Date: Friday May 18, 2012
Key Players: Extremely over-ripe pregnant lady (41 weeks, 3 days)
Basketcase of a dad-to-be
Dumb (Teddy, age 6)
Dumber (Honey, age 6)
Setting of the scene: Seven years have passed since the event of this blog post. Seven years since my miracle sweetheart, Jonathan, made his epic entrance into the world. Seven years since my lifelong dream of motherhood became a reality. Seven. Years. To be honest, I didn't really think about documenting his birth at the time. As you will soon read, I was in no shape to write a blog post at that time. Nor did I have a blog, so there's that. But then about two years ago, my second miracle sweetheart, William, made his epic entrance into the world. His birth was vastly different, and I was chipper and full of enthusiastic adrenaline afterward. So I documented his birth on the ole blog. If you missed it, you can check it out here: http://freemandayinthelife.blogspot.com/2017/
I was (as usual) delighted I wrote a post about William's birth, as I am always glad I document the day in the life stuff. I don't know if he or his future family will ever have an interest in reading it. But it's there if they do (and if they can handle the horrid TMI gory details). But ever since I wrote WW's birth story, I have felt the need to back-peddle and write one for JW too. It's come and gone on my mind for a long time, and the time has finally come. As I write this, Mother's Day has just passed, and Jonathan's seventh birthday rapidly approaching. It's the perfect time to reminisce about his birthday, which made me a mother, and all that we went through together. I have slight trepidation at reliving the details, but I am glad to finally be doing this.
Tuesday, May 8th
Today is my due date. I wake up early, eager with anticipation. Today is the due date, so I guess it's happening? I have zero signs of labor. None whatsoever. But the due date is accurate, after all the IVF details. So I guess we're having a baby today? Brian heads to work, ready to drop everything at my call. I go about my day wishfully looking for contractions. Nervously hoping all those weeks of cliche labor-inducing techniques will have paid off and result in labor today. I putz around the house, walk Dumb & Dumber, try to get some contractions going by walking as quickly as my water-filled cankles can handle, and get myself dressed for a midwife appointment.
I arrive at the clinic, nervously hopeful. I love hearing the baby's heartbeat and breathe a sigh of relief that he's fine. Moving and dancing around as usual. Completely healthy and fine, thank God. My midwife lets out endearing chuckles through the appointment and assures me the baby will be here soon.
That evening, Brian and I do our normal DINK thing. We eat. We talk uninterupted. We pet the dogs and then get annoyed by their neediness. We wonder about what life will be life once we're snuggling on the couch with a new baby. B tries to massage my whale legs and cankles, but they are miserably too tender. I shift and move around all evening, so bloated I could float away. I cannot get comfortable. We have some bedroom fun. We go to bed and wonder if perhaps tomorrow will be the big day.
Thursday, May 10th
I have zero signs of labor. None whatsoever. But today is two days past due, so surely I will go into labor today? I putz around the house again, doing the typical stuff. As the days and hours pass, I slowly creep into more anxiety. Nothing even close to noticeable anxiety. Just a little inch more of nerves here, another inch there. More anticipation. More excitement. More fear. What will happen? Will I know if I'm in labor (this is now a scoffing lol moment with eyes rolled back so that only the whites show). But at that time, I honestly wondered that. Will I know? I spend way too much time reading about labor, delivery, blogs about babies, just immerse myself in all things childbirth, as I have been doing for years anyway. I resist a temptation to re-watch The Business of Being Born and decide to nervously pep talk myself into going eu natural. No drugs. No epidural. And god forbid, no c-section. It's the healthiest way. It's best for the baby. Its best for me. My recovery will be easier. I'll have that endorphine rush afterward and be so elated. I convince myself Ina May Gaskin knows best, yet my nerves are constantly creeping up. Butterflies in the stomach off and on all day.
Later in the day I have another midwife appointment. Get checked, and I'm dilated to 0. That whole checking process hurts like hell, but I am more focused on the disappointment of no dilation. My midwife is her typical cheery self, fluttering around with an endearing twinkle in her eye. He'll be here soon, honey! First babies are usually late. But he'll be here soon!
That evening, the same exact things happen at home. Chat, eat, uncomfortable foot rubs, dog stuff, bedroom stuff, wonder when our little miracle will make his debut, go to bed.
Friday, May 11th
I wake up nervous. The eager anticipation has waned, and I am now just downright nervous. Ugh! I am fearing the unknown. And there's a lot of it. I don't know what labor will be like. I don't know what contractions will feel like. I don't know what the ring of fire will be like. Will it really be that bad? I mean, women have done this since the beginning of humankind, so surely I can too? How can it really be that bad. But what if it is? Once the baby is here, what will life be like? I've never even held a baby younger than about one month old. Brian has never been around kids younger than like 5 years old. He is terrified and has been long before we plunged into IVF. I am becoming terrified with him.
I head back to the clinic for another midwife appointment. The medical folks had explained once women go past the due date, there are more frequent visits. I don't mind one bit; I like going to the appointments. I love hearing that precious heartbeat, and I like the reassurance that everything is fine. I arrive and am told my midwife is out today, so I will see another one. Sure thing, I love meeting new people. In the exam room, the new lady is also charming. But she flutters around even faster than my lady, Debbie. This new one is quick about everything. She squirts the gel, jams the ultrasound wand, and moves it fast like a nervous little chipmunk or something. I chuckle a bit and look forward to hearing that great heartbeat. I hear it. That horse race underwater thumping. Ahhhh. Hi, sweet boy! She doesn't keep the wand in one place for more than a couple seconds, though, constantly darting around. And within a minute, she stops, quickly puts the equipment away, and starts nervously chattering something about sending me for another test. It's just a quick thing, we need to check his heart since he's overdue, something about stress this or stress that. Ok. Sign me up! I love more tests. More opportunity to hear that reassuring thumper beat. She flitter flurries away, and the nurses give me the info about the new test. I'm supposed to go to the actual hospital, the labor & delivery ward. Yes! I am so excited about this! And I'm supposed to go right now. Awesome! I cannot wait to see this place, as I've never set foot in it. This will be where my boy changes my life forever. I hit the road with eager speed, sing along to tunes down the 91, enjoy feeling the baby move around in my enormous belly, and look forward to this exciting afternoon of labor & delivery with a new test.
I arrive at the hospital and find my way to the labor & delivery check-in. Ok, so this is it. I try sneaking inconspicuous looks around the place, but I'm quickly shooed down the hall, where the test will happen. Non-stress testing. Found it. Huh, isn't that interesting! I've always been fascinated by all things childbirth, and this is just sheer entertainment. I love it. Get check in and hooked up to the equipment. I hear that amazing heart beat, which instantly sends a happy calm through me. I sit there for probably 15 minutes, and eventually a nurse comes to unhook me. She looks distracted and busy. And quickly says I need to go back to labor & delivery. The heart beat is too slow.
All that oblivious enthusiasm and curiosity comes to a screeching halt. My world instantly becomes slow. Wut? Everything around me is moving, but I am fixated on this nurse's face. She is moving in slow motion, and the words are coming out all garbled. Something about the baby is under too much stress. He needs to come out. We need to get him out now. Slow motion all around me.
I am in a daze of some kind, my feet moving one in front of the other down the hall to labor & delivery. But I don't feel them. I'm somehow moving, but I'm not sure how. Stress. Get out. Now. I arrive back at labor & delivery, and the non-stress test nurse gets me checked in there. I'm suddenly in a labor & delivery bed with bands across me and wires all over the place. A sweet L&D nurse (they are all angelic, truly angelic) shuffles things around and explains she'll monitor the baby for a bit longer. She is about to leave the room, and I suddenly snap out of slow-mo and back into real time. Wait! Um ... is this something I should call my husband about? She walks back toward the bed tenderly with a comforting smile that absolutely does not comfort me. I would, honey. I would. And then she's gone.
Omg. My heart is racing. Call my husband? Is this it? But this is not how it's supposed to happen! Is the baby ok? He seems fine to me. I still feel him moving around. But he's stressed?! I can't do this alone. I didn't bring anything with me. I don't have my overnight bag. I don't have a carseat. I'm not mentally prepared. Oh god, is he ok? Get him out now! But no! Don't get him out now! I can't go through a c-section. Omg omg omg omg omg. The phone is ringing. B answers quietly, as if he's hushing his voice in court or something. I don't care if I'm interrupting something. I try explaining what's happening, but I am crying. Everything is coming out strained. Just come to the hospital. The baby is stressed, and they need to get him out. Omg ok. I'll get there as soon as I can. We hang up. I start calculating the time. He's in Long Beach. Traffic. Jesus, he won't get here for a couple hours. I can't have a baby before then! I contemplate calling the doula we hired a few weeks prior. I'm supposed to keep her in the loop, but I don't want to. I dread her getting involved, as she has a strong-willed position about going drug-free. I don't want to make things awkward or tense with the hospital people, and I can envision her doing that. I don't want a c-section, but I also don't want drama. Hem and haw about it and finally call her. She starts going off about tell them this and tell them that, and don't let them do this or that to you! I hurry off the phone as a sweet nurse enters the room again. Ok thanks, I'm fine, I just wanted to update you.
A couple hours pass, my heart rate settles, nurses are in and out checking on the baby, Brian arrives. Oh thank God. I breathe a sigh of relief, but I am in no mental shape to have a baby right now. Who cares that I've had over 41 weeks to mentally prepare. Nope! Not ready! A nurse eventually comes over and starts pulling off the paper from the heart beat machine. Well, he seems fine to me! His heart beat is slow. But it's steady. He's probably just an athlete, hahahahaha, laughing at her own joke. Yes, lady, hahaha, insert fake chuckles, so what do you mean? Well, you can go home now if you want. Just wait for labor to start on its own, and then we'll see you back here when he's ready to come out. Or since you're already here and past-due, we can go ahead and induce. Well that's an easy choice. Nope! No evil pitocin for me, hmmmkaythanks. If I get pitocin, I will have a c-section, and I will die. Rikki Lake said it! Ok we'll head home now. Thank you for everything.
We head back home in separate cars. I am relieved. Stunned. What just happened? Worried. Is he really ok? What if his heart rate plummets now? Damn it. Oh Lord, please keep him safe. I haven't felt him move since we left the hospital. Ugh, please move, baby. We arrive home and try to process everything. Both our nerves are fried. The dogs annoy the hell out of us. I shift and move, shift and move all evening. Can.not get comfortable. I am enormous. And swollen beyond belief. My feet are so disgustingly huge I can't even get flip flops wedged on the things. I am miserable. I want the baby out. But not like today. I want it to be a joyful and peaceful experience. We go to bed, hoping tomorrow will be better.
Monday, May 14th
The weekend has passed. Mother's Day has passed. I have zero signs of labor. None whatsoever. I am even more swollen and miserable than before, and I don't see how it could get any worse. Every step I take is uncomfortable. But maybe today will be the day? I am six days past due, so this whole childbirth thing is imminent. No turning back now. I just want it to go well. I want to push a baby out and have that typical scene unfold ... push push push ... crying baby ... dad cuts cord ... photos and flowers ... and they all live happily ever after.
I have another non-stress test today. I arrive at the hospital feeling much better prepared. I remind myself the baby is fine, and there's no need to freak out. But the exact. And I mean exact same scenario plays out. Non-stress test shows slow heart beat. Sent to L&D. Monitored. Call Brian. Freak out. It's happening. Just kidding. Baby's fine. It's not happening.
This time, a young OB bursts into the scene. She is wide-eyed and bossy. She barely passes the test of professionalism as she commands the room. She reviews the heart beat info and my chart. And then starts pushing an induction. You're already overdue. The baby is somewhat stressed. He's not stressed so much that we must get him out immediately, but he's stressed. He's running out of room in there. He needs to come out, so I recommend we go ahead and induce now. Ok? Yeah? It's 4pm now, so we can get pitocin going around 7. You can labor through the night, and I bet the baby will be here in the morning. Ok? Ummmmm ... no. No, no, no. Just say no to pitocin. I can't have pitocin. And I'm already hungry. This is exactly what Rikki Lake said would happen! This doctor will starve me because she wants to go home to her own family and eat dinner and be comfortable and then come back in the morning to do an evil c-section on me during her daytime business hours. Rikki Lake said this would happen! (along with thousands of other eu naturally biased bloggers and websites I've been obsessively reading for years) Everything they said is happening. I'm going to die! Collect myself. I don't want a c-section, but I don't want to live through more of this baby heartbeat stress. A shred of acceptance that an induction might be necessary (and dare I say helpful?) starts to creep into my soul. Ok, Dr. YoungBossyLady, would it be possible for us to go home tonight? Eat dinner and sleep through the night? Then come back in the morning for an induction? She chuckles and struggles to find her words. Well, pretty soon you're not going to be sleeping for a while. But ok. If that's what you insist on doing, that's fine. But I'm going to document that you declined my recommendation. Pow. Ugh, this oldest child does not like the feeling of going AMA. I'm not a rebel! You're the one pushing an evil c-section on me, lady! I guess this is motherhood? I have to be my own advocate in an evil hospital system? It's all happening, just like the eu naturals said it would. We head home full of relief. And nerves. We're supposed to call L&D at 6am tomorrow to double check they indeed have an open bed for me before making the trek back to the hospital. An induction will happen in the morning.
Tuesday, May 15th
We are up long before 6am, and I am breathing huge sighs of relief that my anxiety about all this has lessened significantly. I feel good. Today is the day! I'm glad about the choices we made to go home and delay induction, yet I'm confident that I do indeed need to be induced today. I am 7 days overdue, so this induction needs to happen. I'm ready. Well, as ready as anyone could be. We bustle around the house doing last minute things and packing up, psyching ourselves up. When we return to this house, we'll be a family of three! What a dream come true. It's so surreal I can't fully comprehend what is about to happen. We eagerly await the clock ticking like a turtle to finally get to 6:00. 5:58. 5:59. 6:00. YES. Time to call. We stand by our overnight bags and make the call. Ring. Ring. Hearts fluttering. Ring. A few butterflies. 400 more rings. Wtf? Hang up. Ok, maybe they were just busy for a second or it didn't go through. Call again. Rings 80 times. Do we have the right number? Double check. Yep. Ok let's go through the main Kaiser line and just get connected that way. Work our way through multiple customer service people. Rings 40 times. Someone finally answers sounding exasperated. Um, hi, yes, I was supposed to call to double check about available beds before I get induced this morning. Oh yeah ... no. In California language, that's a definite no. No? What do you mean? We got swamped during the night, honey. We don't have any beds right now. Why don't you call back in an hour. We have a couple women getting discharged soon. Ok.
A smidge of our excited anticipation has worn off, but we make the most of the hour and get psyched up to call again soon. Eventually, 7am rolls around. We make the call. And I swear to you. The exact. And I mean exact same thing happens. Multiple calls, hang ups, hundreds of rings, finally get through, oh we're too booked, please call back in an hour. WTF!? I have finally gotten myself mentally prepared to have this baby, and now you won't let me?! Bloody hell, I am frustrated! But we collect ourselves and try to be flexible and understanding about all this. We again make the most of the hour and try to be patient. We call back at 8:00. Same song and dance. I am serious as a heart attack when I say that we played this game at 9:00, 10:00, and 11:00. Finally after going through these 6 emotional roller coasters, we say fuck it. Let's stay home today and not have a baby. We give up and stop this hourly calling crap. Update the doula about everything and try to get off the phone quickly. I don't want to be more riled up. Done with drama, kaythanks lady.
We enjoy the rest of our afternoon and accept that today is just not the day. That's fine. Tomorrow will be the day. Chit chat. Eat. Spicy food. Foot (ahem, cankle) massages. Bedroom fun. Side note: eating spicy food and bedroom stuff is a bunch of hogwash. Clearly all that cervical softening does jack shit to get babies out. But whatever. Dog neediness. Same ole DINK life. I am so preoccupied by everything I struggle to enjoy the afternoon. I force myself to live in the moment and know these will be the last moments of just the two of us. I get more and more emotional throughout the day. I have wanted to be a mom since before I have verbal memory. I carried baby dolls around with me until they were ragged. All the trauma of B's cancer comes flooding back to me. He almost died. But he didn't. They said we couldn't have kids. But now we're about to. It won't be just the two of us for very much longer. At some point, this baby is coming out. Hopefully tomorrow morning. We have some tender moments of reflecting on everything and camp out on the couch to veg out with TV.
7:00 pm My phone rings. It's Kaiser. My heart skips a beat. I answer. Hi, we had you scheduled for an induction this morning, but you didn't show up. Pause. Mind tries to make sure I heard things right. Head shake. Excuse me? I called every hour this morning SIX times and was told not to come in because you were too busy. Oh ok, sorry honey. Yeah, we were really busy earlier. But we are ready for you now. Can you come in? Wut? Excuse me? Now? Relay the info to B on the couch, and we are both not looking forward to an all-nighter in the hospital that will likely result in a c-section. Ummmmm ... well ... can we just wait until the morning? Ok if that's what you want to do, then I'll make a note of it in your file. But it's recommended you come in now. And we don't let women go two weeks past due anyway, and you're almost there. So are you sure you don't want to just come in now? Omg Rikki Lake was right. I knew she was my spirit animal. They want me to labor all night so the busy OB can swoop in tomorrow during business hours to cut me open. Rikki Lake said it! It's true! Anyway, I decline their recommendation to go in for the night and agree to go in the morning to be induced. I am supposed to call in the morning to check on the bed situation. Can't wait.
Wednesday, May 16th
We are again up before dawn, totally mentally prepared to have a baby today. My anxiety has calmed through the night, and I am ready for this. I have somehow come to an understanding that L&D was busy yesterday, and although it frustrated me, it just wasn't meant to be. Today is the day.
I swear to everything holy. The exact. And I mean exact same thing happened. Multiple calls, no available beds, emotional roller coaster, blah blah blah. We give up about 10am today. I am so mad I have smoke coming out my ears. I cannot believe this. We both sputter and spew our angry wrath about this whole nightmare. We pace around the house in pissy rages. Eventually, that gets old. We both settle down and come up with a plan. We decide to wait. Forget all this induction crap. It's not meant to be. I'm nervous about it anyway, and it's just not working out. We will wait for the baby to make his entrance on his own timing. I continue to have zero signs of labor. None whatsoever. But that's fine. At some point, I will go into labor. We will then go to the hospital, and they will be forced to admit me. Time to relax and forget about getting induced.
Thursday May 17th
Brian has taken the day off work, as he is also sick and tired of the waiting game and emotional roller coaster. He will be on paternity leave soon anyway. Why not start it early? I have an eye appointment at the clinic, which I had scheduled months ago. I had figured I would have a two week-old baby at the appointment, so I just kept it on the calendar. At some point in all this mess, I was tempted to cancel it. But now the day is here, and I continue to have zero signs of labor. So we go. I get my eyes checked, new prescription. Directly across the hall is the OB/GYN clinic. I mention to B that I'd love to just swing through there to check the baby's heart beat. He enthusiastically agrees. I approach the registration desk see if this is a possibility, hopeful yet doubtful. To my shock, it is a possibility! Debbie will see me in just a moment! Huge sigh of relief. We go into the exam room. Well, Brian goes in, and I waddle in. Debbie is her cheery twinkly self. No baby yet? No ... I give her a nuts and bolts overview of what's happened, and she just chuckles through all of it. This is why I'm retiring soon, my dear, chuckle chuckle. We are all in good spirits, and she does that awful cervical check. Ugh, that hurts! But I'm dilated to 3cm! Omg yes! My body is getting ready. She also offers to strip my membranes while she's already up in my business. I don't have much time to think about it, so I quickly agree. She strips the shit out of whatever membranes are up there, and I cringe. Brian cringes. Hot damn, that is not a walk in the park! All done. Ok, we'll see if that might get things started for you! Righty oh, cheery midwife. I hobble my way out of the clinic, definitely feeling crampy and tender from getting those membranes stripped to all hell. Gah.
We spend the rest of the day on a lovely date. We go out to lunch at an Italian place. Eat spicy food. Swing by a Thai massage place. B gets a back massage, and I get the pressure points in my feet and cankles poked to all hell. Jimminy Christmas, that tiny old lady was aggressive. We get home and change into swim suits. We make the trek up the hill to our community pool. I love walking, but this is extremely uncomfortable. My cankles feel like they are about to burst. In fact, I wish they would. That would relieve a ton of pressure. My stomach feels really tight. I am out of breath, huffing and puffing the whole way. We finally arrive and get in the pool. We watch the teenagers having fun and enjoy seeing their awkward fun. Eventually, we make our way back home. My cankles are killing me. More attempts at cervical softening. And we go to bed. Welp, maybe tomorrow will be the day.
Midnight: I roll over, feeling a little bit crampy. For just a second, I wonder if this is the start of labor? It's not bad at all, so I don't let myself get excited about it. I just roll over and drift back to sleep.
Friday, May 18th
4:00 am I am jolted awake by what feels like my torso being sweezed by the Incredible Hulk, while my pelvis is about to be snapped in half like a turkey wishbone. Omg. Brian is still sleeping. I want to let him sleep, but I need to do something about this pain. It hit me like a freight train. I am in so much pain I need to breathe intentionally to get myself out of bed. I hobble my way to the bathroom. I cannot believe how much this hurts. There is no mistaking it. This is it. This is labor. Breathe. Breathe. Today is absolutely the day. Finally. But I am in so much pain, I cannot feel excited or enjoy it. I'm just trying to breathe. There are no breaks. I thought contractions were supposed to come and go, with breaks in between. Like menstrual cramps. I wait and wait for a break that never comes. I am struggling to stand up. I cannot believe this. Is this normal? I guess it is. I don't know how women do this. Wtf? I am dying. Rikki Lake and all the other eu naturals enter my mind. No epidural, no epidural. Push through. Push through. Breathe. Breathe. Wait for a break that never comes. I decide I need to kill some time here at home so I can do that whole eu natural thing of laboring at home. I decide to get in the shower. I heave myself in but actually get slightly worried about falling because my knees are trying to buckle. I cannot believe the pain. I have never broken a bone, but it feels like my pelvis is about to snap. The cramps are intense and never ending. No break. But that bone pain is unbearable. The problem is ... there is no choice but to bear it.
Brian is awake somewhere in there. He asks what I'm doing up so early. For a second, I try explaining the situation, but my grimacing pain is overwhelming. No words are necessary anyway. It's obvious what's happening. He bursts into an adrenaline-filled hyperactive spazz freak-out hustle bustle around the house, gathering all the necessities so we can jump in the car asap. I can barely speak, but I try to slow him down. He refuses. He brings me a bagel, but there is no way I can eat through this pain. I am finally dressed, and he insists we go to the hospital. Now. I oblige. And feel a second of excitement. I was dilated to 3cm yesterday. And this pain is excruciating. I bet when we get to the hospital, I'll be at an 8. We get in the car and head toward Kaiser. I have literally no memory of that drive. I suspect it was so painful I repressed it.
6:30 am We arrive at Kaiser. We park up close, in the expectant mothers' parking. There is an older woman sitting in her car next to us. She sees us getting out and smiles a tender "oh honey I know that pain" type of smile. I am absolutely dying. I can barely walk. It's been a couple hours since this started, and there has not been one break in the contractions. Where's my break? But I can't even really think straight. My brain is not functioning. I put one foot in front of the other. At some point, we are in the elevator. Is this what broken bones feels like? Did my pelvis break? I start panicking. I whisper under my breath and through tears that I can't do this. I can't do this. I am at the end. Brian seems extremely nervous, plus offering comfort has never been one of his strengths. He side hugs me, and the elevator door opens. We hobble to the L&D check-in desk. B explains the situation while I try not to collapse. I have tears welled up in my eyes and literally cannot speak. They get me into a room immediately and get me prepped to be checked. I can barely think, but I allow myself a second of excitement, waiting to hear the nurse say I'm dilated to a good 8cm. Breathe. Breathe. Still no breaks. Horrid cervical check. Pain. Breathe. Ok honey! You're doing great! You're at a good 4 and a half! Pause. Process. Wait, what?! All this pain for a measly 1.5cm?! You are kidding me! Now I really can't do this! There is no way in hell I can endure the pain for another 5.5cm. No way. I can't. Would you like an epidural? Yep. Yep I would. Immediately, hmmkaythanks. Ok I'll put in a call for that. He should be here pretty soon.
7:30 am The anesthesiologist arrives. Thank God. Stab me in the eye if you need to. I don't give a darn. Just make the pain stop. I am sitting on the edge of the bed as he marks up my back. B is attempting to coach me, but he is so nervous and uncomfortable himself. I see the fear in his eyes. I am trying everything mighty to hold still during the procedure. But the pain is so horrid. My bones. My pelvis. I cannot sit here. Hurry! Please, hurry. I try to focus on breathing. Both the doctor and Brian and making breathing sounds in my ears. I am in too much pain to feel embarrassed. The procedure is finally done, and he says I can lay back and wait. Relief is on the way. Sure enough, I start feeling better within a few minutes. Oh thank God. Thank you baby Jesus in a manger for all that you went through to get us to the point of Western medicine! My legs can't move, and I don't care. I can't feel that pelvic pain anymore. I also don't feel the cramping, which is a nice relief. But that pelvic bone pain was truly ungodly. We call the doula and let her know today is definitely the day. She heads to the hospital, and I don't even care if she chastises me for getting the epidural. I can be a human again.
9:00 am Nurses have been in and out asking questions. An angel of a nurse, Liza, seems to be the main one for me. She comes in and says she'll do a cervical check just to keep an eye on things. Check away, Liza! I can't feel a darn thing! She gets elbow deep into my reproductive tract and suddenly looks puzzled. Surprised. Wow, she says. You're at a 10! What?! Yes, you're at a 10. That epidural sure was your friend today, smile. Omg that is awesome! Gah, I feel a wave of relief. I don't know what that was all about, but I am delighted to already be at a 10. And not feel it. Ok honey, let's just let your body catch up a bit. Pretty soon here, you'll feel some pressure in your bottom. That means it's time to push. Just ring your phone when you feel that, ok? Ok! Nurses come in and out checking on me during the next few hours. No pressure. No need to push.
12:00 pm Liza comes in and calmly says we should probably just go ahead and try to push now. The baby's heart rate dipped down a bit, so let's use his cue and start some pushing. Sounds good to me. I don't even have time to worry about the heart rate because within seconds, she has be up on all fours. I am holding onto the top of the elevated hospital bed. Immediately. And I mean immediately, that pelvic pressure is back. With a vengeance. I cannot breathe. I cannot think. I am trying to hold on to the bed, but I am shaking. I cannot hold myself up. The pain is off the charts. What the fuck? I thought epidurals were supposed to numb all this? I thought I was dying before. But I am not able to bear this. Another nurse is holding an oxygen mask over my face. It's digging into my eyes, as I slip down the bed with convulsing pain, but I don't even care. I can't. I can't do this. I don't give up, but my arms do. I collapse. The nurses catch me and try to encourage me to hold myself up. The baby needs you to be up. I try with every ounce of motherly might to hold myself up, but I fail. I can't. The pain is so intense, I cannot exert any upper body strength. The nurses flip me over and shove my legs into the widest stirrups I have ever seen. And I've seen a lot. Like a lot a lot. The energy in the room is becoming more intense. More nurses are in and out, but Liza is definitely the main one. She is so sweet and calm. Ok start pushing like this. Hold it. Hold it. Annnnnddd ... wipe wipe wipe. I suspect she is wiping my butt. Yep. Poop. Yep, I just pooped in a lady's face, and she's now wiping my butt. And I am in so much pain, I don't even feel embarrassed. Breathe. Breathe. Push Push. My face is so full of blood, I wish it would pop. I am convulsing from the pushing. And from the pain.
For three hours, I come close to killing myself with the pushing. No breaks whatsoever in the pelvic pain or contraction. And yes, that's singular. Contraction. It started at 4am, and with the exception of that epidural window, it hasn't stopped. I empty my bowels about 8 times. Angel Liza takes care of it and doesn't bat an eye. There is jibber jabber in the background through all this time about the baby's heart rate. I am not able to think or feel emotions because of the pain. This god-awful pelvic pain. For hours, I feel like my pelvis is about to snap in half. The contraction (still singular) is no joke either, but it pales in comparison to that pelvic pain.
3:00 pm Suddenly, a middle-aged plain looking female OB bursts onto the scene. She is a bitch. Well, no, that's not really fair. I should be more accurate. Let me rephrase. She's a fucking bitch. Although the energy in the room had been intense through these hours, there is a dramatic change the second she enters. She starts barking orders at the nurses. They nervously follow her commands, and everyone becomes silent. No more encouragement. No more you can do its. She hovers in my face and explains the baby needs to come out. Now. His heart rate is too low, and she can't allow this to continue any longer. Ok what should we do, then? You can either do a vacuum or a c-section. Brian quickly yet cautiously chimes in. Laura is not wanting to do a c-secion. I WILL MAKE THAT DECISION she screams in his face. He sits down, rattled and unsure of how to support his wife who seems to be dying, while his baby might also be dying. She goes on to explain that she can try the vacuum for three pushes. After the third push, there's too much risk for brain damage to the baby. She will have me wheeled down the hall and do an emergency c-section. I still am petrified of a c-section. I am in the most immense "chronic" pain of my life, and I cannot think straight. But I muster the strength to mutter the words: ok, let's try the vacuum.
3:05 pm She begins prepping for the vacuum. I have no idea what it is or what will happen. I am not able to imagine anything or formulate questions. The pelvic pain is more than I can bear. Breathe. Breathe. More pain. More pain. I notice there are more people piling into the room. I see what I suspect is a NICU team. There's an isolet with gowned and masked people standing by, with what looks like open hands ready to catch a dying baby and fling him into medical treatment. I see this. I think I get it. Yet I can't feel anything emotional. I am not nervous. I am not worried or upset. The physical pain is so overwhelming I cannot feel emotions. Even for this miracle who I would sacrifice my life for. I am in so much pain, I cannot worry about him. Am I sacrificing my life for him? Is this the end? Women used to die in childbirth all the time. Is this what's happening?
Within minutes, the OB props her foot up on the table, holds what I presume is the vacuum with two hands, and gets in a leaning-back position to literally yank this baby out of her with all her might. She screams at me to PUSH with everything I can. I do. I wish my pelvis would go ahead and snap. At least there would be relief then. I push for the solid 10 seconds. The pain is not something I can even describe in writing. Ok, let's try the second PUSH, she commands. I do it again. There is not much more my body can muster. But I muster it. I think about life. I think if I'm about to die in childbirth, I'm going to go out strong. I think about the baby. I must. I must do this. I have been doing it all day, but I must do this now. I push with what I can only describe as a divine strength. I literally push my guts out (that made for extra fun during the recovery). I look down. There is a dark purple blob at the foot of the bed. And it is whisked off so fast I barely see it. I don't really comprehend what has just happened. I continue to be in immense pain. There is no relief or break. But people are everywhere, hustle bustling and talking loudly. Wut? Who? I look around, and there are about 25 people in the room. Some are just staring at me, while others are moving around like they're part of Grey's Anatomy. What does this mean? Is it over? Did he come out? Where is he? Is he ok? Suddenly, an older gentleman with a long Duck Dynasty white beard leans into my face and says "good job, mom!" What? Who are you? And what does that mean? I am unable to speak. I continue to be in horrid pain, and I am now confused as well. I look to my left, and I see Brian weeping. I have never seen that before. What's happening? Where am I?
After a minute-ish (but what felt like an eternity), I hear a baby's cry from across the room. Omg. Is that him? Is that my baby? Is he ok? He's crying, so I hope that's a good sign? But I don't want him to cry. What's happening? Ahhh, the pain is just misery. There is minor relief settling in, but all those hours of pelvic pain and intense yet worthless pushing have left me in bad shape. Eventually, a nurse brings the baby over for me to hold. I am overwhelmed with emotion. I am indescribably relieved he is ok. I am in love.
The sweetness lasts about 2 minutes before they take the baby somewhere else. I am sprawled out on the table, nurses doing things with sheets and whatnot, but I am too out of it to know what's happening. The OB is barking at me to hold still. HOLD STILL! I am a compliant person. But I cannot. My body is physically recoiling from her, and I cannot stop these reflexes to move. She is apparently trying to fix up my nether regions, which are pouring out blood. I said hold still! Omg the pain. I thought it was unbearable during the labor and delivery. But this takes it to a whole new level. She is elbow deep in my reproductive tract, which has just been brutally traumatized. She pushes and shoves. Violently. Shoving. Hold STILL! I cannot hold still, even if my life depended on it. But if this angry bitch would slow down and stop being so violent, I might be able to cooperate with whatever the fuck she is doing. I don't know what's going on. She has never explained anything. I cannot believe she has her own hoohah; she sure doesn't act like she can imagine what this feels like. Plus, I am barely moving at all. No dramatic movements at all. Just minor cringes and slight shifts, despite my desire to jump off the table and slap her. But she apparently needs me to be a corpse. It seems she is trying to make me one. More pushing. More shoving. All up inside. Oh, there. Now you made me lose my needle. Stop everything. No one move. Grrrr. Ugggh. Now I have to find a needle. What? Find a needle!? Where?! Inside!? What the?! She huffs and puffs, all passive aggressively. She starts sweeping the floor with her hands, demanding the nurses get over here and help her. There is so much tension in the room, it could be cut with a knife. The nurses attempt to help her, but seem hesitant to get in her way. Brian is holding the baby somewhere, I think. The doula is pacing around somewhere. I am writhing in pain. After a few minutes she finds the needle and resumes the pushing and shoving. I cannot bear it. I am sobbing. The continued unbearable pain since 4am, along with what now feels like sadistic torture exasperates me. I have nothing left to fight back any more. The sobbing is uncontrollable. If you can't stop moving, I will have no choice but to sedate you!
No! Please don't do that! I am trying to hold still, but I cannot bear this pain! Ok fine, I will sedate you. No! Please don't do that! A kind nurse rushes over to my side. She desperately attempts to offer reassurance. It's ok, honey, it'll just feel like you've had a few margaritas. It's ok. I appreciate her kindness, but I still don't want to be sedated. I want to hold my baby. Annnnnnd ... night night.
5:00 pm I wake up in a different room. I am so groggy, it's gross. I am confused. What the hell kind of tequila goes in that nurse's margaritas? That was absolutely not like a few margaritas. That was what I imagine getting roofied in the 90s was like. I scan the room and see the doula holding the baby. Where's Brian? He went home to take care of the dogs. This is now a wtf moment, but at the time, those mutts were our babies. So I was fine with his absence. I do think to myself that I hope the doula doesn't kidnap the baby. Annnnnnnd ... night night.
7:00 pm I wake up to Brian in my face. He's brought my favorite pizza and has the baby. I slowly start coming back to a human existence. The horrid torturous pain is gone, thank God. But I am in no shape to do much of anything and am extremely sore and tender. The baby is quite fussy with lots of crying. I don't know much of what to do. Holding him doesn't seem to help. I wish I could walk him around, but that's not an option. I am so unbelievably exhausted. Somewhere in there, Brian is instructed to strip down and do skin-to-skin with the baby because I have not been able to. I am too exhausted to feel like a failure. Also somewhere in there, we learn the birth was so difficult because the baby was sunny side up. His position is what caused the horrid pelvic pain. But I had no back pain, which is common with posterior positioned babies. So it went undiagnosed, and there were no attempts to spin the baby. We also learn the vacuum (and the posterior position) caused fourth degree tears, most of which were internal, and my recovery will be longer than most. We also learn the baby's heart rate was plummeting toward the end because the cord was wrapped around his neck three times. That also explained why I saw a dark purple blob. He was dark purple because he was suffocating. I am overwhelmed by all this and cannot seem to grasp the necessary gratitude. I begin to wonder if God spared his life. Was he about to die? And God intervened? I suspect I am on to something, but I am too exhausted to ponder.
We go on to spend two nights in the hospital, which consists of zero sleep for anyone, lots and lots of crying from the baby, tremendous soreness throughout my body, lactation consultation appointments that make it seem like nursing should be a lot easier than it is, and persistent feelings of being overwhelmed. When it's finally time for discharge, a sweet nurse casually notices the baby is constantly crying. She mirrors his suffering in her face, then explains in a cheery tone that because of the vacuum he'll just have this headache for a couple weeks. Umm, come again? A newborn baby with a headache? Ok what can I give him for the pain? Oh no, don't give him anything. He's fine, it's just part of the process. Weeee! A suffering newborn. Not the peaceful picture I had dreamed of. I desperately want to soothe the baby -- for his sake and mine -- but there is nothing that helps. Throughout all of this there is zero. And I mean zero acknowledgment of what has occurred. Absolutely no validation that this birth was difficult, complicated, unusual, nothing. Nothing but a few Kaiser mottos blurted out: healthy mom, healthy baby, right?! Ummmmm ... I supposed it depends on your definition of healthy. If by healthy, you mean alive, then fine. But I have a different definition of healthy. And neither the baby nor I are healthy. We are very sick and traumatized people. We are not healthy. And the lack of acknowledgement or validation makes it even worse.
Sunday, May 20th
We are discharged. We are both ready to get the hell out of that place. I am so exhausted and sore, I can't think straight. We finally make our way back home. Ahhh. Home sweet home. A family of three. It's surreal. The baby is the cutest thing I've ever laid eyes on. I am so happy to finally be able to hold him. He continues to cry. A lot. But he's just so darling and a complete dream come true. I am madly in love with this tiny life, and I will do anything for him.
The next few weeks include a visit from my mom and quite a number of friends. I struggle to smile, but I fake it till I make it. I cannot stop reliving the delivery room. I hear the OB's screams ringing in my ears. The baby cries most of the time and never sleeps. Never. Literally. Nursing continues to be problematic, and there are a couple more lactation consultations. I am unable to sleep because the baby never sleeps. If I drift off, it lasts about 10 minutes before he's crying again. I become a zombie. Brian too. We move about the house with little talking. Just shuffling our feet and letting out occasional grunts. We are more tired than we even realize. My body struggles to heal. I feel daggers of sharp pain in my hoohah when I shift and move throughout the days. I see social media updates of friends who also just had babies. They are walking on the beach, oooing and aaahhing at their babies. I don't get it. I can barely make it through an hour, much less a day. Beach walks are a distant memory from the past, and I cannot fathom doing that right now. I don't get it. How are they doing that? What's wrong with me? Why can't I handle this? Maybe I'm not cut out for motherhood. Maybe all those doctors were right in saying we would never have kids. Did we alter our fate? Maybe I'm not meant to me a mom. But I love this baby with every fiber of my being. I would do anything for him. I want him. I want the family life. But I don't understand why I can't do this. I am a failure for one of the first times in my life. A complete and utter failure.
I go on to develop post-partum depression that lasts for 10 months. I push through with fake smiles every day. The baby stops crying at 5 weeks old, when we introduce formula and a bottle. Thank God in heaven! I start a new full-time job when the baby is 3 months old. I push through. I act normal. I am successful. Brian and I hold things together and treat each other with kindness, although we're both suffering. My physical recovery involves complications. At 7 weeks post-partum, I find a one-foot cord thing, like thick fishing wire hanging out of me when I pee. I go to the clinic for it, and a midwife proceeds to pull and snip out over three feet of stitching material that did not dissolve properly. Hence the stabbing pain I endured with each and every move for those 7 weeks. I return to the clinic at 14 weeks to again have fragments of that cordage snipped out of my nether regions, all way up in there. I relive the whole thing on a daily basis. I hear the OB yelling at me off and on throughout every day, especially when I close my eyes in exhaustion. At some point in there, I write a letter to Kaiser about the unprofessional conduct of the OB. Our sex life is shot. Anything happening to my body in that area brings up instant memories of the traumatic delivery. I talk with my midwife about this at some point, and she shrugs it off like it's just a normal thing that people don't talk about. But she also lists a diagnosis in my chart of "pain during intercourse," which lasts for one year. I also pursue a few sessions of therapy through Kaiser, which are not helpful at all. I believe I have some PTSD symptoms, but I don't recognize the depression. I feel constantly irritated and guilty, yet I am madly in love with this adorable precious miracle. The baby does eventually start sleeping through the night at 10 months old (after 6 weeks of cry-it-out, which is a whole other story), and within days of getting some uninterrupted sleep myself, I begin feeling like a human again. I do indeed make a full recovery.
Years later
I earn a certificate in perinatal mental health, with the sole purpose of understanding my own experience. I learn my depression was likely caused by a combination of many things: sleep dysregulation, a traumatic delivery, the emotional aspects of infertility and IVF, tendencies toward perfectionism, a dramatic change in lifestyle going on maternity leave, and social isolation. I come to an acceptance that I have the typical mom concerns about wanting the best for my precious Jonathan and worrying about messing him up. But thankfully, they are just the normal concerns, nothing over the top or perfectionistic. I reflect frequently on his birth and the first year of his life, and I am thankful I was able to push through my suffering and do my best for him. I faked a lot, but I'm glad I did. I never wanted him to feel my pain or believe he was a burden. He is a dream come true, and I've always wanted him to know that, even as an infant.
So now, that handsome little prince dreamer of mine is turning 7 years old. Seven. I am not a perfect mom, nor will I ever be. I lose my patience sometimes. I don't always want to play. I don't always push him to practice his piano or get straight As. And sometimes I intentionally get out his ipad so Brian and I can have uninterrupted conversation. But I love this boy with all my heart. There is nothing that will ever stop that. I make a special point of telling him that regularly -- there's nothing he could ever do, say, not do, not say, believe, feel, nothing that will stop me from loving him. I love him for who he is. And his birth is an experience that proves (to me) how much I love him. He doesn't know anything about that trauma. Perhaps some day he will have an interest. But his birth shoved me full-force into the sacrificial love of motherhood, and his birthday is an unforgettable life-changing (for the better) day that will forever be etched in my memory.
Lessons Learned
Through this trauma, I've learned to be more flexible and to go with the flow (and I thought I was easy going before). I've learned to relinquish control (mostly). I've learned not to be rattled (as much) by emotional roller coasters. I've learned that motherhood brings up a mix of emotions like nothing else in life -- how can something be terrifyingly painful and traumatic, yet one of the best days of my life? I've learned (not really for the first time; more of a reinforcement) that I truly respect Western medicine and see its place in many (not all) situations. I've learned that c-sections are to be respected as procedures that save lives (and a c-section would have been way more peaceful than what happened in this case). I've learned Rikki Lake doesn't know everything. I've learned it's not nice to be sarcastic toward celebrities. Just kidding. I've learned that nerves and anxiety are made worse when I try to avoid them. I've learned to be better at focusing on the positive. It took years, but I eventually came to a place of gratitude that God sent that bitch of an OB onto the scene. I believe God knew the baby was in grave danger, and she was necessary to get him out fast. There might not have been time for more pushing with nice encouraging nurses or even to be wheeled down the hall for a c-section. She got him out. I believe God used her to save his life. And if all that pain and suffering is what it took to get him out alive, then it was worth every second of it. I've learned the human body is made to be resilient; I am so grateful both Jonathan and I made complete recoveries.
This post has become ridiculously long. But it has been cathartic for me to write it all out. I have relived the whole thing through this writing, and I'm extremely glad I did it. Mainly for myself. If Jonathan or his future family ever has the interest to read about his dangerously epic entrance into the world, then it is here for them. It might be a tough read, but my hope is that it highlights how valuable he is. Bringing him into the world was a difficult time, but I would absolutely go through that a million times over if it meant giving him a good life. I love you, Jonathan Wyld, more than any words or blog post could ever capture. My heart overflows with love for you, and you are an absolute dream come true. I pray your dreams come true too, and I will do whatever it takes to help you pursue your dreams. Even if it hurts. I will be with you through the pain (however you want me to be with you). Keep dreaming big, precious son. Sometimes ... as you are living proof ... dreams do come true.
