Clementine: The Birth Story as told by Daddy

It was Wednesday, March 14, 2012. Elise was a week and a day past her due date. I had set up a full-day of meetings for a visitor from Washington, D.C., never actually planning on being present for any of them.

After a lackluster two and a half mile run at lunch, I left the office for the first of two late afternoon meetings in Asa Sul. The plan was Elise was to pick me up at 5:15 following the second meeting, at the Secretariat for Human Rights, across from Parque da Cidade.

Time was running short. If we couldn’t encourage Clementine to emerge into the world soon, we would begin to bump up against the two-week mark, at which point our designs for a natural birth at home would be overtaken by the medical reality of getting Clementine out by the 42-week mark by whichever means at the doctor’s disposal. Though at that point, Elise could and may have still been induced, it was more likely, given the propensity for Caesarians in Brazil, the doctor would recommend a C-section, something we wanted to avoid. It was neither of our intents for me to hold my daughter for the first time behind a surgeon’s mask and scrubs.

The plan? Acupuncture. After an afternoon reading literature online, I dare say Elise had grown increasingly skeptical, but desperate times called for desperate measures, so she strapped Sam and Pete into their respective car seats and picked me up in front of the office building under a light drizzle. Motos swished by on the wet pavement as I shielded my work papers from the precipitation (I had surrendered my umbrella to my out-of-town visitor).

The boys ate mini-chicken, fries and broccoli from bento box-like Tupperware containers. Elise pulled off the road and parked illegally in front of Fogo do Chão while I sprinted down the sidewalk in the rain to pick up shwarma to-go from this amazing shwarma place across the street from the Melia, tucked into the side of a gas station. A half dozen old men drank frozen 600 ml bottles of Antarctica from tiny glasses and watched soccer on the TV over the counter. I couldn’t tell if they were Arabic or Brazilian or both. Probably both. 20 reais later, I had two shwarmas to-go, though we could have probably polished off eight between the two of us. Despite her lack of enthusiasm for warm lettuce, Elise was content.

The acupuncturist’s office was at the extreme tip of Asa Norte, in the same building as Pete’s dreaded dentist, so at least familiar. We entered the smallest waiting room in the world a half hour early for our 6:30 appointment. Sam and Pete flipped through magazines while we waited. After a short interview in which we described the nature of our visit, Elise left us.

Before departing, she slipped her iPhone in my suit pocket, and the boys and I returned to the waiting room to settle in and watch a movie or cartoon. The procedure would take about thirty minutes, we were told. I turned the iPhone on and left Sam in charge, but after the boys had flipped through three cartoons, unable to settle on one, I confiscated the device, much to their astonishment and dismay.

Both in tears, I whisked them from the doctor’s office by the elbows and down the hall. I propped them up against a wall in the hall, both wailing in front of the elevators. Three women waiting for who-knows-what…test results? An appointment? A man in a black suit tugging at two screeching toddlers? Smiled knowingly as I not-so-kindly encouraged them to straighten up and fly right. Pete wailed, “Mom…mom!!” over and over again. I firmly told him to, “Pull yourself together.” It’s seems unkind, but it is amazing how well this phrase works on Peter, and he immediately stopped, reduced to shuddering sniffles.

When we returned to the waiting room, I put myself in charge of the iPhone. We settled on an old stand-by. Thomas and the Tank Engine. Which they have seen a hundred times and can recite by heart. A few minutes later, Elise emerged. I was anxious to hear how it went. I paid for the session, but told the doctor I could pick up the nota fiscal tomorrow. We wouldn’t come back to pick it up.

According to Elise (and maybe there will be her own blog post on this someday) she began to experience contractions as soon as the needles penetrated her skin. The doctor then attached electrodes to the needles and sent a current racing through them. It was difficult for her to hold still (which I would think important in acupuncture, but wouldn’t know for sure, never having experienced it firsthand). The doctor had told us that the acupuncture would have the same effect on her body as the chemical Pitocin which is commonly used to induce labor in hospitals. The treatment would release chemicals within her body four to six hours after the session. He asked her what she would be doing in four to six hours. Elise responded, “Sleeping.” He encouraged her to get up and walk around to augment the effects of the treatment, but full induction would only be possible after several successive sessions (his hook, I presume, if Elise had felt nothing after the first, or even second or subsequent, sessions).

Elise continued to have contractions as we drove home, got the boys and ourselves ready for bed. I settled into a comic I had recently bought for myself on eBay, a rare, but much needed, diversion from the latest issue of The Economist or Foreign Affairs. Elise didn’t settle into anything at all.

She began to suspect the contractions were strengthening, but never having experienced natural labor, she wasn’t sure. Was this the real deal? Should we call the mid-wife?

Knowing Elise, I sensed this was it. I roused the boys who had only been asleep a few hours. It was close to 10:00. I carried them one at time in the pjs to the car and strapped them into their car seats, blankies, pacies and all.

As we drove to a friend’s house where Pete and Sam would spend the night, I explained to them that Mom’s baby was coming tonight and that I would come back for them in the morning. They both stared forward, speechless, staring through bleary eyes and the windshield at the empty streets bathed in bright orange light at a future we have talked much about but, still, largely unknown. Young men sat on the curbs in front of gas station, some sipping from bottles esconced in brown bags, as if they, too, had been waiting.

When we arrived, I carried them both inside and upstairs. Their beds had already been made. Sam would sleep on a mattress on the floor in one room. Peter would sleep in a pack-n-play in the other. I tucked Sam in and told him again that I would be back for him in the morning. I tried laying Peter down in the pack-n-play, but as soon as I let go, he started crying. I picked him up. Sam appeared in the doorway, “I want to sleep in the same room as Petey.” We moved kids around, Sam settling into a bed next to the pack-n-play. I gave Peter to Elise’s friend. He was still crying though she held him close. I gave him one last kiss and pulled myself away, reminding myself that in such situations that it was worse to linger. Easier to make a quick break. Say goodbye and go. Plus, I couldn’t delay. Elise would need me at home.

It was after 11 by the time I made it back to the house. Racing through Lago Sul, only slowing for the omnipresent traffic cameras that, unlike the rest of Brasilia, never slept, I found Elise in our bedroom, unpacking sheets from the basket of supplies she had gathered. I helped her make the bed. We had already inflated the birthing tub, but decided at the last minute against using it. The only way to control the temperature in the birthing tub was with two raw heating coils which sounded unnecessarily dangerous to me. I had visions of electrocuting Elise and my unborn daughter running through my head, so I convinced Elise it would be easier to control the temperature of the water in our tub. Thus, the birthing tub remained in the guest room, unused. I kept it hidden, nonetheless, lest the boys, upon their return, got it in their heads to use it as a kiddie pool.

Elise and I stripped the bed through contractions. She asked me how the boys were. Did they cry? I lied. I told her they both rolled back over and went to sleep. We layered plastic sheets, shower curtains and old linens. Gradually, the contractions grew stronger and at some point she made the command decision to move to the bathtub, hoping the warm water would help the pain. Soon after, Elise had me call the mid-wife and doula again. Every five minutes for a half hour, I received text messages that the doula was either almost there or five minutes away. The labor grew more painful.

I propped Elise’s head on rolled up towels and kneeled on the bath mat next to the tub, stroking her hair and holding her hand. We put an iPhone on the edge of the tub playing music quietly. I lowered the lights. The doula and mid-wife finally arrived, and I helped Paloma empty her car of its contents. For some reason, though I had been briefed on everything she would do, I was surprised by how much stuff she had. She even had an oxygen tank. Oxygen tank? What was that for?

Toward the end, Elise changed positions, moving from her back to her knees. With gravity on her side, the end was near. A mighty roar ripped through the heavens. I looked down. Underwater, I could see Clementine’s head, her dark eyes looking up at us through the water. Elise leaned back in the tub and brought her to her chest. If Clementine cried at all it was only for an instant. I climbed onto the edge of the tub and perched on an impossibly narrow corner and squatted like a gargoyle to get a glance at my daughter’s face. All the months spent wondering what she would look like, wondering who she would look like, came to end in two short hours.

Clementine Eve Hanna was born at 12:41 a.m. on Thursday, March 15th in Brasilia, Brazil. Sh weighed 7 lbs and was 19 3/4 inches long.

Today, March 22nd, she is one week old. Both mother and daughter are better than well.