Monthly Archives: February 2011
Everyone always says that a year can make all the difference and although I’ve always known that, this year was the first that I’ve truly looked back, taken stock, and acknowledged how incredibly different a life can be on the same day, one year apart.
February 3rd last year started out as any normal day. It was Wednesday. A pretty normal day. Or so I thought. You see, I was in the middle of a meeting when Jan came in and asked me to meet with her in the hallway. Honestly, I thought I was getting fired. When she said that I needed to go back to my desk, get my coat, and follow her up front, I was sure I was getting fired. When I got up front and saw Dan standing there I at least knew I wasn’t getting fired, but I had a terribly sinking feeling. Something was wrong. It was written all over his face. He refused to tell me what was going on until we got out to the truck. It’s a good thing because once he told me what I happened, it wasn’t pretty. No one in the office needed to see that.
We spent the next couple of hours at the hospital. And then I spent the whole rest of the evening going through several boxes of Kleenex, drifting in and out of nightmares, without ever really sleeping.
Flash forward to February 3 of this year and I’m driving home after a gigantic snowstorm, sitting in the backseat, videotaping our little man and narrating our drive from the hospital to our home. And just like last year, I’d spend the night not really sleeping, but this time for very different reasons.
A really wonderful person explained to me how I needed to re-script February 3 so that I didn’t spend the day in mourning year after year. I can’t think of a better way to re-script it than by welcoming my son into our home for the very first time. Sure, it will always be the anniversary of the day that I lost one of the most important men in my life, but it will also mark the anniversary that I brought home my little boy.
It’s like you were watching out for me and scripting this for me, big brother. Always watching, always taking care of me. Even when you’re not here physically anymore.
Happy Birthday, Drill Bit!
I knew this day was coming, but never thought it would get here. It’s like what Christmas felt like when I was little. Only way better.
You may have taken your sweet time to get here, but I couldn’t be happier. We joked as your due date quickly approached that you were waiting for a snowstorm to make your big debut … well, you have to be careful for what you wish for, because that’s exactly what happened. Sort of.
You see, I had a doctor’s appointment on Monday morning, and with the combination of a gigantic snowstorm and being a week plus past my due date, my doctor and I decided that you needed to get here before I was stuck at home in the snow, without a way to get to the hospital. Having an induction wasn’t exactly my first choice, but we came up with a solution that got the job done without tons of medication that we both felt good about.
We checked in at the hospital at 4pm and we got the ball rolling a couple of hours later. I was nervous. I was excited. I was anxious. Everything was suddenly becoming very real.
Without getting terribly graphic, I needed something for the pain around 5am on Tuesday, and got a shot of Nubain which worked awesome … but not for long. About an hour or so later, I couldn’t stand it any longer and asked for the epidural, only to find out I was in full active labor, which made me feel not as bad. You see, I was determined initially to go as long as I could without drugs because I usually have an adverse reaction to pain medication. The process of getting the epidural was surreal and crazy – your Dad says that it was best that I couldn’t see it. Everything was fine … until it stopped working. A couple hours later, I started to regain feeling, but we were at the point of no return – either we had to try to wait it out for an hour or so until the anesthesiologist could get there, or we started pushing and get this show over with. I elected for the latter and 30 minutes later, here you were.
All 9 pounds, 3 ounces and 23 inches of you. And you were perfect. I had no idea that I could love someone so much so fast. Seeing your tiny little face and cuddling you for the first time made everything leading up to that moment totally worth it. I suddenly didn’t feel any pain and didn’t care about anything else going on in the world but staring at you.
Before today, it was me, your Dad, and our trusty four-legged fur-kid, Gibson. For all intents and purposes, we considered ourselves a family. And we were wrong. You, little Mr. Gavin, complete us as a family. Mom, Dad, and son (and dog – Gibson thinks he’s people, and I’m convinced he’s smarter than some).
P.S. You made it right before the storm. Seriously. A few short hours later we got the snow of the season. Something like 8 inches in a couple of hours and lots of wind. Roads and highways were closed and they declared a snow emergency where you could be arrested for driving. They came around the hospital to let everyone know that they wouldn’t be discharging anyone until Thursday and to not expect any visitors since everything was closed. You truly were our little snowpacalypse baby.