Meg Ferrill - Not in the Plan

 

You read the bio, you follow instructions, could you get any sexier? [audience laughter] When my wife was pregnant, we jumped knee deep into planning the birth. We did this, because I'm a project manager and I'm a freaking great project manager. [audience laughter] I'm a great project manager, because I'm preprogrammed to anticipate danger. Some people just call it anxiety, but I call it my superpower. [audience laughter] 

 

So, we jumped right into the planning. Jen wanted this birth plan, which is this document you create with your preferences for the labor. She didn't want any drugs. She wanted to hold the baby with all its wound juices intact. She was even debating eating the placenta. [audience laughter] She was going all cave woman in on this. [audience laughter] And because of a bad labor class experience, she planned on having a doula. 

 

Now, doula to me, were mythical creatures, [audience laughter] much like fairies. I thought they could be found wherever patchouli or hemp was sold. [audience laughter] But my wife convinced me that in order for this baby not to be born into a freshly broken home, we needed a doula. [audience laughter] 

 

And last, we took a tour of the hospital of where my wife would give birth to complete the planning. And the tour was rather uneventful. There was a tour of the facilities, a Q&A, and most importantly, they validated the parking. [audience laughter] And now, my wife hadn't felt good during the tour. In fact, she hadn't felt good since the night before, but she was also 38 weeks pregnant. It's really hard to feel good at that point. And so, now though we had found ourselves five hours after the tour had ended, and my wife was bent over sobbing in pain. 

 

And to be clear, this was not labor. It felt like only seconds. But we moved so fast and we got to the hospital. They put us in the smallest birthing room. Our nurse hooked Jen up to a blood pressure machine and it started beeping immediately. It was beeping so loud that it actually brought in three other nurses. And our nurse looked at the machine and she said, “This is impossibly high. It must be broken,” and hooked her up to another machine. But the machines weren't broken. In fact, they thought Jen was broken. 

 

And so, now all the nurses quickly gathered around Jen, and they were acting like one entity from one brain. They were like this octopus of sorts engulfing her. One tentacle put an IV, one tentacle took her temperature, another one put on monitors and they were moving so quickly. And the octopus was not saying anything. It didn't have to, because it was very clear that something was really wrong with her. 

 

I just sunk back into the corner and just stood there, because there was nothing I could do. I couldn't stop this. No matter how many times I closed and opened my eyes, the octopus was still there. I was looking at my wife, who is carrying our son. And because of my superpower, all I can think is that I might lose them. I am terrified at the thought of not having another day with my wife, or even not having just one day with my son, because some tiny part of me thought that because they existed, I would be given full lifetimes with each of them. 

 

But in this moment, it is just really clear that you're not promised a lifetime, you're not even promised a day and that each day we are living, we are just stealing from death, because death is the only thing that has been promised in this equation. I can feel the room getting smaller, because people are coming in and out, and I know that I am just in the way. And so, I leave my heart in the room and I move my body through the doorway. And as I do, I can see our doctor approaching. I know he's talked to our nurses, but this is the first time I'm seeing him. I just run to him and I say, “Will our baby be okay?” And he says, “Yes.” And I feel my lungs expand with relief. 

 

But then, he says, “Your wife though will die if we don't take the baby out.” He ushers me back into the room, so that he can talk to both of us. But I am just in this fog of these words that he said. I can hear him telling Jen that she has severe preeclampsia, and that she needs an emergency C-section and she needs it immediately. I can hear her pleading with him to let her just push and asking him to wait for the doula. I know that she's doing this, because she has no idea what he has just said to me. 

 

I can see that Jen is heartbroken that this is not the birth she wanted, that a C-section was not in the plan, that none of this was in the plan. I am just so angry with the plan for this illusion of control that is provided. Our doctor can tell that we are just both cracking. Jen at this birth that she's being robbed of, and me at my inability to make things right. And he just says, “Look, this is the beginning of your life as parents. There will be ups, there will be downs, and you just have to remain flexible.” 

 

A little over two hours after we arrived in the hospital, we heard our son, Gus, cry for the first time. And we were tucked behind a curtain, so we heard him before we saw him. His cry was his first sign of him in this world. I love his cry even today, because it will always remind me of what it did then, that he's alive. And every time I look at my wife and my son, I'm reminded that we might not have a tomorrow together, but we do have a today. Maybe my superpower shouldn't be planning, maybe my superpowers should just be loving them so hard today that there is no room to plan for tomorrow.