Happy Birthday, Audrey!

Five years ago today:

I only had one job – do not lose the baby.

In the childbirth story, it turns out the father has an insignificant role even though they let me wear scrubs. The bulk of my responsibility was completed about 40 weeks ago.  In the hospital’s eyes, I had less responsibility than the parking attendant at the automated tollbooth.  If the barrier arm will not go up, at least that guy can make a phone call.  The hospital wouldn’t even trust me with that responsibility.  I know that for a fact because our admissions paperwork listed the following emergency contacts for Audrey:

Emergency Contact 1 – Sarah Michelle Hunt (Mother)

Emergency Contact 2 – Michelle Hunt (Parent)

If something goes wrong, for God’s sake, do not call the father, just call the mother twice and leave a message.

Read more: Happy Birthday, Audrey!

Due to the complexity of our situation, they reluctantly allowed me to participate.  After signing the release forms, I had one job – do not lose the baby.  We had to transport Audrey from the hospital where she was born to Children’s Medical Center. They gave me the option of riding in the ambulance, but the transport team told me it would take about 2 hours to get her set up after they arrived, and I could not be in the room during that time. They said it would be best for me to get some sleep and meet them at the hospital.  I was tempted to ride along because I’ve never been in an ambulance and wanted to see what it’s like to legally blow through red lights, but the prospect of getting a solid 27 minutes of sleep was too appealing. For those wondering, all-nighters suck when you are 47 years old.

After my half-hour of something that doesn’t really resemble sleep, I drove in my sleep-deprived, anxiety-infused stupor and arrived at Children’s Medical Center at 7:00 am. To get from the parking garage to the hospital, I had to walk across a long, elevated pedestrian bridge that ran over the street separating the two buildings.  I saw, but did not notice at the time, the weary faces of the nurses leaving after their twelve-hour overnight shift. 

I stepped up to the front desk to check in and said: “I’m here to see my daughter, Audrey Hunt.”

“I’m sorry, sir. There’s no patient here with that name.” said the front desk clerk.

“Wait. What?” “Audrey Hunt. She’s impossible to miss, a breathtakingly cute little baby attached to something that looks like an IBM 7090 mainframe computer behind her.”

“I’m sorry. We don’t have that name in our registry.”

Breath gone.  Stomach knotted.  Sweat pouring.  A little bit of pee is starting to trickle out.

I knew that I was slightly delirious due to the enormity of the situation and my lack of sleep, but I was sure I was at the right hospital.  I had one simple job and screwed it up.

Was I supposed to give this lady a tracking number? Was I supposed to get a claim ticket from the ambulance driver? I electronically signed the consent paperwork on a tablet, so I never got a receipt for my daughter.  Did I beat them to the hospital? I assumed the ambulance driver knew how to get here, but I didn’t bother to ask.

After about 10 minutes (and calling an orderly to mop my nervous pee off the floor) the registry attendant found the problem and saved my life. As anybody who would eventually come to visit found out, the hospital decided to list Audrey as “Girl Sarah Hunt.” I assume they did that because she is so cute they wanted to keep the paparazzi away.  I hope and pray that is not what is listed on her birth certificate. That name sounds like the ultimate parental give up, and I really did not want to go through the process of changing her name.  I think it takes a 2/3 majority of the Texas and U.S. Senate and a fifty-dollar handshake with the state administrator to get that corrected.

At that time, that was the most stressful day of my life. Little did I know that by the end of the next three months, that day probably wouldn’t even crack my Top Ten most stressful days. And I would do them all over again.

Happy Birthday, Audrey!