Eight-six-six-three-nine.

We are family 86639. That's the number on our hospital bracelets, the ones that match our son's, though ours are wound loosely around our wrists while his is bound tightly around his impossibly small ankle.

Every day for the last eight we've had to confirm that the numbers on our three bracelets match, to ensure that the nursery is handing over care of our son to the right parents. Through showers and tears and poopy diapers and Ohmigod-he-just-peed-all-over-himself-and-me and first baths the bracelet's other identifying information has slowly faded, but these particular numbers are clear and bright as the day they were put in place, March 30 at 3:30 am.

I went into labor at midnight on March 30, 2011. I was prepared to write the contractions off as Braxton-Hicks until I saw the aptly named "Bloody Show." And I knew it was for real this time. At 2 am the pain and frequency of the contractions pushed me up the stairs to wake Mr. Savant. I tried my best not to alarm him, but I'm not sure I succeeded. We were in the car by 2:30 am, but were turned back halfway to the hospital by Michelle, the midwife, who recommended over the phone that I labor at home as long as possible before heading to the hospital. I made it until about 3:15 -- crawling, walking, taking a shower, sitting, squatting. Mr. Savant rubbed my back and my sacrum and breathed with me through each contraction.

We arrived at the hospital and I was 90 percent effaced and 3 centimeters dilated. Three labor and delivery nurses tried in vain to put in a heparin lock and draw blood, but I was so dehydrated that my veins wouldn't give up anything. Finally, Georgianna, an IV specialist, came in and nailed it on her first try after I was left smarting from five failed sticks.

Once that was done, I labored until 9:30 am when I was completely effaced and 6 centimeters dilated. And then I requested an epidural. Which was bliss after more than nine hours of gut wrenching, mind-altering, literally brought-to-my-knees pain. But then the dilation slowed down to a crawl. We waited. Hours passed. I was hooked up to a Pitocin drip. Then my water was broken. Finally, at 9:30 pm, I was 9 centimeters dilated but my contractions had become very sporadic and completely ineffective. There was a possibility that more Pitocin and more time could bring the baby into the world vaginally, but there was also a possibility that he was stuck and that any effort I made would be in vain. I was asked if I wanted a C-section. I quickly said yes.

I was prepped for surgery: a Foley catheter was put in, I was taken off all the fetal monitors and Mr. Savant donned blue scrubs, complete with plastic "shower cap" and booties. They increased the epidural and wheeled me to the C-section suite. A drape was hung perpendicular to my neck, and my arms were extended out from my shoulders. It felt like a combination guillotine and crucifixion, though I could see nothing nor could I feel any pain, only intense pressure. I could feel my body being prodded, pushed and sometimes flung side to side. And at 10:06 pm I heard the most wonderful sound -- my son opened his mouth and let out a lusty, deep and full wail.

I was crying before they even held him up over the drape. "That's our son! There's our son!" I said to Mr. Savant. That's when things got very, very fuzzy and vague. Mr. Savant left with Cameron Erich, our baby boy. I was put back together and placed in a recovery room for an entire hour during which time I had no idea where my son, husband and family were. And I felt so empty. I got doses upon doses of narcotics and I don't even remember when I held my baby for the first time. Mr. Savant fed him his first bottle, which was part of our original plan.

After two groggy, semi-conscious days, they broke the news to us. Our tiny baby boy was experiencing withdrawal from the Percoset I'd been prescribed while I was pregnant to cope with the excruciating hip and lower back pain I had while carrying him. They'd have to give him doses of morphine to assuage the symptoms, and slowly wean him off. And he'd have to stay in the hospital nursery for an indeterminate amount of time until he was "clean."

I will forever bear the burden of guilt, shame, the what-ifs and the why-didn't-they-tell-me's ... but it is still too painful to elaborate at this moment. For now, I can only say that I blame myself though it seems no one else does. Or at least if they do they don't want to admit it.

And that is why, day after day, Mr. Savant and I travel to the hospital, check in on the maternity floor, and spend hours in a small, bare, cold room with Cameron. For the hours we spend there, we form some semblance of a family; completely whole, all three of us there, family number 86639.