Dr. Rudy arrived and announced he'd be helping out. Mommy had nothing against him personally or his medical proficiency. Just his gender combined with the fact they'd never met. She's not a fan of meeting new men while she's in stirrups.

But I made her forget about him. I made her forget about everything. For the next 45 minutes, all she could think about was getting me out. She couldn't even hear my dad ask her if she wanted ice to chew on. She just gritted her teeth, jammed her chin into her chest, and pushed. No screaming. No swearing. No crying. Just pushing.

Then at 3:44 p.m., I got my first taste of your world's air. I sucked it in, coughed on it a few times, then announced my presence with a few gurgles, grunts, and finally a single tiny cry. The first thing I heard was the same thing I'd been hearing for nine months--my mom's voice. She was crying gently out of joy. I heard my dad snip me free of my food supply. Then they placed me on her chest and proceeded to wipe, pat, and cover me with blankets. I was just getting comfortable, when they lifted my off and carried me over to something hard and flat. I gotta be honest. I really hated the next few minutes. Things were shoved down my throat, up my nose and up my bahoohoo. It wasn't the welcome party I'd imagined.

But then things got incredibly better. They wrapped me tight just like I like, and took me toward her voice. I still hadn't opened my eyes. I'd been holding out. I wanted the first thing I ever saw in this world to be her. And so it was. They placed me in her arms on her chest and I opened my eyes to the sight of my mommy peering straight back. That was my favorite part.

First Sight: Mom. I'm 2 minutes old.

We hung out for a while. Talking and checking each other out. She even fed me. My dad hovered overhead with two cameras, trying to record it for Future Us while simultaneously trying to get to know me.

But then it was time to go. Off to the business of babying. Measurements (I came in at 8 lbs 1.2 oz and just over 21 inches tall). Deep cleans. Exams. None of it very fun or blogworthy. Bottom line, I was healthy. More importantly, I was happy. I hardly cried at all. They couldn't even dampen my spirits with their little "heel pricks" to check my blood. I was too excited to finally meet the family I'll be with for eternity.

Here are some highlights from the first few days:

The dream team

At the nursery, getting checked and cleaned.

Once Mom and I were in the recovery room, Daddy brought my brother Pearce. He did a five-minute happy dance. He'd been asking if I'd come "today" for the past three months.

Pearce was so excited to finally hold me. He's been kissing me non-stop.

With my Daddy.

My first car ride home.

On Saturday morning (my due date, 23) my parents took me for another blood test. My jaundice was getting worse, so my pediatrician, Dr. Loui, decided to send me back to the hospital for a 24 hours stay under the blue lights. I was a little bummed, but it was better than the alternative.

I was totally disoriented with my eyes covered and my body naked flailing around. To make matters worse, they taped the blindfold to the side of my head, so when they took it off, they took a few layers of skin with it. Barbaric.

Ready to go home again. If you notice I have chubbier cheeks. My doctor instructed my mom to feed me formula along with her breast milk to help with my jaundice. I was happy to oblige since I love to eat.

My mommy painted and put together my room before we left for Vietnam. She's still not sure if she likes the yellow, but I like it. And it turns out I get the same bedding Pearce used. It's a very simple, no fuss, room.

Mommy made a pillow to girl up the blue chair.

In my crib upstairs.

Although, I love napping anywhere...

like my bassinet downstairs...

like my moms nursing pillow...

like with my daddy...

like in my swing..

That is my sucky from the hospital. I like it better than the ones from the store.

Here's mommy giving me my first bath. I loved it. Most relaxing.

That's pretty much it for now. I need to go suck a meal down and take a nap. Thanks for reading, and I look forward to meeting you.

Love,
Emry Claire Phillips