The Birth Story(!)

They say that behind every baby is an unbelievable story, but I'd prefer to think that in front of every baby is an unbelievable story. I mean, imagine if the most exciting thing that ever happened to you was being born. What a let down the next eighty years would be, eh?

Of course, having a baby is still exciting stuff, which not only explains why some people have so darn many (I'm looking at you, Duggars!) but also explains why, even now that my baby is here, I can't stop watching birth shows on TV. If that last bit describes you too, have I got great news (promo alert!): Discovery Health's Baby Week is Sunday-Friday, June 14-19 at 8 p.m. E/P, and it includes the premieres of four new shows ("Twins By Surprise" on Sunday, June 14; "Little Parents, Big Pregnancy" on Monday, June 15; "Births Beyond Belief" on Tuesday, June 16; and "Obese and Pregnant" on Wednesday, June 17 (all at 8 p.m. E/P) as well as standbys like "Deliver Me" and "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" (Tuesday, June 15 at 9 and 10 p.m., respectively). Watch a little bit of them here.

It's thanks to Discovery Health and BlogHer that I've finally sat down to record my birth story in writing. The way I procrastinate, it might otherwise have taken as long to get the story up as it did to grow the darn baby in the first place!

***

It all started on Thursday night or, rather, very early on Friday morning, December 12, with a triage nurse telling me I was definitely not in labor, thank you, come again. The nerve! During the few hours I hung out at the hospital attached to monitors and Simon took scale photos of a fully dilated cervix, I told the nurse about that week's failed membrane stripping and asked her to see what she could do, if she knew what I meant, nudge nudge, wink wink, here's a twenty for your trouble. I must say, I've never been so welcoming of such rough-housing down south...nor so disappointed to learn that it's impossible to strip a membrane when there's practically no dilation. So: Thank you, come again! And off we went.

In an effort to get things moving "down there," I spent the entire next day vigorously pulling weeds in the garden in a most attractive position: squatting on my haunches in a way that might have shot the baby headfirst into the compost had I been even a little bit dilated, WHICH I WASN'T. Everyone kept telling me to stay active, to stay positive, to walk, walk, walk, and then walk some more, but when Friday night arrived and my uterus was still just punking around, having "Viva la Résistance" tattooed on her neck in fat gothic letters, I decided I was done with this nonsense, wasn't going to play anymore, was taking my ball and going home. This pregnancy is going to have to continue without me because I. am. outta here.

You might say I woke up the next day with a renewed sense of purpose and that's why instead of walk, walk, walking to get labor started I climbed onto the roof and started replacing old shingles! Or...I could just tell the truth and admit that I was so annoyed and bitter and pissed off and convinced that this baby would come late no matter what I did that I spent the morning and afternoon on my ass, on the couch, watching mediocre kids movies and trying to ignore the fact that I was STILL PREGNANT. Simon, meanwhile, was outside shoveling mulch, which had been dumped into a 6' x 6' x 6' pile in our driveway at my insistence that we couldn't possibly bring a child into the world without a tidy garden. (See also: the previous day's mass weedicide.) (Cf. the 3' x 3' x 3' pile of mulch still in our driveway, six months later.)

At about 2 o'clock I started feeling some contractions, which, having been par for the course since about Week 24, did little except make it hard for me to deny that I was still pregnant. I tried to imagine I was lying on a beach somewhere, tanning my muscular abs and enjoying a strawberry daiquiri, but, ow, there was a contraction and, oof, OW, there was another. At about three o'clock I decided I was getting more uncomfortable and should probably take a bubble bath to help block out those pesky, good-for-nothing false labor pains. I slid into the water and tried to imagine I was sitting in one of those shallow pools you find at beachside resorts in Puerto Vallarta, you know, the ones where they bring you chips and guacamole at the snap of a finger? Except when I snapped my fingers, no guac appeared, but I instead attracted the attention of two very curious and confused felines wondering what mama was doing in the bath in the middle of the day.

When Sisyphus Simon came in from mulch duty, I informed him that I'd been having contractions for a few hours but not to get too excited even though I'd started timing them at 4:22, and look:

4:22
4:26
4:33
4:37
4:45

He tried not to get too excited but didn't do a very good job. He took a shower, just in case.

We timed contractions while we had some dinner (if two English muffins count as dinner) and continued timing them during a movie and some TV.

5:24, 5:28, 5:31...7:47, 7:52, 7:56...9:28, 9:30, 9:32...

The last notation was at 9:36, a full hour after I'd declared that I would be going to the hospital that night and, labor or not, I would be getting me some drugs, so help me god. I'd already been in labor for almost seven hours and the contractions were really starting to hurt by then. Labor = pain?! Gee whiz, it's just like I read about on teh innernetz!

After a quick and mostly uneventful drive to the hospital (I had some complaints about the music--no Bjork and nothing with lyrics like "Heaven / I'm in heaven..."--and I once had to tell Simon to "shut up, please" when he attempted to talk me through a contraction), we arrived in the maternity triage area at about 10 p.m. Unlike the first time, there was no lively banter or jovial chin-chucking between us; I was breathing through contractions and trying to access my Happy Place. Shortly thereafter, a nurse accessed my other Happy Place and declared me to be 3 to 4 centimeters dilated. Hooray! And OWWWWW! I also learned then that I was experiencing back labor ("You poor thing," she said; "You're tellin' me!" I grimaced) and that I had a bulging amniotic sac, meaning I should expect my water to break at any moment. This last bit would eventually become what is known in comedy as a "running gag."

We were soon thereafter admitted into Room 19, the room where I would meet my son. (!!!) The nurses hadn't bothered me with too many formalities (aside from changing out of tennis shoes into skid-proof hospital socks, oh, and that brief fisting), and I was allowed to manage labor in whatever way I needed to. This is how I did it: silent, stoic, standing up, and focused on an image that would bring me calm--Linus curled up and sleeping peacefully (something we wish he did more often these days, bad kitty!).

Once in Room 19 with our nurse, I was asked if I'd like any pain relief. Um, YES. Between clenched teeth I huffed out "Epidural, please!" I was still managing the pain pretty well thus far, but I'd been in labor for about ten hours and was, to put it simply, D-O-N-E DONE. I always thought I could maybe handle a natural birth if the labor only lasted five or six hours, but suffice it to say we had passed that point a long time ago and the only thing on the menu from here on out was sweet, sweet drugs.

"Okay, first we have to get you hydrated," said the nurse, indicating a drip bag of saline solution. She tried to put an IV into the back of my left hand, sticking me several times as my vein rolled out of the way. "Hmm. Your veins are really tiny." She called in another nurse, who promptly blew that same tiny vein. Then the head nurse was called so she could have her turn popping my veins. Whee! Anyone else want to take a stab? I'll be here all night! Fortunately, I, being in the throes of labor and all, didn't know any of this was happening; it wasn't until I looked down to see my arm covered with blood and bandaids that I understood why everyone kept apologizing to me.

Eventually, the nurses called for backup; enter dreamy anesthesiologist, who inserted my IV with no trouble because he didn't put it in my hand or wrist but in my elbow, like a chump; as soon as he left, feeling like a hero, all the nurses rolled their eyes because OF COURSE he got it in there, that's the easy spot, but isn't it just like a man to put the IV in the place that makes it hard to grab your legs when it's time to push a baby out? Harrumph. I, for one, didn't care who put what where in my body so long as drugs were on the way.

While we waited for my body to absorb almost two full bags of saline solution (a prerequisite for the epidural, especially because I was dehydrated to begin with), the nurse gave me a pain killer that was supposed to take the edge off the pain, but HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. I felt it all, contractions and between contractions, and although I was still holding it together pretty well (nothing like the woman screaming bloody murder birthing in the adjacent room), I was ready for the real stuff.

The epidural finally went in around 1:30 a.m., and after a tense fifteen minutes during which I was told I shouldn't have any pain but TOTALLY DID, I felt the last of the worst. By 2 a.m., I was 6 cm dilated, 80 percent effaced, cervix still slightly posterior, with a bag just this side of bursting (any second now! wait for it!). And speaking of bursting, the woman in the next room over screamed and screamed and screeeeeeamed and then, waah waah waah we heard a brand new baby in there. An entirely new whole person. Holy moly. This shit is bananas! Someone should get a news crew in here!

At around 4 or 5 a.m., our first nurse, Miss Gentle (not her real name!), who couldn't have been a better support during the painful part of labor, told us her shift was ending and that a new nurse would be coming in soon. The most emotional point of my entire pregnancy is saying goodbye to Miss Gentle. She was so nice and so pretty and so full of "good job"s and "atta girl"s that I didn't want to let her go, maybe ever. She could sleep in our guest room! Even more than letting her go, though, I was afraid of getting a horrible new nurse. Because doesn't every birth story feature a horrible nurse at some point?

Enter Nurse Funny, as in Funny HaHa, not Funny Strange. She was pregnant herself (with twins!) and was the sweetest Southern belle you've ever seen albeit with a naughty sense of humor. She noticed the size of Simon's laptop and asked if he was compensating for anything. He replied that no, he wasn't; he prefers to compensate by having a very large penis. She laughed. This nurse was cool. I couldn't wait for her to deliver my baby, which should be ANY MINUTE NOW, yes?

Eh, maybe not. The nurse told us it might be a while--I was progressing very slowly--and after a bit of chitchat she left to let us get some sleep. Simon had a nice rest on the fold-out chair while I of course lay wiiiiiide awake, free to ponder life and death and the meaning of the universe and the magnitude of what was about to occur, all the while remaining surprisingly calm and in bed instead of freaking out, jumping up, and running off into the night, hospital gown flapping open behind me under the almost-full moon on one of the coldest nights of the year.

(What I should have been doing instead of pondering life's great mysteries was combing my hair because GAH. I know labor isn't glamorous, but does it have to be so fugly?)

It's 8:05 a.m. and I'm 8 centimeters dilated. My water is just! about! to break! (NOT.) Simon has breakfast and crummy coffee and I eat ice chips out of a cup. Note: Just because you call it "chips" and serve it with a spoon doesn't mean it's food. The epidural is making me so itchy I want to peel off my skin, and I think it was in the process of trying to do so that I noticed that the IV it took four people and seven bandaids to get in has effortlessly popped itself out of my elbow and is leaking all over the floor. I am only mildly alarmed, but when Simon sees it he lifts six inches off the ground and goes flying down the hall to the nurses station in a mild panic.

The nurse takes one look at the multiple busted veins and nascent bruises covering both my upper extremities and calls an anaesthesiologist without even attempting to reinsert the line herself. At 10:30 a.m., I get a new IV, in the back of my right hand, all with the added comfort of a courtesy swab of local anesthetic so I don't even feel the needle going in (totally unnecessary but very nice).

At 12:45 p.m. I am 9.5 centimeters and everyone who parades through the room in scrubs (and there are many) tell me I should feel the urge to push soon, and to just let them know when I do. Everyone also asks me if my water has broken yet (NO), and I start to wonder if my amniotic sac is made of Kevlar.

At 1 p.m. Nurse FunnyHaHa tells me she can't believe it but her shift is ending before she gets to deliver our baby. I fret again about the surely horrible nurse to come, but mostly I'm just stunned that the baby's not here yet. I've been in labor for almost an entire day. Also, Simon has been liveblogging my labor this whole time and I hate to keep my adoring public waiting! It's at about this time that I realize my site ads aren't working, so I send off an email about fixing them. ("Dear Skye, I'm 9.5 cm dilated but I was hoping you could help me with something...")

Meantime, various hospital staff keep asking if I feel the urge to push; I don't. They also keep telling me my water's about to break; it doesn't.

It's 3:55 and we're basically just waiting for my doctor to finish up an emergency c-section. They'd given me a shot of pitocin to get rid of that last half-centimeter of cervix. I don't feel the urge to push (I can move my legs just fine but I don't feel any sensation), and the baby's just hanging out like it's any old day, so we're told to just sit back and relax, you know, watch some YouTube, read a magazine, send some important business emails...

My new nurse (let's call her Nurse Awesome), pops in from time to time to regale us with stories about all the crazy pregnant woman 'round these parts. One had asked where she might be able to sell her baby. Another kept complaining about her "psychotic nerve." We love Nurse Awesome and she loves us. She invites some of her nurse friends in to the party (we don't mind), and then starts up a friendly round of betting on when our baby's going to arrive. I give the stink-eye to anyone who says it's going to more than a few hours from now. Myself, I refuse to make any guesses beyond "Today." It is, after all, December 14, Wombat's due date, and due dates don't lie, do they?

It's 4:35 p.m. and we're still waiting for my doctor, who eventually enters wearing not scrubs or a white coat but an oversized flannel jacket that suggests we may have interrupted her in the midst of lumberjacking. By this time, I've been dilated to 10 cm (remember?) for three or four hours, and even though I haven't felt any pressure or urge to push, they've hiked my legs into the stirrups and declared it showtime.

Nurse Awesome stands at the foot of the bed between my legs and tells me to give a teeny tiny little practice push. I do, and with a loud snap! my water breaks, covering the floor, and the nurse, in amniotic fluid. "I'm going to have to change my pants before I go home!" she laughs. "But I'm Italian; this is good luck!" Suddenly the room is full of people--several nurses, an assistant, a student, a pediatrician--and we all laugh as someone mops the floor. My doctor enters, clad in plaid, kisses me on the cheek, and takes her position.

Pushing is weird. Nurse Awesome tells me to push where I feel her fingers, but I don't feel anything at all. Unless I pay attention, I don't even know when I'm having a contraction. When the monitor tells me I'm having a contraction, I push three times for ten seconds, but the last push is always weak because I feel like if I go any harder I'm going to throw up and, as we all know, throwing up is the worst thing in the world. My face is bright red and I'm sure I've busted all the blood vessels in my cheeks. Nurse Awesome tells me my pushing is perfect. I don't poop.

Between pushing, everyone is talking and laughing and joking. Now that we've discovered I don't need anyone to hold my legs for me (because I can just grab my ankles and pull them to my forehead!), I have to interrupt the party every few minutes to remind people that I'm trying to have a baby here. Simon is operating three different cameras and is zoomed in at the business end of things. (If you come visit, he'll ask if you want to see the birth video. Please say no.) When I'm not holding my ankles, I'm holding an oxygen mask to my nose and mouth because the baby's heart rate dipped a little at one point. I am calm and concentrated and having the time of my life.

All of a sudden, someone tells me to open my eyes and look down. On the birth video, I can see that at least a minute passes between delivery of the baby's head and delivery of the rest of him (it took a moment to unwrap the cord from his neck), but to me it all happened in an instant. Whoosh, there's a baby. Whoomp, there it is.

Simon and I are laughing and crying at the same time, hysterically on both accounts. Suddenly the whole thing seems utterly ridiculous. What in the world just happened?! There's a baby boy on my chest and his fingernails are tiny and purple and perfect. He's there, in my arms, for what seems like hours. He lets out a few good cries, poops all over his receiving blanket, and then settles into an exhausted slumber. I can barely believe he's real. If this is a dream, let us sleep forever, or at least through the night.

wrote Leah at 6:36 AM | Comments (19)