7-5-2023
Zero Dark Thirty
“Let’s go back to bed,” I tell my wife whose water just broke.
As an expert in water conveyance systems and Trustee for Reclamation District 556, I knew there was no need to panic.
You might be thinking, “Wow, Paul! Your wife is going into labor and here you are trying to go back to sleep? What a callous, abusive husband!”
You might be right.
But!
In emergency scenarios you don’t rise to the level of your ability, you fall to the level of your training.
And some people, like me, have so much training no amount of ability can save them.
Let me back up.
Mrs. Wilson is an MBA and a Yoga Teacher, a dangerous cocktail that resulted in a highly detailed, bullet pointed Birth Plan and me being forced to sit through eight tedious hours of these New Age Hippy birth classes that lambasted Modern Medicine.
I didn’t disagree with the plan or classes entirely.
Modern Medicine has many holes in it.
Take epidurals, for example. Did you know that an epidural is a light dose of Fentanyl?
Saying the words ‘Light’ and ‘Fentanyl’ in the same sentence reminds me of Arrested Development’s “Light Treason” scene.
While the classes actively stoked distrust in Modern Medicine, I thought they eased my wife’s fears about labor and delivery, so I bit my tongue.
The classes weren’t a complete waste of time. I learned about many highly palatable concepts such as mucus plugs, bloody shows, cervical ripening and lactation consultants.
The classes championed breathing instead of the use of pain meds and hammered into us to wait until the contractions were five minutes apart before bringing her to the hospital.
This explains why I was unsuccessfully trying to catch zzzz’s when the contractions started.
I was doing what I was trained to do.
0130: Knowing Mrs. Wilson wouldn’t listen to me, but in need of a second opinion, I tell her to call my godmother, a former NICU nurse and advocate for Modern Medicine, Tia Julia
“Drive straight to the hospital,” Tia Julia tells us. “Immediately!”
We load into the CX-50 and Mrs. Wilson turns to me to tell me something I’d been waiting nine long months to hear,
“I want Tia Julia to be at the hospital.”
Then she paused. Forced eye contact and said,
“And I want ALL the drugs!”
********
0200: At speeds of over 100 miles per hour and emergency flashers on, I encourage Mrs. Wilson to breathe.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Hunter Thompson’s quote about traffic cops plays on repeat in my head.
I smile.
I hope and pray to at least have a tail by the time I pull into the hospital parking lot.
A couple of Crown Victoria’s in tow, would make for a fitting entrance for any Wilson.
Sadly, we arrive to the hospital without police escort.
I yell at the valet, “Bring me a wheelchair!’
He just stares at me.
Deer meet headlights.
I clap and shout “Tootsweet!”
His slow reaction time and general confusion, explained how he landed the coveted “Eve of 4th of July graveyard shift valet gig.”
0230: Mrs. Wilson gets triaged.
She was more dilated than Hunter Biden’s pupils after an evening in the East Wing. The contractions were three minutes apart and the calm, professional hospital staff informed me that The Oval Office was set to open soon.
“Thank God you brought her in,” the nurse tells me.
Shamefully, I take the credit.
“I was just doing what I was trained to do,”
0330: Tia Julia gets to the hospital. This meant my job went from Patient Advocate to Cheerleader.
Tia Julia has seen more babies born than anyone I know, so I put my faith in her experience.
0345: I dispatch my brother to wake Grandpa and send him to the hospital. This is a whole hilarious debacle, but it’s my brother’s story to tell.
******
“In the delivery room, you want to stay in Northern California, not Southern California,” my friend Chase advised me.
This was excellent guidance.
As a Delta boy, if something is burrowing its way through a canal, the instinct is to take action.
I know, from experience, that a motivated beaver or squirrel can fuck up our islands more than the DWR, French Laundry Gavin or any other water hungry Southern Californian combined.
But to keep with the metaphor I’ll tell you this, Southern California is nice place to visit, but only when invited.
0400: Baby Wilson is beating a hasty retreat from the womb. Mrs. Wilson starts pushing.
0430: Grammy is scrambled. My mother-in-law, who is destined for sainthood, is set to depart ONT on the 6AM to SMF.
0445: Grandpa arrives.
The next few hours were a blur of emotion, adrenaline and love. I felt pangs of my mother in the room. It was a very spiritual experience.
0730: Grammy arrives at SMF.
Firmly rooted in Northern California and cheering Mrs. Wilson on, I try organizing an Über to get Grammy from SMF to the hospital.
Mrs. Wilson notices me aphone and says,
“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TEXTING!”
It wasn’t a question.
Tia Julia snatches my phone and Über’s Grammy to the hospital.
0815: Grammy arrives.
0847: The Doctor invites me to Southern California. I refuse. I’m waiting for the breech in the levee to be repaired before returning.
0848: Two weeks ahead of schedule, but right on time, Baby Wilson breaks through the secondary.
The doctor throws Baby Wilson on a sheet of paper atop my wife’s belly like a salmon at Pikes Place Market.
Hoots and hollers of congratulations ring throughout the delivery room.
We kid that Baby Wilson waited for Grammy to arrive before being born.
I instantly love Baby Wilson because he escaped confinement strategically.
Like El Chapo.
0849: I’m invited to Southern California to cut the cord.
Scissors in hand, shaking, I miss the first attempt, but nail the second.
I announce, “I’m the Gavrilo Princip of the delivery room.”
No one laughs.
If you have to explain it, it’s not funny.
0850: Mom and baby are healthy.
Dad, Grammy, Tia Julia and Grandpa are glowing.
********
“At Blenheim I took two very important decisions: to be born and to marry. I am content with the decision I took on both occasions.”
– Winston Churchill
1000: We transfer to the maternity ward
Mrs. Wilson took to motherhood swimmingly.
Duck meet water.
The nurses tag Baby Wilson with wrist and ankle RDIF chips that set off alarm bells if he is removed from the hospital unexpectedly.
I never thought someone would steal a baby, but imagine it’s happened enough times to be a necessary precaution.
After twenty-four hours in the hospital, I don’t think that people steal babies as much as they want to leave without being discharged. …
*****
Choosing a name with Mrs. Wilson was a lot like a Chinese Spy Balloon.
The idea would last about a week, then get shot down with impunity.
I had one name in mind, but threw out a litany of red herrings as diversionary tactics.
Here’s the list of rejected names:
-Paul Jr. (In actuality, my plan is to name my second born after myself, like my dad did to me with Chiles Jr, and give my first born an inferiority complex for the rest of his life)
-Waldo.
-Whilhem
-Ralph
-Fidel (after Justin Trudeau’s father)
-George (after both of Baby Wilson’s paternal great-grandfathers.)
-Wilson (I suggested giving him one name like a Brazilian Soccer Player. At least, that would avoid misgendering him lol)
Of course, none of these ideas were serious. They were all smoke screens, as it were.
1200: We decide on a name.
We named Baby Wilson after the man who saved my life as a disgruntled teenager.
To give you his abbreviated backstory, I’ll be glossing over hours of his history, but the full story is more inspiring than Churchill’s.
His family ought to go to have Scribe Media write a book on his life just for posterity. As a War Hero, I’m sure he could get on the JockoPodcast to market the book, but I’m not sure he’d want the attention.
At eighteen this man volunteered to go to war. He joined the Army and served his country in Vietnam, where he survived close to 100 firefights.
Months into his deployment, he was shot multiple times on patrol. To compound things, he was shot again while being airlifted off the field of battle.
Eventually, he’d be awarded the Silver Star, two Bronze Stars, a Purple Heart and a litany of other awards and commendations.
While recovering, Doctors tried to amputate his wounded arm.
He refused.
Instead, he chose to rehab it through sheer will and determination by water skiing, weight training and rodeo.
Somewhere along the line, he moved to Walnut Grove to farm, but still Team Roped competitively. He served for over 20 years as Walnut Grove’s Fire Chief, became an IFR rated pilot and built up his farming operation to over 1000 acres.
Along with his wife Deb, he raised two highly accomplished boys, a handful of grandchildren (all of whom are starting to make their mark on the world) and offered their home as sanctuary to many a wayward soul….like mine.
When I was 14 and my mother decided make her grand exit, he and his wife Deb all but adopted me. He became a father figure to me and taught me how to Team Rope.
Full of grief, anger and pain to be abandoned by a parent, Team Roping gave me something positive to focus on. A skill to learn. Some of my family had taken the easy road of drugs, alcohol and SSRI’s, but with this man in the picture anesthetizing my consciousness wasn’t a viable coping mechanism.
He gave me a roping mechanism instead….ba dum ching..
I roped competitively for about 6 years, until I couldn’t afford the time commitment that it takes to be good.
But the lessons about skill acquisition stuck with me. Team Roping taught me Musashi’s dictum of “Once you see the way broadly, you see it in all things.”
I owe such a debt of gratitude to this man, his wife Deb and both of his boys that when it came time to choose a name for Baby Wilson, the decision to name him after the great and powerful Joey Sanchez was an easy one.
So without further delay, I’d like you to meet our boy:
Joseph Wilson
Happiest day of my life. Not even a close second.