The Boy the Birth

One week ago the golf clubs came!

I was going to post this picture:

Look at how HAPPY the Husband is! The poor man has spent this entire summer WAITING. Waiting for the Boy to arrive, waiting for golf clubs, waiting with his internship, waiting for family and friends and LIFE to get going. And something finally CAME and the waiting became a bit better!

I sent him to play golf on Friday hoping for the trustworthy Irony of Fate and labor to begin Thursday night.

HA HA HA!!!

Fate is funny. Also, Fate loves the Husband too. Labor didn't start until Friday, after he went golfing!

I admit that I researched labor and delivery A LOT. I read everything I could find on it--including sections of Ina May Gaskin's Guide to Childbirth. And everything I read said that labor would begin gradually. So, naturally I focused on what was consistent--the gradual bit.

Friday morning came and I got up and got dressed and went and walked and puttered about the house. I read and did some laundry and made grocery lists. The Husband worked and then golfed and then came home and we went to Target to buy the aforementioned groceries and my contractions started--STARTED, people--at 2 minutes a part. And they were...shall we say...intense.

5:00pm July 11th:

One hour went by with no change, Target was done, we went to Sam's for milk and blueberries (I know! But I was a week late! Contractions are SUPPOSED to start gradually! And denial ain't just a river in Egypt!) and they kept going so we headed home.

I climbed in the bath tub fully expecting the contractions to stop, after all, they are supposed to start GRADUALLY and they didn't. So, I told the Husband to eat some dinner and relax, we weren't going to the hospital tonight because contractions are supposed to start GRADUALLY.

Are you sensing a theme here? Also, I tend to be a very literal person. I need help.

7:00pm July 11th:

Contractions were still 2 minutes apart and there was...um...blood. Now, all the books say that at the onset of labor there is blood but I had expected, you know, light, pinkish spotting...NOT what I got. So I got scared. I was 9 months pregnant! I hadn't bled in a LONG time! So I panicked a bit and we headed to the hospital.

I should mention here, that the contractions were close and they were intense and painful but I was able to cope pretty well. I got up and moved around and bounced on my exercise ball and did my breathing and stopped when I needed to and then went on with things...I was coping. It wasn't pleasant but I was coping.

I mention this because once we get to the hospital everything--especially the coping part changed. I'm reminded of this blog post, which summarized the whole situation perfectly.

8:00pm July 11th:

We headed up to labor and delivery and they stuck us in triage and left us there. Oh, they came back eventually, about 45 minutes later the nurse came in and I was standing--because the contractions didn't quite cripple me so badly as long as I was on my feet--and the nurse made me LAY DOWN and strapped me up to the fetal monitor and the contraction monitor and a blood pressure cuff and my incarceration began.

I have seldom been so miserable in my entire life.

And the irony is that in childbirth classes, the coping strategies they teach you involve changing position frequently, your birth partner rubbing your back and neck and breathing--you go to the hospital and they strap you down so that all of these coping strategies become not only irrelevant but impossible.

So, there I lay in PAIN and tied down and there sits the Husband looking increasingly distressed at his inability to do ANYTHING to help me.

The doctor came in to assess me at around 9:00pm and I was only dilated 3cm. I could have cried. But, he said, the good news is that I was definitely in active labor! Really. He went to school for 8 years and did a 4 year residency to be able to tell me that? I could have told him that with my big fat degrees in the LIBERAL ARTS.

The doctor was very nice. I shouldn't be so sarcastic, but I was in a lot of pain and felt that I was being undermined by the hospital system and it was still very early. He recommended that since it was 9:00pm that I get a "lighter" epidural and get some rest and by the time I was ready to push, I would have sensation back and be able to move around etc.

Since I was strapped down and miserable and there was nothing anyone could do for me, I said, Sure. Sign me up.

The anesthesiologist came in between 10:00 and 11:00pm and put the epidural in and my legs went numb almost immediately but an hour later I could still feel the contractions. They weren't as strong as they had been but I could still feel them enough to not really be able to rest. So, he returned and increased the narcotics. I was soon completely numb and feeling a bit more relaxed.

The Husband was just starting to have, what proved to be, one of the hardest nights of his life.

Some time between midnight and 1am I started to feel the contractions again...and they were...angry. I kept clicking the little green button which was supposed to release additional medication but I think was just there to mock me. By 2am I could feel everything. And to add insult to injury I was still strapped to the monitors, and still had an epidural in my back so getting up and walking around was out of the question, moving into any position other than laying on my side, was out of the question. The Husband was awesome. He told the nurse, the nurse relayed it to the anesthesiologist who was in a c-section and he came back and he rubbed my back as best he could, he breathed with me, he talked to me...but mostly he watched over me with a look on his face that I can't quite describe. I may never be able to. Please accept my limitations as they are.

The resident had come in and checked me at midnight and I was dilated to 5 cm and completely effaced. The Boy's head still had not dropped but hey! I was already at 5 cm! We'd be pushing by 4am, no problem!

The anesthesiologist came back and gave me another dose of medication and this time it worked only for another hour. The contractions came back around 4am and were more painful than ever. My legs, however, were still numb! The Husband and I were left alone. He paced and sat and held my hand and breathed with me and worried and stressed, and I clung to the rails of the bed feeling as if my entire body would split into pieces.

I kept thinking of those lines from Yeats, "Things fall apart, the center cannot hold..."

The anesthesiologist was in another c-section and remained unavailable until 5am. At 2am they had re-evaluated me and I was at 7 cm and they broke my water. They wanted to start us on pitocin--the drug from HELL--and the Husband and I both said, NO. We do not want pitocin--it's only going to make this worse, worse for me and worse for the Boy. So the resident managed to stall everyone else for a couple of hours.

By 7:00am on July 12th I was starting to feel the contractions come back. The doctor came in and checked me again and it had been no change at all. My labor had effectively stalled at 7cm dilated, which, he even admitted, is weird. So the Husband and I caved. They started me on low doses of pitocin at 7am to try to kick start things again in the hopes that I would be pushing by 9am. Remember that whole theory of pushing by 4am? Yeah, I was pretty skeptical at this point.

There is a lot that I could tell you about the Husband during this night. This very long, very dark and very quiet night. Some of it funny but most of it not funny. I know that I write a lot about him. How funny he is and his eccentricities and how tender and sweet he can be. Those are snapshots, fragments of our life together. The Husband on this particular night, the things that he said and did, those moments I'm putting in my pocket and I will keep them with me forever. They are mine. I can't share them with you. If you are privileged to know this man, then chances are, you know much of what I could tell you.

They brought in a new anesthesiologist at this point who pulled out my old epidural and placed a new one in. She was awesome. Kind, compassionate and capable. The contractions vanished for the most part, I could feel intense pressure, especially on my hip bones, but beyond that the pain had faded.

The doctor had come in and reevaluated me and in his words, "Your pelvis is just tiny." Now. As a heavily pregnant woman I was torn. On the one hand, I was happy that ANY part of me was tiny at that point, but when you've worked and planned for a natural delivery for 9 months, only to be told that your body isn't going to be able to do that--it's disheartening to say the least.

The Husband had reached his breaking point around 5am. The doctor said that we could continue to increase the pitocin and try for a natural delivery but he felt that to do so would be risky what with the tiny pelvis and the Boy not dropping in the least and that it would probably lead to a c-section anyway but a c-section in dangerous circumstances. OR we could say, "we tried our best" and have a c-section under calm and controlled circumstances.

We opted for the controlled c-section. Of course we did. We joke about being rebels and a little bit crazy, but in the end the Husband and I are fairly conservative people. We like safety and security, we like calm and controlled situations. And there is the Boy. The boy that we've been building and nurturing and fretting over for 9 months. I was not willing in the least to risk any damage to him.

The doctor went off to prepare for the surgery. The Husband and I were left alone. We talked. I cried. A Lot. I had had this shadow in my mind for the duration of my pregnancy. A part of me had always known that this would be the path my body would take. I had hoped, I had prayed and wished for a natural birth, but I had this shadow creeping closer and closer to cognitive reality and here it was.

After that, things went fairly smoothly. The Lovely Anesthesiologist (Kathleen) came back and increased my epidural and told me about her own c-section and how routine and safe it is. That I didn't need to be scared, they were all going to take good care of me. She really was wonderful. The nurses came in and prepped me for the transition to the operating room and then they wheeled me out and left the Husband there and that's where I started to panic.

Now. I have had more than a few theater classes in my day. I don't often admit them because they are a wonderful secret to being a great diplomat, acting. So while I was calm and focused on the outside I was panicking on the inside. All I wanted was the Husband. I wanted his face and his hands and his voice and they wouldn't bring him into the operating room until I was completely prepped and they were ready to begin.

They set up the room and it was full of people and bright stinging lights. Kathleen started me on 4 frillion bags of fluids and I started to shake. After what felt like an hour but was probably only 20 minutes, they brought the Husband in. He sat down next to me and I stared at his face and asked him random questions about the room because I really didn't want to think about the cutting, about my body exposed to this room full of strangers. I didn't want to think about the smells and the clanking of instruments.

And then there was this cry.

And the people, the noise, the lights, the smells they all faded away and it was my child. He was howling and I could do nothing for him. I began to cry...again...and to loathe this situation further.

The staff was really great, they were voluble and effusive in their descriptions of him, knowing that I couldn't see him. I cried and I shook and I hated my body for not doing what I wanted it to do. The Husband kept rubbing my hand and arm and telling me that it was ok, that the Boy was ok and it was going to be over soon.

And soon it was. They took the boy to recovery and the Husband went with him. They put me back together again and moved me in to recovery with my little family. The Husband put the boy on my chest and things started to get better from there.

And the rest is done. There was a 3 day hospital stay with a continuous flow of hospital staff, doctors, nurses, and assistants. There were visitors and well-wishers. There were pills and pills and pills and bad food that I was not the least bit interested in eating. All I wanted was to be home. With the Husband and the Boy and bed sweet bed.

Whimsy keeps asking me how I feel about the whole thing. And I say that I feel fine. I accept the limitations of my body for what they are. 200 years ago I would have been a statistic, one of the thousands of women who died in childbirth. Now we have this technology and I can have my boy and raise him too. I should be grateful. I am grateful. But I have had issues with my body my entire life and this has only added insult to injury. To be honest, I'm angry. Not with the hospital, not with the Boy, but with my body. I work hard to take care of it, to feed it well and to exercise. I'm conscious of my blood sugar and blood pressure. And yet, the one thing I wanted from it in return it would not, it could not give me. I'm trusting to time to relieve this.


In the meantime, I have a baby to feed and cuddle and smooch on. His feet are enormous and the perfect size for blowing raspberries. And Bed Sweet Bed has a new occupant--no, we're not co-sleeping, but with the whole Major Surgery thing, I spend most of my days and nights in Bed Sweet Bed which means that a lot of nursing and cuddling and blowing of raspberries also takes place there.