Mason and Me Part II

Mason, O Baby.

“How we treasure and cherish the peaceful occasions, too few in number, when we gaze upon something without evaluating its cost or its usefulness: without evaluating it at all, only gaze upon it.”
Rick Bass “The Green Hours” from A Year in Place.

Mason was three weeks old when I first met him. I don’t call babies sweet and mean it. Not often, anyway. But this baby is sweet, I could eat him. He rarely cries—just occasionally waa-aas in a husky little voice like a duck. He nurses text-book perfect: “opening wide, baby must grasp entire nipple including aerola and suck,” and my, does he. He never burps, never spits up, hasn’t had a bath in two days, and yet he smells fresh, like lilies, new grass, sunny air.

He cost a lot, I think. He took more dollars and physical energy than was on-hand. He’s not of much use. He only lies in your arms to receive—milk, the warmth of a touch, the slow beat of your heart. Stroking his cheek with one finger, cupping his silken black head in the palm of your hand, you can smell the sweetness of his tiny breaths. He’s an occasion. A treasure not to be evaluated, only gazed upon.

Anonymously,
A Friend

Mason entered the world at 5:20pm on July 7, 2004. Not only did God grant my prayer for a miracle birth that would brand Mason straight into my heart, He also spoke to us loudly through the events that occurred in our delivery room that day.

My water had already broken and was trying to escape in large quantities every time I moved. We were led to a curtained room and I was instructed to put on one of the many lovely gowns (the kind of clothing that makes you seriously contemplate going home to deal with the pain on your own rather than don that hideous thing). A nurse whisked in and using a tiny slip of paper checked to see if my water truly broke. She sweetly informed me that it was not changing the appropriate color to indicate amniotic fluid. “Are you sure, honey?” she asked in even sweeter tones, “This is your first baby, right?” No. It’s my fourth. Giving me a shcoked look she quickly left the room, perhaps to consult the ‘How to Know Your Fluids Properly’ book. I started to worry. I wasn’t too fond of the prospect of going through such an intense time with a nurse that didn’t trust me and didn’t seem too experienced.

To my relief a different nurse showed up. She informed me that she had my room ready and that she would be taking care of us. It was not possible for me to dream up a nicer nurse. As her only patients that day, she gave us her full attention. We walked into a room with an entire wall of windows and a beautiful view of the mountains. We spent the morning watching the clouds float by and pointing out hawks and eagles circling and diving above the peaks.

Often at night Shaun would curl up behind me in bed and lay his hands on my belly. We would wait. The baby would stir...a hand...a foot. Shaun would run his hands around until he could cup part of the head. The amniotic fluid forcing my belly taught only allowed the feeling in glimpses. This same fluid now fled my body in currents. My belly normally round and hard like a watermelon became slack around his small form. Shaun and I felt and saw his body as a whole being. Once a baby is in my arms my brain works over time to convince me that there is no way this eight-pound child was living in my womb. Not so with Mason. I will always remember seeing him completely before his birth.

The loss of fluid was also causing complications. My wonderful nurse watched as Mason’s heart rate leaped all over the place every time I had a contraction. My uterus was squeezing him and his umbilical cord without mercy. There was concern. My blood pressure dropped; I needed oxygen. They propped me in every position possible. And then God walked into my room in the form of my doctor, Dr. Seeber, holding a plastic piece of technology...an IV. Attaching it to the internal monitor that was tracking my contractions and flipping a switch, it began to pump fluid back in. Masons’ tiny form slowly disappeared along with his erratic heart rate. The nurse checked my progress and felt his head. He kicked me in response as she tickled his head to discover hair.

Time passed and labor became more and more difficult. I accepted the offer for an epidural. As the pain melted away, I was able to once again relax with my husband. Dr. Seeber was known for his willingness to allow hands on participation and when the time came I told him that Shaun would be thrilled to be involved.. As I pushed and Masons head appeared his father was there to catch him. Shaun in his eagerness to embrace his son began to pull and I heard the doctor say “No, no, no! We don’t pull!” One more push and the doctor directed my hands to Masons armpits. I pulled him up and onto my chest as he wailed only once, and immediately snuggled into my breast. I loved him more than I could ever say. The gift of an epidural was so beautiful to me. Drugs that gave me rest after all we had been through and allowed me to enjoy my son in unhuman ways. He is my gift from God. And God is the gift that put love in my heart for my son.