5 Things You Learn From A Miraculous, Nightmarish Childbirth

So we had a viable, in-progress baby after all. What happened, it seems, was that my wife had been gestating twins, and only one of them made the cut. I called this an emotional roller coaster earlier, but that seems insufficient, as it was more like one of those old rusty playground roundabouts that spin you until you're nauseous and then hurl you face-first into the pavement. We had a miracle baby on the way, but that wasn't the only news. My wife, they said, was bleeding.

If you've ever been in this situation, you know that uncertainty is its own form of torture. It turned out my wife also had a low-lying placenta, which meant there was a possibility of sudden bursting and death via blood loss. She also had marginal umbilical cord insertion (a common cause of stillborn babies). The range of possibilities extended from "miraculously birthing a brand-new perfect human" to "everyone dies horribly."

Eventually, we stayed strong and made it all the way through to ... the point where my wife had to be rushed into the delivery room because of preterm labor.

But what really got their attention was when everyone in the room got a look at my wife's placenta. Apparently, it was such an aberration that nurses, doctors, and interns from all over the labor and delivery ward came filing in to gawk at it. (Note: You never want hospital staff to find you this interesting, even if you're just there to visit.) The shock came from how it was such a grievous example of a marginal cord insertion that everyone was puzzled as to how any fetus could possibly have survived on that little nutrition.

But survive he sure as hell did. Also, you'll notice this is not the end of the article.

Then neurological issues started to appear. As Joe exited the toddler stage, he began to have severe headaches -- ones so bad that doctors began to suspect they were the actual source of the ADHD/ODD issues. Luckily, we were close to one of the best hospitals in the world, and spent some quality time with electrodes attached to Joey's head in a high-tech tower built with sheikh money. After a week of that unpleasantness, they were able to determine ... nothing.

Suspicions of things like frontal lobe seizures didn't pan out after the batteries of EEGs, MRIs, and CT scans, leading one of the doctors to suggest, "Hmm, maybe this is all just behavioral." Which seemed dubious, considering the headaches were making Joe's eyes wander in different directions like a lizard and causing him to become unresponsive. There's uncertainty about whether your kid will get better, and then there's the unique uncertainty of the best minds in the field saying, "Beats me, maybe he's just like this?"

Do you want to guarantee that you'll have loud arguments with your partner, complete with all the dire ultimatums, threats, and everything-you-ever-did-wrong-for-the-last-decade marital performance reviews? Introduce a "problem kid," and then discover you have fundamental disagreements about how to deal with the behavior. Then throw in relatives chiming in with the always-popular "My kids would never have gotten away with that!" routine.

This is the kind of stress that can murder you. Heart disease might kill the most people on a yearly basis, but living in a perpetual state of anxious tension is often what puts them in that sorry state. It's helped along by alcoholism and other forms of chemical dependency, so failing to address the issue is pretty much a guarantee that you'll be fist-bumping the Reaper while everyone you know comments on how you seemed to be too young to be found both lifeless and pantless on the bathroom floor.

I already had a fondness for hooch going in, which steadily got worse until I finally hit my bottom. At some point I decided I didn't want to be the shirtless guy on an episode of Cops, sitting and weeping on the curb while waiting to be stuffed into a police cruiser before I pissed myself. Both of us had to find a way to deal.

Contrary to my every instinct (and against the unwritten code of a couple of my former modes of employment), we both agreed to get help. I never saw myself as the sort of person to take a pill for generalized anxiety disorder, but Lexapro has been doing wonders, as has the regular counseling sessions. We learned ways of opening lines of communications and emotional management tactics which I would never have come up with if left to my own stubborn, stoic devices. Admittedly, it does become easier after being driven to a point where you couldn't give a yodeling shit what anyone thinks anymore.

My wife and I both have had our share of late-night freakouts and meltdowns, but have so far been able to lean on each other and avoid appearing on the local news for running naked down I-95 and humping the mile markers. I found that not wanting the be that guy (not the freeway streaker, but the useless drunken patriarch) was enough. Whether Joe's enigmatic brain situation improves or becomes terrifyingly worse, it's better to be mentally equipped than to wallow in booze-fueled self-pity and help exactly no one.

I surely wasn't put on Earth to preach to anyone, but if I pass anything on to him, it will be ... I dunno ... make lemonade or some shit. And if you have the chance to at least try to be a good dad, then jump at it.

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