This morning, brother J and SiL J drove ana and me to Wilmington to the airport. It turns out that upon my mom's death, the insurance on her gigantic SUV was no longer in effect. Thus, I was advised by the lawyer that I should in no circumstances drive it (especially not back to MAia, as I'd kind of hoped). So now my brother is my transportation, and I'm realizing just now that this is incredibly limiting.

On the way back from an almost-tearful good-bye, brother P called. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," I said. "How are you?"

"Fine," he said, as nonchalantly as he could manage -- and then the grin broke through. "We're on the way to the hospital."

I began to cry. I was overwhelmingly happy, and profoundly sad. I asked P if they needed anything and said we were going back to our tiny town, unless he could think of anything.

"Nope, we're fine," he said.

I choked out something about being happy and proud, and hung up. And called ana.

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We got back to town and helped brother K load his stuff (and I tried to sneak in some of the more tacky items, like the really frightening snow-globe). It didn't work. Periodically, P called with updates. J and J and I went to her parents' house -- I in her dad's sidecar. I will post pix. It was awesome. I need one, and I think ana would look just perfect in a sidecar. I waved at the town winos in the little downtown park.

Then I got to sit on a backhoe, but I didn't actually turn it on. I was glad I didn't embarrass myself too much on it.

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Five cm. Everything was progressing nicely. She was getting the epidural soon. We decided to go on to Wilmington so I could buy a GPS (I got a mid-range Garmin) that might help navigate back to Boston on Wednesday and Thursday.

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Seven cm. Needs to get to 10. Probably in a couple of hours. The doctor said the average was around 12 hours from the time the water broke (at about 8:45 this morning). We went to dinner, and then to buy gifts for the baby. I bought a stuffed classic Eeyore, and J&J got her a stuffed Winnie the Pooh.

Then I wrote H a letter, telling her how very loved she is and how immensely happy I am that she's a part of our family.

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"Where are you?" P asked J.

"In the hospital parkin' lot," J said.

"She's gonna start pushin' soon," P said.

"We're on our way."

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J and I looked at each other as we waited for our elevator. The memories of being there with our mom were fresh and raw.

"It's good to be here for something happy," J said.

"Yeah," I said.

The in-laws were sitting in the small waiting area outside the locked delivery room area. We chatted and wondered and guessed at the eventual time of birth and birth weight. I went downstairs to the bathroom, thinking that might bring the doctor from the mysterious inner sanctum. We began to wonder if she would actually have a 2/2 birthday. I began to worry, since pushing should not take two hours and change.

Finally, at 11:40, the doctor came out, and I caught myself noticing details, things I'd weave into the narrative I'd tell my mom during our next phone call. Then I sagged against pain of realization. The doctor's mask hung down around his chin, and his bandana was a bright color that only a freshly groomed dog or someone working closely with children could get away with. He had been with P and A all day, and he said as he came through the sliding electronic door, "She's here."

We cheered weakly, because we could here the "but" hanging in the air. He moved through the younger relatives (aunts, uncles, and a close friend) to the grandparents, sitting on the end. "We had to assist with a little suction, and she wasn't crying as strongly as we'd like. Because we had to assist, we had the NICU team on-hand, and they gave her some oxygen and took her up to NICU. I really believe she's going to be fine, and she should only be there a few hours."

He paused. "Dad's gone up with her." Dad? I thought, confused. Who the fuck is 'Dad'? It took a long moment to realize it was P, and I mentally marked my idiocy down to tell my mom. And, again, oh, right.

"How is my daughter," P's MiL said. It wasn't a question, and I realized that the knot in my stomach was so focused on my brother and my niece and my mom that I'd nearly forgotten about the person who did all the work.

"She's great," said the doctor. "She pushed like a champ, and she did a great job. It just took too long."

"But she's okay."

"Oh, yes, she's fine. You can go in and see her in about 15 minutes, and in about a half an hour or so, grandparents can go up to see the baby in NICU."

I was again deeply saddened by that. Grandparents. I was trying -- somewhat unconsciously, I think -- to fill the hole my mom has left in little H's life, but I wasn't allowed to go see her.

Later, P told me apologetically that H was trying to rest and didn't need a lot of people. "Of course," I told him. "I'll see her tomorrow."

When P's in-laws went in to see A, the close friend said, "I"m just really sad that this didn't work the way it's supposed to. We're supposed to be in there, getting pictures and everybody's supposed to be happy."

---

I finally got to go in to see A, and, partly because I really don't know how to show affection to people I care about who happen to be in hospital beds with tubes everywhere, I leaned down, petted A's hair, and kissed her forehead. "I'm so proud of you," I said. "Thank you so much for what you've done."

She smiled, weakly. My brother J saved the moment with snark. "So, you had that baby yet?" he asked, referring to the hordes of people who apparently asked her that when she was 8 months pregnant. "Yeah," she said. "Finally."

We sat around and chatted. A was alert, but tired and hungry and cranky. $friend when to get food. I told J&J (who were getting antsy) that I wanted to stay until we saw P. It was, by that point, after 1am. I got a bit annoyed at people who kept telling A, "She'll be okay."

"She is okay," I corrected, finally. "And she'll continue to be okay."

P came in, and he gave us the status update. H is fine. She's not on oxygen. Her pulse was a little high (but slowed down when he touched her), her blood sugar was a little high, and the chest x-ray showed her lungs were completely clear. A visibly relaxed. "But she's okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," P said, patiently, holding A's hand.

And he showed us pictures (to be posted later). H looks exactly like her dad's baby picture, down to the family cowlick on the front of her head. She's beautiful, and I can't wait to see her and hold her and smell her. Instead, I gave my brother a long, slightly tearful hug. He kissed the side of my head. "I love you, P," I said, "and I'm so happy for you." I kissed his temple. "You were perfect."

Tomorrow, we'll return to see a happy, healthy baby. I'm sure of it. It just can't be any other way. I want to tell my mom about this night. Her absence became more concrete tonight than it has been since the night of her death. My mom loved H long before her birth, and I promise that I will make sure that H knows that. Already, she's showing she has my mom's tenacity and strong will. Even though she's grunting instead of crying, she's letting the NICU know that she is not pleased with the world so far. And, also, she's making eye contact with her dad and relaxing at her touch. She'll be fine. Better than fine.

Update [2008-2-3 3:30:46 by toxicfur]: I forgot the statistics. Born February 2, 2008, at 11:26 pm. 7 lbs, 8 oz. 20.4 inches long. Big friggin' feet. Blue eyes. Lots of black hair.