A Grand Entrance
It is perhaps the cruelest of ironies that while each and every person on Earth makes at least one grand entrance in their lifetime, an entrance so grand that they are truly the center of attention, they will without a doubt never be able to recall this moment for their entire lives. Now, the vast majority of us will never be able to follow through with subsequent grand entrances, achieved only by a select few and involving some of the following features: being able to walk down a red carpet, having everyone in a large room stop talking and begin looking at you, or the always classic walking into a crowded lecture hall 20 minutes late with the girl you just hooked up with quickly following behind you only to have 120 of your peers stop what they are doing, stare, and gasp in the sheer horror of finally understanding what diabolically evil sexual acts must have gone on among all those folds and male breasts the night before (this calls for the obligatory "Boop boop bee doop" inside joke understandable to about five people - apologies to the general public). However, there was that one time in your life when, after hours and hours of labor, you made your first entrance, your grand entrance, into this world covered in slime and providing that beautiful spectrum of emotions, ranging from “It’s a miracle!” to “How the hell am I going to pay for that?” for your parents. In honor of this moment, and as a nice way of capping off my two weeks on the labor and delivery service (which I thoroughly enjoyed - watch out ladies, I might actually want to do OB/Gyn), I thought I'd share a few of the more memorable delivery moments that marked a few special babies' grand entrances into this world, because, lets face it...it's all downhill from here:
Since the baby’s head was up, in a breech position that failed non-invasive attempts to correct this position, a scheduled cesarean section was indicated. The mother was wheeled to the operating room, and the surgery began soon thereafter. A few slices of the skin later, and the residents had reached the uterus, ready to expose the child and bring him out to the world he would be residing in for the next few years. Except the thing with a breech delivery is, no matter whether it’s a vaginal or c-section delivery, the butt naturally comes out first. So when the residents cut through the uterus and began extracting the baby from his mother’s womb, they had to reach inside and grab the baby’s behind, squeezing it through the hole they had just created. A hole, I should remind you, that was not all that large. Perhaps it was the pressure of the moment, perhaps the stress of the onlookers in their sterile garb, perhaps the fact that the surgeons were very strongly squeezing his butt cheeks, or perhaps it was the infant’s subconscious (or conscious?) knowledge that he was literally marking the beginning of his life with his best face forward, but he decided to greet the onlookers, surgeons, and parents the only way he saw fit given these circumstances: by dropping a massive poop all over himself, his mother, and a couple of unfortunately placed hands attached to an otherwise lovely and poo-free intern*. Well played, young man. Well played…
In the pre-delivery commotion that enveloped one labor and delivery room, just about everyone failed to notice the subtle but purposeful motion the husband made for their designer bag just as delivery was imminent and as he was trying (but failing) to give his wife breathing instructions through his counting. His wife, an attractive young woman pushing strongly while heavily medicated, started barking at her husband to stop counting and do away with all the stuff they’d practiced in a ritzy and posh Lamaze class they had attended in the months leading up to the surgery. Instead, just as the baby’s head was ready to emerge, the husband reached for his overpriced camera and started snapping pictures. Then, as the baby finally plowed her way through her mother’s vagina, he reached for his razor-thin cell phone and began calling someone, only to quickly shove the phone to his wife’s ear seconds after delivery, baby in hand and cord just severed. Sensing the ridiculous situation for what it was, the mother realized that she was not ready to talk on the cell phone…not now, not right after pushing a big baby through her not so big vagina, of course. How dare her husband ruin the moment by intruding with a cell phone. So naturally, given this situation, the mother did what any self-respecting woman would do. Throw the phone away and embrace her baby? Tell her husband he’s an idiot? Ask about any Jewish single men in the room? No, no, and…uhh…yes (see below). Instead, she began a habit she would likely regret sometime in the next ten to twelve years (and subsequently thereafter) and placed the cell phone on the baby’s ear, starting the baby on a habit more dangerous than crack, porn, and snacking on all the free food at Costco combined, all only moments out of the womb. Only twenty seconds into life, and this baby had taken to a cell phone and began making those odd baby noises into it, not wanting to relinquish its control. Sill mere seconds into life, and this baby had already used up valuable daytime minutes on her parent’s cell phone plan, already annoyed a whole bunch of people nearby by talking on a cell phone at an inappropriate time, and already gabbed enough on the phone to set in stone her destiny as a future Jewish American Princess. To whom was this baby speaking? Why did her parents choose to have her first conversation be on the phone? And why did the mother, while I was pulling a placenta out of her uterus and vagina, think it was an appropriate time to mention that she had a single younger sister she wanted me to meet? The answer to all these questions is unknown, but can likely be pieced together from within the cries of that fateful first cell phone conversation. Whispers of “Gucci”, “Louis Vuitton”, and “Prada” filled the steamy atmosphere, but not a single utterance of the word “Kirkland” was to be found (although they do make nice jeans and toilet paper.)…
The last delivery I was privileged to few was much like the first, and much like most of the ones in between. A family of five filled the room, a father, grandparents, and a couple of children, all anxiously waiting for that moment when mom would push yet another child into existence. Hours of labor passed by, with mom’s concentrated effort to push at two minute intervals not yielding much success in bringing the baby out but yielding many beads of sweat down her forehead. Eventually, however, the pushing began to work, because before we knew it, a head was plummeting down her vaginal canal and ready to burst into reality. The mom was now screaming in pain, the dad looking on anxiously, and the grandparents watching with a mixture of dread, despair, and hope while they covered their gaping mouths with their trembling hands. More pushing, and now the bulk of the head was visible. Pulsations were felt going across the baby’s scalp, and we knew she was almost ready to come out. A few more pushes and there she was, a blue baby girl, poking her head out of the womb she called home for about nine months and taking her first gasp of our atmosphere. As she was extracted from her mother’s womb, her father gave a cry of joy, her grandparents felt warm tears start streaming from their eyes, and her mother sighed in relief of a job well done, about ready to receive the fruits of her labor (pun marginally intended) when the resident quickly handed the baby over to her. The father then cut the cord, and the baby was now free, ready to begin life…
Why this last story, when it is clear that nothing eventful happened, nothing all that ridiculous, entertaining, or gross? Because what I’ve learned from my two weeks on Labor & Delivery is that even the utterly mundane, the uneventful, the sheer boredom inherent in obstetrics is more awe inspiring, more beautiful a moment in time than just about anything I have ever seen, whether in medical school or in life as a whole. There is really nothing quite like it, and even the simplest delivery to the most non-descript family at the most inauspicious time still warrants the title of a grand entrance for the baby in that family’s line, and I defy anyone to prove otherwise.
Can you believe what kind of a sap I’ve turned into these last few weeks? Good lord. Wait, what’s that? You can? Thanks.
*I shit you not. Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself.
Since the baby’s head was up, in a breech position that failed non-invasive attempts to correct this position, a scheduled cesarean section was indicated. The mother was wheeled to the operating room, and the surgery began soon thereafter. A few slices of the skin later, and the residents had reached the uterus, ready to expose the child and bring him out to the world he would be residing in for the next few years. Except the thing with a breech delivery is, no matter whether it’s a vaginal or c-section delivery, the butt naturally comes out first. So when the residents cut through the uterus and began extracting the baby from his mother’s womb, they had to reach inside and grab the baby’s behind, squeezing it through the hole they had just created. A hole, I should remind you, that was not all that large. Perhaps it was the pressure of the moment, perhaps the stress of the onlookers in their sterile garb, perhaps the fact that the surgeons were very strongly squeezing his butt cheeks, or perhaps it was the infant’s subconscious (or conscious?) knowledge that he was literally marking the beginning of his life with his best face forward, but he decided to greet the onlookers, surgeons, and parents the only way he saw fit given these circumstances: by dropping a massive poop all over himself, his mother, and a couple of unfortunately placed hands attached to an otherwise lovely and poo-free intern*. Well played, young man. Well played…
In the pre-delivery commotion that enveloped one labor and delivery room, just about everyone failed to notice the subtle but purposeful motion the husband made for their designer bag just as delivery was imminent and as he was trying (but failing) to give his wife breathing instructions through his counting. His wife, an attractive young woman pushing strongly while heavily medicated, started barking at her husband to stop counting and do away with all the stuff they’d practiced in a ritzy and posh Lamaze class they had attended in the months leading up to the surgery. Instead, just as the baby’s head was ready to emerge, the husband reached for his overpriced camera and started snapping pictures. Then, as the baby finally plowed her way through her mother’s vagina, he reached for his razor-thin cell phone and began calling someone, only to quickly shove the phone to his wife’s ear seconds after delivery, baby in hand and cord just severed. Sensing the ridiculous situation for what it was, the mother realized that she was not ready to talk on the cell phone…not now, not right after pushing a big baby through her not so big vagina, of course. How dare her husband ruin the moment by intruding with a cell phone. So naturally, given this situation, the mother did what any self-respecting woman would do. Throw the phone away and embrace her baby? Tell her husband he’s an idiot? Ask about any Jewish single men in the room? No, no, and…uhh…yes (see below). Instead, she began a habit she would likely regret sometime in the next ten to twelve years (and subsequently thereafter) and placed the cell phone on the baby’s ear, starting the baby on a habit more dangerous than crack, porn, and snacking on all the free food at Costco combined, all only moments out of the womb. Only twenty seconds into life, and this baby had taken to a cell phone and began making those odd baby noises into it, not wanting to relinquish its control. Sill mere seconds into life, and this baby had already used up valuable daytime minutes on her parent’s cell phone plan, already annoyed a whole bunch of people nearby by talking on a cell phone at an inappropriate time, and already gabbed enough on the phone to set in stone her destiny as a future Jewish American Princess. To whom was this baby speaking? Why did her parents choose to have her first conversation be on the phone? And why did the mother, while I was pulling a placenta out of her uterus and vagina, think it was an appropriate time to mention that she had a single younger sister she wanted me to meet? The answer to all these questions is unknown, but can likely be pieced together from within the cries of that fateful first cell phone conversation. Whispers of “Gucci”, “Louis Vuitton”, and “Prada” filled the steamy atmosphere, but not a single utterance of the word “Kirkland” was to be found (although they do make nice jeans and toilet paper.)…
The last delivery I was privileged to few was much like the first, and much like most of the ones in between. A family of five filled the room, a father, grandparents, and a couple of children, all anxiously waiting for that moment when mom would push yet another child into existence. Hours of labor passed by, with mom’s concentrated effort to push at two minute intervals not yielding much success in bringing the baby out but yielding many beads of sweat down her forehead. Eventually, however, the pushing began to work, because before we knew it, a head was plummeting down her vaginal canal and ready to burst into reality. The mom was now screaming in pain, the dad looking on anxiously, and the grandparents watching with a mixture of dread, despair, and hope while they covered their gaping mouths with their trembling hands. More pushing, and now the bulk of the head was visible. Pulsations were felt going across the baby’s scalp, and we knew she was almost ready to come out. A few more pushes and there she was, a blue baby girl, poking her head out of the womb she called home for about nine months and taking her first gasp of our atmosphere. As she was extracted from her mother’s womb, her father gave a cry of joy, her grandparents felt warm tears start streaming from their eyes, and her mother sighed in relief of a job well done, about ready to receive the fruits of her labor (pun marginally intended) when the resident quickly handed the baby over to her. The father then cut the cord, and the baby was now free, ready to begin life…
Why this last story, when it is clear that nothing eventful happened, nothing all that ridiculous, entertaining, or gross? Because what I’ve learned from my two weeks on Labor & Delivery is that even the utterly mundane, the uneventful, the sheer boredom inherent in obstetrics is more awe inspiring, more beautiful a moment in time than just about anything I have ever seen, whether in medical school or in life as a whole. There is really nothing quite like it, and even the simplest delivery to the most non-descript family at the most inauspicious time still warrants the title of a grand entrance for the baby in that family’s line, and I defy anyone to prove otherwise.
Can you believe what kind of a sap I’ve turned into these last few weeks? Good lord. Wait, what’s that? You can? Thanks.
*I shit you not. Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself.
posted by Admin at 1:21 PM
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