January 19, 2011
I woke up at 6:00 a.m. feeling crampy. I was 38 weeks
pregnant. I had a check up that morning at 10:30 so I decided to wait until I
got checked out to tell Tommy that I thought something might be going on. I
didn’t want to worry him if I was wrong. Knowing him, he would get me in an
ambulance and start my breathing techniques at the mere mention of the word
“contraction.”
My OB was the kindest, most maternal woman that has ever
seen my hoo-ha. Well, the only one, technically. I mean, I went to college but
I guess I just never found the right girl.
At any rate, when my OB checked me out, she had surprising
news. She told me I was indeed in labor and she was shocked that I wasn’t
already in the hospital. I was 3 or 4 cm dilated and 100% effaced. I think Tommy
blacked out at that point. I, on the other hand, went into stealth mode.
If you know me at all, you know I am a detail person. I am
creepily obsessed with lists. At one point, and this is hard for me to admit,
but I even had a list of lists to makes. I have a sickness.
Now, to tackle the “Last Minute To-do’s Before Going to the
Hospital” list. On the top of the list was: vacuum the stairs, take out the
trash, make and freeze 3 dinners, and shower and shave my legs (because heaven
forbid I should give birth looking like yeti). Even the not-so-important things
got done. These were things like: unload the dishwasher, dust the picture
frames, make the bed, and Febreeze the couch. Clearly, I was on crack when I
made this list.
Tommy’s list had one thing: drop the dog off at the kennel.
I finished my list before he even got back. That’s all I have to say about
that.
While he was gone, I found myself having to pause between fluffing
couch cushions to breathe through my contractions. They were manageable, but
getting worse quickly. I called the hospital to see when they thought I should
come in. They said when my contractions were 5 minutes apart for an hour I
should head over. They must have been trying to pull a fast one on me, because
by the time my contractions were 5 minutes apart I knew I had to get to the
hospital- pronto. The hospital was a good 20-minute drive from our house, so I
was dreading the trip.
I didn’t know what had taken Tommy so long to do a simple
errand until he walked in the door with 2 sandwiches from Penn Station. F*CKING
SANDWICHES. I could have murdered him. He’s lucky I didn’t throw his lunch on
the ground and stomp on it. I didn’t even let him step foot inside the
apartment, I just shoved my bags in his hands and told him to about-face. Thank
God he didn’t ask questions or I would have left him and his lunch on the
doorstep and driven myself.
Tommy had this bright idea during our Lamaze classes. We
needed a purple flashing light to go on the top of the car to warn everyone that
I was in labor and suggest that they kindly pull over and allow us to pass.
Wouldn’t that have been nice? We practically hit all 20 red lights on the way.
It was so funny to watch people watching me suffer. It was like a movie, sort
of hard to think that it was really happening to me. People would literally
stare into our car as I grimaced and hee-hee-hoo’ed as we zoomed past.
To refresh your memory, the hospital told me to leave my
house when I had contractions 5 minutes apart for an hour. We left right when
they got to be 5 minutes apart and 20 minutes later, when we arrived at the
hospital, they were less than 30 seconds apart. Good God, I’m glad I didn’t
listen to them or I would have had that baby at home.
We pulled up to the drop off and I knew it was going to be
rough getting inside. My contractions were so painful at that point that I
couldn’t do anything but hold my breath, violently rock back and forth, and
pray I made it through. I planned out the timing to make it in the doors. I
would wait for a contraction to end and get up and run inside and sit down before
the next one started again. Ok-go. Contraction, breathe, end, get up, oh wait-
no, just kidding here’s another one. Well, obviously my plan went to shit. My
contractions were like 15 seconds apart. Real cool, uterus, real cool.
Tommy went in and got a wheel chair and I managed to hoist my whale-like body
into the chair before the next contraction started. I blacked out for a little
bit. The next thing I knew, I was in the bed changed into the gown, begging for
meds.
What comes next really…. REALLY… pisses me off.
These b*tches... er… nurses- tell me they can’t give me so much as a Tums without
my signing about 20 papers. Were they seriously looking at me shaking, barely conscious
with pain, and expecting me to read and sign legal documents?? I told them I
could be signing this baby away, for all I knew. I literally couldn’t see the
words on the page, much less where to sign. I tried to let Tommy sign them for
me but one of the nurses told on me. Nark. To make my point clear, I scribbled
swirly shit all over that paper, not just on the line. I really told them GOOD.
The nurse had to check me out “down there” before she could
send the anesthesiologist in. I was 6 cm dilated and 100% effaced and I had
just arrived! I thought this would be a quick labor since, technically, I was
over halfway done. Boy, was I wrong.
I expected that the moment I handed the signed papers over,
the handsome anesthesiologist would enter with that sweet, sweet relief… in the
form of a huge needle. Honestly, I couldn’t have cared less what size that
needle was. They could have stuck PVC pipe in my back if it took the pain away.
In reality, it took that tortoise another 15 minutes to get to my room. The
drug-gods must have hated me because he botched the first epidural and had to
“try again.” That’s really not a phrase you want to hear when trusting a man to
stab you 1 cm away from a spot that could paralyze you.
I swear, as soon as that second needle went in, I was
experiencing a whole different labor. It was pain-free and smooth sailing, and
the tortoise had transformed back into a doctor, who, might I add, was looking
as handsome as ever. Did I mention that I love epidurals? Mine kicked in
immediately and I couldn’t have been more grateful. That is, until the nurses
refused to let me eat any of the snacks I had so carefully packed. No Jell-o,
no lifesavers, no mints. I hadn’t eaten since the night before so I was not
happy. These nurses were really wearing out their welcome. Who invited them
anyway?
Sometime after that, we called our family to let them know
the baby was coming. Tommy’s family drove 3 hours from the North and my family
drove 1.5 hours from the South to meet in the “middle ground” that we called
home.
The next several hours are a blur. All I know is that I sure
got to 6 cm pretty quickly, so why on earth were the last 4 taking so long? I
went into labor around 6 a.m. and it was already 11pm! That is 17 hours of
labor already! Didn’t my uterus know that I had tons of family outside eagerly
awaiting the news that I had popped this little sucker out? I made a mental
note to have a stern talking to with that uterus of mine. It was clearly out of
line.
When I was nearing 10 centimeters, Tommy’s family and my family all came in to
visit. It was slightly surreal that everyone was there for me. I will forever
cherish the memories of my brother, who is gone now, hanging out in my hospital room. Evan wasn’t
too fond of family activities, or of children. So when he and his girlfriend,
Chelsea, made the drive up to be there for the delivery (on a school night,
none the less) it really was astonishing. I felt so honored that he would care
enough to make an appearance. We joked around and took pictures and acted silly,
the way we always did when we were together. I wish I could tell him that it
meant THE WORLD to me that he was there for this. That is one memory of him
that I will never forget.
Finally, around 11 p.m, I got the word: 10 centimeters and
ready to push! Hallelujah, sweet baby Jesus. So push, I did. Before the pushing
started, Tommy and I had agreed that he didn’t need to see all that “business”
happening down there, so he had planned on just staying up North. That all went
out the window when his daughter’s head made it’s debut. He migrated South. At
first he was scared by all that black stuff. It never occurred to him that this
baby would have hair! Lots of thick, dark, hair- just like her dad!
I loved my OB. She was so cool with our birth plan. Most
doctors would never have tolerated what she did. (If you have seen Ricki Lake’s
documentary “The Business of Being Born” you know what I’m talking about.) After the hair debut, I pushed for four
hours. Yes. Four... hours. I was dead set on having this baby without a
C-section. To me, that wasn’t even an option. I tried every position possible
and my OB knew how badly I wanted to avoid having a C-section, so she let me
keep pushing for hours longer than most doctors would have. I was getting so frustrated,
knowing it was the middle of the night and my family was still waiting for me
to push this baby out. I imagined them trying to stay awake in the waiting room
and I just felt so guilty. Clearly, I have a sick, perpetual need to keep
others happy.
My baby’s hair
must not have liked what it saw out in the world, because it sent word to the
rest of the body “Code Red: Abort Mission! Stay Inside!” Ok, in actuality, her
forehead had gotten stuck against my pelvic bone and there was no hope for a
vaginal birth. I didn’t know that yet, so I kept at it. I tried everything to
get this kid out: Normal, Side Sling, Poop Position, African Lady- you name it,
I tried it.
By the time the fourth hour rolled around I was only half
alive, falling asleep between contractions and barely having the strength to
continue. But there was no mention of the C-word (cesarean) in my birth plan.
No way, no how. I would push until I turned 50 if I had to. But my doctor had
other plans.
Sometime after hour 4 and in between blackouts, my doctor
looked at me with a gentle, sympathetic smile. Those eyes were implying that my
push-time was up. Feeling defeated and inadequate, I whimpered, “You are going
to tell me I should have a C-section aren’t you…”
She lovingly told me that she was merely "suggesting" I consider it. That is the first time I cried
during the whole labor and delivery process. I hadn’t yelled, I hadn’t cussed,
I hadn’t even blamed Tommy for “doing this to me!!!” But knowing I couldn’t bring my child into the world on my
own was too much for me to handle at 3 a.m.
“Can we please have a minute alone?” I just wanted a minute of
vulnerability and to let out my disappointment. “I know it’s for the best, I
know I physically can’t keep going but it just sucks! It isn’t fair, I tried so
hard!”
Tommy shared my sentiments and helped me collect myself. We
came to terms with the surgery that now faced us. The doctors came back in and
they did whatever they do to prep me. They told Tommy to change into scrubs and
meet us in the OR where they would be performing the surgery.
The OR was a shockingly bright room that had to have been
about -40 degrees. I was so cold my body was convulsing. My abs hurt so badly
from the intense chills. I pleaded to whoever was there (I couldn’t see a
damned thing, it was so bright in there) to please give me more heated
blankets. They insisted it was all in my head due to the anesthesia, but I
didn’t back down. Anesthesia or not, I was freezing my sweet, pregnant cheeks
off! They finally obliged, but they were right, it didn’t help an ounce. They
strapped me down to a hard table, as I imagine they would do at a “humane
execution.” The lack of control I had was frightening. I had no idea what they
were doing to me and no one was explaining anything. To make matters worse,
Tommy was still MIA. (I later found out he had gone to update the family, and
wasn’t told where I was for a short while later.)
When Tommy finally graced us with his presence, they began
the procedure. Upon my command... er, request, Tommy recorded the whole thing on
our camera. I’m gory like that, I wanted to see all the details later because,
let’s face it- I was less than “with-it” at this point. At one point he thought
it would be swell to narrate the process to me. "Ok now they are cutting into your uterus!" I quickly shut that down. I
told him, “Seriously, don’t say another word. I’m on a beach drinking Mai Tai’s
with my feet in the sand. That’s the only thing happening right now.” He got
the point.
They tell you that you will be numb but still be able to
feel what is going on and to be honest, that is something that you can’t quite
wrap your head around until your OB’s arm in entirely inside your abdomen. They
were right, I could feel everything, but nothing hurt. After what seemed like 7
Mai Tai’s and a beach siesta later, I heard the warning, “Ok you are going to
feel a lot of pressure now.” And I did. They pulled the baby’s head out,
suctioned her mouth, and continued to reveal her tiny little body.
At 4:30 a.m. on January 20, 2011, after nearly 24 hours in labor, 4 hours of
pushing, and an hour’s worth of slicing my gut open- it was over. She was here.
My precious, perfect, little girl. She didn’t even cry! The nurse had to slap
her around a little bit to get her to let out a tiny little wail.
They took her away and I had a slight panic attack because I
couldn’t see what they were doing. They took her over to the left side of the
room to wash her off and weigh her. She was 6 pounds 4 ounces and 18.25 inches
long. The sacred blue curtain that shielded me from being able to see all the
gore during the surgery was also shielding me from seeing my baby! I couldn’t
see a thing. I called out as loudly as I could, which turned out to be a mere
whisper, for them to move either the baby or the curtain. How could they expect
me to miss out on the first few moments of her life? No one replied; they kept
on going. Tommy went over to make sure he caught it all on video so I could at
least see it later. They told him to cut the cord, but I still couldn’t see
anything. He made them move the curtain over so I could see before he
continued. I still couldn’t see what was going on, but I didn’t want to make
more of a bother, because it was apparent they wanted the cord cut as quickly
as possible. He cut the cord and quickly returned to my side, sobbing like a 4
year old in a toy store.
That beautiful moment didn’t last long before- oh yes- the little red bucket. I
got so sick so quickly that I couldn’t keep my eyes open. My sunny Mai Tai
filled vacation had become a ride of terror on a malfunctioning Tilt-a-Whirl. My
OB said it was either from the anesthesia (cursed anesthesia…) or because of
all the shifting my stomach had just done during the delivery. Either way, this
sudden bout of nausea left me unable to see my baby, yet again. They quickly
whisked her off to the nursery to see my family and to get some tests and shots
while they sewed me back up. I was still up-chucking as the banished me to the
post-op dungeon.
The worst part of the whole experience was the next hour I
spent in post-op. By this time, it had been over 30 hours since I had
eaten. I was so hungry I wanted to
puke. Oh, no wait, it’s the anesthesia again. I was so close to eating my own
swollen fingers. My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow. I begged for ice
chips, to no avail. I was sick to my stomach, starving, parched, miserable in
pain, freezing, and to top it all off, I still hadn’t seen my baby yet. I felt
like I was wrongly convicted of murder and sent to jail for life. I felt like
Belle, trapped in the Beast’s castle. I felt helpless, powerless, and most of
all- mad. This was cruel and unusual punishment- did these people not know my
constitutional rights? I went on stewing in bitterness for the next hour or so
before I was wheeled back to my room.
Now it was after 6 a.m. and my family was just leaving to go
to their hotel to get some sleep and so I could recover as well. But, wouldn’t
you know, fate intervened. We passed each other in the hallway as they were
leaving. It was so good to see them! I was so grateful to them for staying
through an entire miserable night, just waiting to see my baby! Speaking of…
Where is that little booger and why can’t I see her yet?? Turns out, all of my
family had seen her and held her, including Tommy, yet I had not. Talk about
injustice.
I have no idea what time it was when I finally got to hold my little girl. All
I know is it was magical. I immediately checked for 10 fingers and 10 toes and
any visible flaws. I couldn’t find any. Wow, I grow a pretty perfect baby, if I
do say so myself! She just fit so perfectly in my arms and it was a feeling
unmatched by any other.
I had lost almost a third of my blood during delivery, so
they put me on all kinds of medicines, including an oxygen tube. I looked like
a 90-year-old hot mess of a patient. I had so many tubes and wires I could
barely hold my daughter without them all getting in the way. Not to mention,
they pumped me so full of fluids, I looked like the Michelin man. I’m not
kidding when I say my feet were so swollen they looked like pillows and the
tops shook when I walked. It was disgusting.
I was so drugged up the first day I don’t even remember my Memom coming to
visit. Apparently I kept saying, “I’m gunna sleep now….” Whoops, sorry Memom!
The rest of the days we spent in the hospital were wonderful
and magical. We got to know our baby, got free meals delivered, and could sleep
anytime we felt like it. We were in newborn paradise. Until we went home. But,
I’ll save that story for another time.
