Labor & delivery in an Alaskan snowstorm isn’t for the feight of heart.
“Okay people, listen up. The people upstairs have handed us this, and we’ve got to come through. We need to find a way to make this” — he holds up a square plastic box — “fit into the hole for this” — he holds up a plastic cylinder — “using only that.” He points to a pile of astronaut gear.
Later…
“Okay, this is Houston. Do you guys have a flight plan up there?”
“Yeah, Andy, we’ve got one right here.”
“Okay, ah, we have an unusual procedure for you here. We need you to rip the cover off.”
“He wants us to rip the cover off the flight plan.”
“With pleasure.” Rip!
~ From Apollo 13
It was a good plan; it might even have worked.
A few months ago my wife decided she wanted to have a home birth. “Whatever you want babe, we can make it work,” I said. I meant it. Home birth has major benefits — like not having drive to the birth center in a snowstorm in the middle of the night — but also a number of obstacles to overcome. I love overcoming obstacles, so, no problem. We went into planning mode and started at Amazon.
A few weeks, three orders, and a couple of, er, executive decisions (not mine) later and we had a plan. My wife likes to spend most of her pre-labor in the shower, then deliver in a tub. So, Operation Kavanagh: A midwife-conducted water homebirth in the watchtower (the prettiest room in our house).
We devised a way to conserve enough hot water while also filling an inflatable pool for delivery. I had a crate with everything necessary (pool, pump, tarps, towels, salt, foam mats), forty-five gallons of room temperature water in jugs ready to fill the pool partway, two electric roasting pans to add boiling water. A candy thermometer would let us know when we hit the right temperature. A freshwater hose adapted to the sink would allow me to top it off, and even run warm water over her back as needed.
I’d even made a trial run on a timer and discovered a few flaws we corrected for. It would have worked, I’m pretty sure.
17 Dec. 2018
Wasilla, 03:00
My wife wakes me up. “These are pretty good contractions. Call the midwife,” she says.
I call, and the midwife asks if she should come over, or if we’d rather go to the midwifery for no additional costs. We have seven kids sleeping. Six would have to go two houses down with a neighbor to her house, one would have to call a friend to come pick him up. It’s snowing.
“We’ll go to them,” she says.
The military has a term for this: FRAGO. A “frag order” is a change. It is issued based on the basic operational order. It doesn’t override the overall plan, but designates changes on how to execute it.
“Copy that,” I say.
Inside, a little piece of me deflates. I guess I don’t get to try my plan. ** Cue Vince’s sad panda face.**
But there’s no time to dwell on that because I need to dress, pack a bag with all of the necessary newborn items, all the mom items like snacks, her clothes, etc.
It’s snowing, and it’s 10 degrees. Crap. I need to brush off the Suburban and warm it up.
Once it’s started, I need to go to the shed and dig out the new carseat, which is still in the box because you don’t need a carseat installed prior to a home birth.
I check on my wife. She’s in a good mood. Good, still plenty of time…to drive to the midwifery…in a snowstorm. The irony.
We get there without much drama. This is decidedly better than the last time I drove her at 3:00am. That time she was also pregnant, but writhing in pain needing emergency gall bladder surgery. On that drive she was inconsolable; this time she’s joking with me in between contractions, because she’s a veteran.
Five hours later, labor stalled out. Baby spread his arms and legs against the interior of the birth canal and said, “Uh uh, I like it in here.”
New plan; we’re going home. We’ll come back this afternoon and see where she’s at.
Midwifery
14:45
My wife texts me while I’m waiting with all the kids in the car. “They want me to stay, I’m right on the edge,” she says.
“Copy that,” I text back. Now I need to arrange for someone to take the kids home. My phone buzzes with a low battery. I look for the car charger. It’s missing.
Doh! FRAGO #3.
I begin a series of texts with four people on a phone at 5% power. I need a charger. There’s a Lowes a half-mile away. I divert course, get a charger and a wall adapter, transfer the kids to a friend’s car, and even have time to justify going to Subway to get my wife and I some carbs for the long night ahead. No plan survives first contact with the enemy, right? Adapt. I’ve got this. Of course, in this scenario there is no enemy. But you know what I mean.
I figure since she resting, it’ll be a good time to install that carseat so it’s ready when we want to go home. I don’t want to deal with that at the last minute. Those can be tricky.
Installed. Ha ha. I’m crushing this. Is this all you can muster, Saruman!?
22:30
I stumble around the delivery suite by myself. My wife is in the shower, has been for hours. Good thing we’re here, I guess. My hot water would have been out hours ago. I check in periodically on the increasingly frustrated, and increasingly dangerous pregnant woman. She is polite, which means she’s not very close, but I can see her Irish starting to show. That’s not a labor Irish, it’s an I’m pissed off Irish. After twenty-two years I know the difference. I offer what feeble help I can — mainly texting her friends to pray and refilling her beverages. I finish my Mt. Dew and note the irony as I read a few pages of The Coming Fury by Bruce Catton.
18 Dec. 2018
02:45
Now my wife’s labor Irish is in full flame. A few minutes after breaking her water she’s at go-time. Why didn’t they do this when she told them to hours ago? It’s a long story; buy her a coffee and she might tell you about it. Fifteen minutes later, done — Kavanagh is born. We rest. We take pictures. She eats raspberry crepes. The new plan is almost complete.
08:00
Baby is good. Mom is good. It’s time to go home. It’s still snowing so I head out to start the Suburban. I open the door and the interior lights don’t come on. Huh? That’s odd. I put the key in the ignition and immediately realize I must have left the interior lights on while installing the carseat the night before. Blah. Stupid. I go back in and ask the midwife in a sheepish tone if I can use her car for a jump.
“Sure, no problem,” she says and hands me the keys. “You may have to look around, though. My husband and I couldn’t find the battery,” she says.
Amateurs. Who can’t find their car battery?
It’s been snowing all night but it’s only an inch or two, and there aren’t any other cars in the Midwifery parking lot so hers is easy to find. I click the door unlock button and sit behind the wheel of her Mini Cooper. Where is the ignition. Which one is the ignition key? I look at her keychain and see a larger key than the others and try to hold that up against logical spots on the steering column. The problem is, there are no holes. I look back at the keychain. There is a black gigapet that says MINI on it. Maybe this goes in?? I look around for a spot it might go. Here? It fits. Victory!
Now, how to start it? I begin contemplating what simple method a modern car engineer might design to start a vehicle intended for Millenials. Probably a big button that says ‘Start Engine.’ There’s one. I try to engage the transmission but the engine turns off. What the? I look around and see the midwife smiling at me as I struggle in her seat. I get out. “Here, I’ll let you drive it over. I can’t figure this thing out,” I admit.
I get the jumper cables attached to my dead battery as she pulls up, pops her hood and stands back. As I look in with the snow falling around us, this is what I see:
You tell me where the battery is, Buddy. I’ll spare you the google search — which, after poking around and erroneously unscrewing a fuse box cover, is how we found it. It’s right here, under a plastic flap covering near the windshield:
I’m sure this is a fine vehicle. But I shall henceforth call them Beetlejuice bugs, because they mess with you and delight in your perplexed astonishment.
Suburban jumped, we all drive home in the snow wondering if there will be any other snags to our best- laid plans, and realize that this is his due date. He came exactly when he was supposed to, though not the way we thought he would. We shouldn’t be surprised. This has been our life all year.
Make a plan, equip to execute the plan, amend the plan to account for extraneous variables, learn new procedures to execute new plan, repeat as needed.
It always works out; He ensures that. Sometimes, though, you have to start by tearing the cover off the flight plan.