Lincoln's Birth Day

My grandson Lincoln’s arrival into the world Sept. 19th was much the same as my experience arriving in Jacksonville – not on schedule, some heart-in-my-throat moments and eternal gratitude when it was over and everything was okay.

It was apparently a popular day to give birth at Winn Army Community Hospital at Ft. Stewart, GA. Amanda received a call the night before her scheduled Cesarean date to inform her that things were not going according to schedule and her surgery time would most likely be pushed back. She was instructed to call back at 7am on Monday morning (or 0700 hours, since it’s the Army) to find out if surgery was on track.

Monday morning arrived and she called in as instructed only to be told that there had been some emergency deliveries that in turn, pushed her delivery time back. She was told to call back at 0900 for an update. There’s a reason they have the saying in the Army “hurry up and wait.”

I cooked Avery some breakfast while Amanda puttered around the house just trying to stay busy so she could ignore the rumbling in her stomach since she was unable to eat or drink anything after midnight the evening before. Lincoln was making his displeasure known by being especially active. I imagine it’s tough to go from a round-the-clock continuous eating schedule to having nothing. And I’m sure Lincoln was hungry too.

Amanda called back at 0900 and was told to come in at 1000, which would have been possible if we didn’t have a stubborn toddler to get ready, a 30-minute drive to post, and a 15-minute daycare drop-off. Luckily, they were understanding and moved it back to 1030, which was still going to be tight. Off we went in two separate cars so I’d be able to have Amanda’s car so I could get around and be able to get Avery back and forth to daycare.

Amanda’s lead foot got us there in record time, although I’m sure if we’d been stopped by a police officer all he would have needed to do was take a look at her huge belly to know that an excuse of ‘I’m having a baby’ wasn’t a lie. Luckily we made it to the post daycare center without incident and Patrick’s mother, father and sister, who had driven down from Maryland for the birth, were waiting at the daycare center to say good-by to Avery, as it was their plan to get back on the road north again in the early afternoon.  Well, we all know the saying about the best laid plans….

Amanda and I got Avery to his classroom and said goodbye with just a few tears (on our part, not Avery’s) and then it was on to the hospital, which is just a stone’s throw from the daycare center. Parking spaces were scarcer than the non-sweaty parts of my body (it’s hard to tell what was menopause sweats or Georgia humidity) and I ended up making two loops of the parking lot before I finally decided that I was going to park in the “Staff Only” parking area and take my chances. Really, who was going to know? 

Our band of six crowded into the elevator and headed to the fourth floor Labor and Delivery area, where Amanda and Patrick gained entrance, while the rest of us took our seats in the waiting area. For me, this experience was going to be much different than Avery’s birth three years ago (in the very same hospital). To put it in Emmy terms (since we just had the Emmy’s and I didn’t get to watch them), for Avery’s birth, while Amanda had the role of Best Lead Actress, I had the Best Supporting Actress role since I was her major champion at the time. It was an intimate, terrifying and exhilarating experience to see my grandson Avery make his way into the world and it was one I will never forget. This time, however, I had been relegated to the role of Extra, waiting to make my brief appearance, say a few lines and then fade back into the scenery. Patrick had the role of Lead Actor this time around and rightly so. But it was tough to know all I could was wait for things to happen. And wait we did.

Since I don’t do well with waiting, despite living for 23 years under the Army’s “hurry up and wait” philosophy, I decided to go for a walk around the hospital and eventually found myself in the hospital cafeteria. It was lunchtime so I figured I’d get a bite to eat, although I really had no appetite. My mind was more focused on what was going on without me upstairs on the fourth floor than it was with selecting something for lunch. I ended up with a slice of meatloaf, rice pilaf, steamed veggies and chocolate pudding (okay, maybe I didn’t need the pudding) all for a grand total of $3.78. That’s why I love the Army. Where else can you get a complete meal for less than the cost of a Happy Meal?

Sitting in the cafeteria surrounded by soldiers and “civilians” caused a moment of nostalgia for the days when all I had to do was put on a uniform and go do what someone else told me to do. From the sounds of the conversations I was eavesdropping on around me, not much had changed in the Army since I last wore a uniform in 2006. Soldiers continued to gripe about their NCOs and the stupid things they were asked to do, everyone was planning for the weekend and who was going to bring the beer to the barbecue. It was reassuring to know it was business as usual in the Army.

Back up on the fourth floor things were starting to move along, and quickly, and we were all able to go wait in Amanda’s room while she was being prepped for the surgery. According to the labor and delivery nurse who came in to fetch Patrick to the OR, the procedure itself would be relatively quick and would probably be no longer than a half hour from the time he left the room. I settled myself into a chair facing the hallway while the Adcocks stood anxiously awaiting the arrival of Patrick and baby Lincoln into the room, while Amanda was being put back together in the OR.

“Ooh, here they come,” Cindi exclaimed, as she heard the sound of a cart in the hallway. I peered out the door. “That’s a pallet jack and a pallet of medical supplies,” I said, bursting her bubble.

Five minutes later another set of wheels could be heard in the hallway. “Oh, there they are,” Cindi said, excitedly. “That’s a trash can,” I told her, feeling like I was raining on her parade.

We all settled back to wait and then suddenly Patrick burst into the room pushing baby Lincoln in a bassinet. The ear-to-ear grin on his face told us all we needed to know about how the procedure went.

Everyone crowded around the bassinet to get the first glimpse of the newest member of the Hart/Adcock families. It’s hard to describe all the emotions that were swirling around inside me as I looked at that sweet little face – joy, hope and love being the top three contenders.

Patrick got the honors of doing “skin-to-skin” with Lincoln, since it would be a while before Amanda was able to come back into the room. “Skin-to-skin” seems to be the new buzz-phrase for holding a baby against your naked skin to give them that warmth and contact to foster bonding. Of course, those of us who gave birth in the dark ages knew what that was all about. It was simply called ‘holding your baby,’ but today’s generation needs to give everything a self-important title. It was certainly interesting (and slightly awkward from a mother-in-law standpoint) to see Patrick shed his shirt and put that little tiny bundle on his chest. I thought to myself “I hope Lincoln doesn’t think his mother has a hairy chest” as he settled in against Patrick’s skin.

Not too much longer after that Amanda made her entrance into the room, smiling exhaustedly from the hospital bed. There was so much I wanted to say to her but I settled for a quick hug and kiss to her forehead and then Lincoln was placed in her arms so she could hold him for the first time.

I stepped back and grabbed my camera and started talking photos using my telephoto lens so I could just stay in the background. I felt much like that Japanese photographer in the movie “Rosemary’s Baby” as he photographed the devil’s baby while everyone milled around the bassinet oohing and aahing. I have no idea why I have such weird thoughts and the blank looks I got from family when I said the whole “Rosemary’s Baby” thing out loud told me I should have just kept that to myself.  

Patrick and his family then went to fetch Avery from daycare so he could meet his new brother. When he entered the room he approached the hospital bed cautiously while Amanda held Lincoln in her arms. It wasn’t long before Avery decided he needed to hold the baby and Patrick placed him in Avery’s arms. The look on Avery’s face was like he had just received the best Christmas present ever and he started inspecting Lincoln’s toes, fingers and eyes, smiling adoringly at his little brother. I have plenty of photos documenting this moment that Amanda can pull out and show him in the future when he’s sitting on his brother’s head and needs a reminder of how much he loved him when he was born.  

After about a half hour of cuddling, Avery and I headed
home, leaving Amanda and Patrick to try to relax and recover from the excitement of the day. Avery and I did some cuddling of our own as I tried to convince an overly-excited 3-year-old it was time to go to sleep. Amanda uses iTunes lullabies to help him nod off, but I tried the old-fashioned way of singing to him, which seemed to be pretty effective, although I do need to expand my lullaby repertoire because I was singing Christmas songs by the end (not that Avery cared the least bit, I’m sure).

I could have used someone singing me to sleep as I fell into bed, totally exhausted but totally wired from the day’s activities, but I had to settle for watching episodes of “Veep” on HBO. 

The Flight from Hell

Having grandchildren who live on the other side of the country involves, of course, traveling to see them and that usually means travel by airplane. Up until about a year ago when I nearly died in a plane crash on a flight from Portland to Boise, I had never had a problem with flying. I was in the Army for 23 years and did my share of flying on C-130s, hanging out of helicopters to get a good photo and, overall, just spent a lot of time in the air.

Obviously I didn’t die and the plane didn’t crash on that ill-fated Portland flight, but it certainly seemed like we were headed in that direction as the overhead luggage racks flew open while people screamed like they were auditioning for a disaster movie. Ever since that flight, I’ve had a real problem with flying.

I’ve tried all kinds of things to cure, or at least lessen, my fear of flying. Meditation, deep breathing exercises, Dramamine – nothing seemed to work. The minute the plane made the smallest of dips or bumps, my heart was in my mouth and I was resurrecting what I remembered of the “Hail Mary.”

Today, prior to my flight to Georgia, I headed to the health food store to try to find some kind of herbal remedy that would allow me to relax a little without turning me into a total zombie. One of the clerks recommended something called “Rescue Remedy” and I thought, with a name like that, how could I go wrong. It came in a number of forms; cream, drops, spray and pills. I opted for the spray. When I started to feel anxious all I had to do was discreetly spray it two times onto my tongue and I would feel my stress and anxiety just melt away. I was sold.

I headed to my son Jason’s house in Boise where I’d be parking my car for the 10 days that I’d be gone (much cheaper than airport parking). In a funny coincidence, my daughter-in-law Sarah and my granddaughter Whitney were flying out that afternoon as well, headed to New York to spend time with Sarah’s family. Since our flights were departing within a half hour of each other, Jason dropped us both off at the airport. I had a nice diversion while I chased Whitney around the airport but then they boarded their plane and I was on my own.

By the time I actually boarded after the cattle call at the gate, I ended up seated next to a woman and her young daughter. At that point, I was feeling okay. I’d had a little “hit” of Rescue Remedy, which smelled and tasted like bourbon. Great, I thought, now I’m going to smell like I’m three sheets to the wind by the time I land. You know what though? I was actually relaxed (or as much as I can possibly be on an airplane) so I didn’t really care about the smell.

Everything was good until I glanced over at my seatmates and I noticed the little girl, who was probably 5-years-old, clutching a white plastic trash bag in her lap. She was looking decidedly green. Her mom was trying to distract her with games on the iPad and books and crayons but it wasn’t working.  I crossed my fingers that she’d make it through the flight without using her jumbo-sized airsickness trash bag. There’s nothing that makes me want to puke more than seeing, hearing or smelling someone else throwing up.

We had some moments of turbulence but nothing that made me clutch my armrests in fright until it came time to land in Denver. The wheels came down in preparation for landing, the plane started to descend and then the next moment we were climbing back up into the sky so quickly that the force pressed me back into my seat. What the hell? To my left I heard the mom telling her daughter “okay, just close your eyes, take a big breath through your nose and let it go out of your mouth” and I did the same. The pilot made a loop and made another attempt at landing, but was unsuccessful (why, at that point, we had no idea) and took us back up into the sky like we were in a G-force simulator. I braced my hands on the seat in front of me, preparing for the worst.

And then, it happened. I heard the little girl moan, “Mom, I’m gonna throw up” and she did so, neatly and relatively quietly, into her big air sickness bag. She caught my eye and gave me a small apologetic smile. I wanted nothing more than to pull out my own small airsickness bag and join her and upchuck that horrible Taco Bell bean and cheese burrito I had eaten while driving to Boise, but somehow I managed to keep everything down.

The pilot came on the intercom to inform us he was unable to land because of a storm cell that was hovering over the airfield and the subsequent “wind shears,” whatever those were. I just pictured a large, deadly pair of scissors slicing through the clouds. He said we were forced to divert to Colorado Springs because we needed to refuel. Yay! Not only could we not land in Denver, we were going to run out of gas!

Colorado Springs seemed like a hop, skip and a jump from Denver, but our landing there wasn’t much better and we hit the tarmac like a load of bricks. Passengers were clapping for joy that we had made it to the ground in one piece but the joy was short-lived when our friendly pilot came back on to inform us that we couldn’t stay in Colorado Springs because the airfield wasn’t big enough. We were simply going to be there long enough to refuel and head back to Denver to try again.

At that point, my connecting flight to Jacksonville was long gone and I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do if and when we made it back to Denver. After 30 minutes of sitting on the ground, the pilot urged us all to return to our seats so we could make another go at landing in Denver.

I reached into my backpack and grabbed my little spray bottle of Rescue Remedy and gave myself another hit, not caring if I smelled like I’d just rolled off a barstool. My heart was pounding like I’d been doing an hour of Cross Fit (not that I know what that’s like. I’m just guessing) and I couldn’t keep my hands from shaking.

As we approached the Denver airport (again) I forced myself to take a look out the window. Imagine my surprise to see the sun shining through the clouds like the heavens were opening up. Surely, this time we’d be able to land. The familiar sound of the landing gears coming down reverberated through the plane and we all braced ourselves for landing. But no. Again we did another rapid ascent and my poor little seatmate made another deposit into what was surely a nearly-full bag of vomit.

Please, I thought to myself, I can’t take any more of this. I said another “Hail Mary,” hoping that God would remember that once upon a time I was a nice Catholic girl who went to Communion and Catechism and did my Confirmation in eighth grade and wouldn’t hold it against me now that I was a Buddhist, and would help our pilot land the plane in one piece.  

By then, all the small children were screaming (although there may have been some adult screams in there too, it was hard to tell) and I felt as if we had entered some other layer of Hell that I’d never heard of that involved circling endlessly around Denver airport unable to land.

Our pilot circled back and gave it one last try and miraculously, we were on the ground. There was much cheering and clapping. Yay. We lived to fly (or die) another day.

After checking in at a Southwest gate I wasn’t surprised to discover that not only had I missed my flight but I wouldn’t be able to get on another one until the next day at 6 a.m. As much as the idea of camping out in the airport didn’t appeal to me, the thought of having to get back onto another plane just made me want strangle myself with my iPhone cord.

Perhaps things will look better in the morning and I’ll be ready to make my last leg of this journey from Hell. Or maybe I’ll just go find the Greyhound bus station.