As your or your wife’s pregnancy nears the finish line (to the right is Bea about 9 months in), you’ll want to come up with a list of things to bring to the hospital: clothes, toiletries, a digital camera. I brought a book, I guess thinking that in the two minutes between my wife’s contractions, I’d have time to sit back and read James Joyce’s Ulysses.

One thing I did bring was a notebook. A few years back, my dad told me about an interview he saw with Billy Crystal in which Crystal said he always had a notebook with him in case something inspired him to jot down some notes, possibly for some future piece of writing.

So imagine Bea’s surprise when, upon catching her breath after one particularly body-spasming contraction while in the hospital, she saw me reach into my back pocket and pull out the notebook. Yes, that’s right honey, I’m going to document every last minute of your excruciating labor pain!

Being the sport she is, though, Bea just looked away and kept doing her yoga breathing. This was especially impressive considering how, because she was a week late in delivering, we had to go into the hospital at 1:30am so Bea could get induced. So the forthcoming is a sampling of my notes. By the way, some of these notes are a bit, well, detailed, but no worries, I got Bea's approval. Sleeptalking counts, right?

May 21, 2:30am: An anesthesia nurse comes in to talk about the process of getting an epidural. Our plan at this point: wait on the epidural until the pain is really bad.

“…until the pain is really bad.” This is what gets me after the fact, that really, I can’t help Bea in this situation. I have no equivalent pain experience. That wicked hangnail I got a couple weeks ago doesn’t quite compare.

3:30am: We both try to get some sleep. I fall asleep. Bea doesn’t.

I wrote this gem after I woke up. Reading it now, I realize what a jerk it makes me look like. What, you can’t sleep because your uterine wall is pulsing like Ozzie Guillen’s veins after losing to the Rays? Zzzzzzzzzz.

5:30am: Nurse Megan tells us that Bea is still about 2 centimeters and the baby is minus 3, meaning sitting three inches above her pelvic bone. She said they were going to break her water manually at 5am, but didn’t probably because he was minus three – they would like him to be even with the pelvic bone, otherwise there can be complications such as the umbilical cord slipping out. We don’t feel like playing tug-of-war with Matthew via his umbilical cord to get him out, thank you very much.

Yes, I started referring to all the nurses as Nurse Megan or Nurse Jessica. For the record, they had no resemblance to Nurse Ratched or Nurse Annie Wilkes.

7am: Nurse Megan asks about Bea’s contraction pain on a scale of 1 to 10. Bea says 6 or 7. Nurse Megan then asks: “And that pain is acceptable to you?” Awkward pause. Acceptable to her? Oh yeah, bring that pain on. She accepts it with open arms. (She’s actually trying to determine whether she needs pain medication or not.)

This reminded me of a bit by one of my favorite stand-up comedians, Brian Regan. Maybe Bea should have said she was an 8…

8am: Doctor breaks Bea’s bag of water. Bea is 5 centimeters and the baby is minus 1.

8:40am: Nurses go next door to deliver baby that is “complete” and “plus 2,” meaning completely dilated and the baby 2 inches below the pelvic bone.

Bea: “Lucky duck.”

Always able to keep a sense of humor, that’s my wife for you. Another good example:

9:30am: Bea leaking more fluids.

Bea: “You got a bucket?”

Of course, this reminded me of the huge guy in the restaurant in Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life.”

Next post: Delivery, 10 hours later.

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