The Beginning

The rolled her into the room on top of a simple cart. A package of diapers, a package of wipes, a few blankets, an eye dropper, alcohol pads, and a nasal aspirator--that's all she came with.

With unending shock, I realized that the rest of her needs, from food to love, would be up to Tim & I.

TVLG (Part 3.7): Loose Ends

Lying alone in my bed after the delivery, it was almost like nothing had happened. The lights were dimmed and everything was quiet. The only evidences of the delivery were an IV and my shaking legs, an effect of the epidural. The baby was in another wing, though it was hard to believe she was really there. Just like my first sonogram, I knew the baby was real (the picture was hard to deny), but my reality would not accept that changes were imminent.

When Tim finally returned, I said, "Can you believe we had a baby?" Nope, he couldn't either. The doctor (or was it the nurse? I was still under the influence, mind you) came in to ask if we'd like the baby to have her first of two Hepatitis B shots here in the hospital.

My reality ran away screaming, "Changes are here--run! Every self-centered creature for herself!" I thought, "I don't even know what Hepatitis is! How should I know if a baby needs a Hepatitis B shot or not? Why don't you just ask her paren--oh." All I could say was, "What do most people do?" Right then I knew the baby was better off staying with the nursing staff for the next 18 years than coming home with me.

After an hour, they moved us to a new room. A damage control nurse came in to tell me what parts of me would be unrecognizable for a time, what parts would never be the same, and what parts could go either way. She left, Tim fell asleep, and again I was alone with my thoughts. I wondered if the baby was scared. She was in a new world with strangers--did she wonder what happened to me? Did she care?

I fell asleep without even trying. I woke up, eyes wide. It had been five hours since we'd seen the baby. It was time for a face-to-face meeting.

TVLG (Part3.6): Loose Ends

Love at first sight. That's what some moms feel when they see their new babies. My mom said she felt an instant love for each of her children the moment the nurses handed one of us over. My mom is a great mom. She's the kind of woman who says at any family meal or holiday, "This is what makes me happiest: all my children together." My mom, and mothers like her, are Hallmark cards waiting to happen. Mothers like this probably wanted to be mothers since they were children, so in a way, motherhood is like a life-long dream come true.

When my baby was born, they held her up for me to see. My reaction was less than motherly. I mean, they hold up this bloody, blue (no oxygen to make her pink yet), writhing, slimy, dark being and say, "What do you think?" What do I think? It looks like I had an affair with Jabba the Hut! Not only did the baby (it was a baby, right?) not look like Tim or me, she (it was a she, right?) didn't look like anyone I knew!

To be completely honest--and I realize I'm loosing my chance at Mother of the Year for this, I was disappointed. In my pathetic defense, I was exhausted, hungry (I wasn't allowed to eat all day), sleepy, and drugged. On top of that, they were busy sewing me up (see? I left out some scary details as to not overly terrify MTBs). The kid was out and apparently healthy, and that's all I cared about. I could learn to love a baby Hut, couldn't I? The nurses took her away and cleaned her while I stared at Tim. I was shocked more than anything, and Tim looked surprised, too. We had a baby now, for crying out loud. A baby!

A minute later, they brought the baby to me. She was all cleaned up and in a soft blanket. She actually looked like a baby, and not only that, she was a pretty baby. As I joked with Tim later, "They can go ahead and keep the other baby that came out, and I'll keep this one." They quickly took her away again to be tested and observed for several hours in the nursery, due to some of the labor complications. She was gone. The room cleared, and Tim went to show the baby to my family on the way to the nursery.

I was alone in the room. It was only me & my thoughts ... and it didn't take long for one or the other to become troubled.

TVLG (Part 3.5): Loose Ends

Jeff Foxworthy did a funny routine about parenting a few years ago. One joke he told, I didn't truly appreciate until the day of my delivery. He asked the audience why anyone would want to film a delivery when it looks like "a wet St. Bernard trying to get in through the cat door."

Yes, it does. When I woke up from my nap, I knew it was time. I felt the baby sort of hanging low on me, and I didn't need the doctor to tell me to get ready to push. I told the nurse, she checked me, and it was on. They moved around equipment, turned on lights, and a few new faces appeared. I told my mom to leave for her own good, but she wanted to help. So, Tim posted himself on one side of the bed, my mom posted herself on the other, and we got down to business.

Delivering a baby feels exactly like, well, pooping. The difference is, you push through pain as a fan club watches. Every time a contraction would come, the head nurse would count to ten as I pushed with all I had. We did two more sets, rested, and waited for the next contraction to start all over again. We tried several positions to make the most of the contractions, but the most effective one was a shameless number I'll call "The Frog," but I digress.

After an hour and a half or so, the doctor came in. She told me that if the baby wasn't out in another hour, we'd have to consider--wait for it--options. I'm sorry, madam, but after all the pushing I did? No, there will be no options here. We're pushing this kid out!

"Would you like to see a mirror?" the doctor asked. "We find it helps a lot of moms to push harder."

I sat there, frowning. "OK, but if it grosses me out, will you put it away?"

They put a standing mirror near the foot of my bed, and three things happened.
1. I was shocked, because I didn't recognize myself. What was all that??
2. I was disheartened, because the outline of the head they were showing me couldn't fit through a doorway, let alone my body.
3. My competitive nature kicked in, and I actually pushed harder.

Before I knew it, "Keep going!" and "You're almost there!" filled the room. When even Tim cheered (and he's not the cheering type), "You have it! Keep going," I knew I was a breath away from finishing. At 2:05 a.m., just in time for her due date, the baby did it.

Release. That's all I felt. It was like birthing a big, squirmy squid. There was cheering, and someone asked, "Can you see her?"

"No," I gasped. Someone held her up, and they laughed. The baby had one look on her face that everyone agreed said, "WHO AUTHORIZED THAT?"

She's going to be like me then, I thought. Yikes.

The Very Long Goodbye (Part 3.4): Loose Ends

Today marks my 95th (can you believe it??) entry on this blog. Entry 100 will be my last, so have no fear, the long goodbye will eventually be a goodbye. Now, onto the show ...

While my regular doctor was off buying eggs to make potato salad for his Memorial Day barbecue, my new doctor was popping in and out of my room to check my progress. This wasn't hard to do, seeing as how I had gotten to 7 cm dilation and stalled. Faced with the image of my baby doing the breaststroke in her own pooh, I opted for the epidural, figuring I'd have the energy to finish dilating and push.

Besdies, I had a pleasant bias towards anesthesiologists since my sister and others had told me how wonderful they and their bags of magic tricks were. I pictured a jovial man with a steady hand and James Earl Jones-ish voice coming to rescue me. The man who briskly walked into the room a half hour later was just like James Earl Jones--when he was Darth Vader. His greeting to me was a sigh, a frown, and an, "Everyone clear the room but him [meaning Tim]."

Why he couldn't have just turned to my mother (the only other person in the room) and said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, you'll have to leave for a few minutes now," I don't know. I knew at that moment that the guy wanted to get in and out of the room as fast as possible, and if that meant I'd have to experience extra pain in the process, oh well. Later, I found out he was late for his shift and was irate, but that information neither then or now means much to me. There's no excuse for being a jerk.

Anyway, he told me to sit on the edge of the bed, hunch over, and drop my shoulders. A contraction hit right then, but he wouldn't let Tim come near me to help, though we hadn't started the epidural at all. All he said was, "Don't move!" and continued prepping my back for the needle. Even the nurse who was with him had the sense to know he was being unnecessarily rude. She kept trying to encourage me and soften the commands he gave, but it was clear he was out of line.

He said "Pinch!" as he poked me with needles (though he never said, "When I say, 'pinch,' that means I'm going to give you a shot"), so the nurse tried to preempt him by warning me gently each time. He kept bending my back forward until I finally gasped, "I can't breathe!" Another contraction hit, followed by a "Don't move!" I thought to myself that it would have been better to have struggled without the epidural. He stuck the needle in, and for the first time during the entire labor I said, "It hurts!" Something felt very wrong. I must've been right, because Mr. Needles said, "That's not going to work. I don't like that." He pulled the needle out to START OVER. I wanted to cry. He did it again, and asked, "Do you feel anything?" I whimpered, "Yes." That wasn't the right answer. He let out a testy sigh, and the nurse helped me onto my back again. After a minute, he said, "Are you having any contractions?"

"Why don't you check the monitor, idiot?" I wanted to say. Instead, I said the truth: "I don't feel any."

"See?" he said, to the nurse, "She doesn't even know if she's having them." With that smug comment, he packed up his gear and left. I determined that even if my back broke in half from the pain, I wouldn't admit it for fear he'd come back.

After five minutes, the doctor came in to check on me. She said, "Take a nap. When you wake up, there will be work to do." A nap? During labor? Sweet!

I rested for almost 45 minutes. When I woke up, I didn't have to be told that the baby was making her way to the Outs.

The Long Goodbye (Part 3.3): Loose Ends

Here's the thing about delivering a baby in a hospital: the staff already have in mind how they want your pregnancy to go. There is wiggle room (where people try their bests to accommodate your birthing plan), but not much. Because my water broke before my contractions started, the staff began to follow it's own timetable. But like I've said before, every pregnancy is different, and I wanted to do things at my own pace, not on someone else's timetable. As I neared deadlines along the timetable, ironically, I started to hear the word "options" a lot. "Options" actually translates to "we have no or few choices." For example, in the first hours of labor, I was dilating too slow by the timetable's standards, so the doctor said, "We're going to give you more Pitocin to get your contractions to be more effective--closer together and stronger. As we get closer to 18 hours, we're going to have to talk about options." Read: we'll do a C-section.

From the color of my amniotic fluid, the doctor could tell that the baby had pooped in utero. This, as you might have guessed, wasn't a good thing. Now the word "infection" starts creeping up, and they tell me some special staff will be in the room when the baby is born. I was nervous, because my whole natural-birth plan was seeming more and more unrealistic. The fact was, the longer I was in labor the longer the baby would be swimming in her own pooh. The bad thing was, as they're telling me all this, I was not in my right mind. Seriously. The pain of the contractions had become, how shall I say it, consuming.

If you are an MTB, are considering becoming pregnant, or are encouraging your wife to get to baby-making, go ahead and stop reading now. Live in Sweet Oblivion. The following blow-by-blow account of my delivery is coming, so make a U-turn for your own good.

I knew labor would be painful; everybody said so. But, I had no idea how the back-splitting pressure would make me lose reason. I couldn't do anything but be terrified, anticipating the next contraction. My baby was facing sideways and up for most of the labor, which is not the optimal position (facing down is). This caused lower back pain stronger than any puny cramps I'd ever had in my life. The people in the room became statues to me. They were present, but my mind and body were fighting a battle no one could help me with. I refused to cry out, though I probably should have. I tried birthing position after position to relieve the pressure, but nothing did more than distract me for a minute. I was biting on a wet rag, clawing at Tim's shirt. My mother, who I had told hours before to leave for her own sake, stood by my side. I could tell she wished she could take the pain away, and she gently suggested I take an epidural. But I was paranoid that it would affect the baby, even though I'd been assured it wouldn't. After 15 hours of labor, I had only dilated to 7cm. The contractions were mostly in my lower back, and I tensed every time one happened, trying to bear it. Unfortunately, because I became so rigid, the baby couldn't move down the birth canal. The nurses encouraged me to relax, but I couldn't. I was worn out, and worse, I kept imagining the baby sitting in filthy fluid.

That settled it. I asked for an epidural. I was disappointed, but I knew I was exhausted, and I hadn't even started pushing yet. Just the thought of the upcoming relief made me calm down.

People make epidurals sound like an angel's touch. If somebody had told me what was involved with getting one, I may have gone ahead and had my baby in my car ...

The Long Goodbye (Part 3.2): Loose Ends

When one graduates from college, has a birthday, or buys a new car, one expects a certain (humble) amount of fanfare from friends and family. When one rushes into the maternity floor of a hospital to, I don't know, CREATE A NEW LIFE, the fanfare amounts to, "May we please see your ID and insurance card? Thank you. If you would just fill out this short form ..." So on and so forth, until they direct you to your room. For Tim & I, it was pretty much like checking into the Holiday Inn. We got to our room (which, by the way, was the exact same room our instructor had shown us during our childbirth class--weird), and pretty much stared at each other after that. I hated to sound petty, but I kept thinking, "Isn't someone going to come check on us? I know it's Memorial Day weekend and all, but ..." Let it be known that the whole time I was still leaking fluid.

Note to American 15-year-olds who are playing with pregnancy: I leaked amniotic (look it up) fluid for 3/4 of my labor, and afterwards leaked KID. Be wise.

The nurse came in, had me change into a revealing number, and placed monitors on my belly: one for the baby's heartbeat and one for my contractions. Tim & I were alone for the next two hours (cut to scene: my mom at home shouting, "Hurry, Ralph! Feed the dog, and let's go!"), and though the contractions were uncomfortable, they were manageable in a quiet setting. MTBs, heed this sage advice: weeks before your delivery, inform your entire family about how many people (if any) you want in your delivery room and when. This isn't enough, either. You have to make it clear who you want in the room when you deliver, because if you don't, as you will soon see, you'll have a delivery room like mine: all I needed was a monkey to have the complete circus ...

Now, I had taken the liberty of posting on our family website the hospital's policy regarding visitors during labor. Nobody read it. So, before you know it, my brothers are in the room playing Scrabble, my brother-in-law is reading the newspaper, and everyone else is munching on doughnuts (by the way, at the time I was only allowed ice chips). I'm not kidding. I love them all, but as my contractions grew stronger, my patience for such shenanigans dried up. To be fair, if you're not the MTB or the breathing coach, labor is pretty boring, but that doesn't mean the future mommy is in any mood to play.

The last straw was when people started giving a play-by-play of my contractions monitor: "Here comes another one ... whoa ... that one's worse than the last one ... wow, they're getting closer together ..." I looked at Tim, and sent him this message via eye-piercing stare, "HONEY, don't you remember when I told you things like this would happen, and you would have to be Mr. Tough Guy? Don't you remember you've got to be hardcore now? Don't you??" Tim nodded (eye messages are efficient), and left the room. A minute later, a nurse came in and cleared the room, saying it was time for visitors to wait in the lobby. My amiable family left, and I sent Tim another eye-mail: "Nice technique. Passive-aggressive, yes, but effective ..."

Do not be fooled, though. This was not a decisive victory for Peace & Quiet, because two members of my family, which shall remain nameless, insisted on trying to gain entrance into the delivery room anyway to the point that one nurse asked with genuine concern, "Is (s)he OK?" By OK she meant "is (s)he one grape short of a fruit salad" not "does (s)he find this situation too stressful." Now, I realize that eagerness and genuine concern played into their motives, but for the love of all that's good, couldn't we have shown a bit more restraint that day, Family?

No. The answer is no. My sister, a true soldier, sat in the waiting room the entire time I was in labor. After spending the day with the more eager members of my family, here is a sampling of the conversations she said took place:

Eager Family Member #1: "If labor lasts more than 15 hours after a mother's water breaks, the baby will be mentally retarded."
EFM #2: "What?!? Does the doctor know that?"
EFM #1: "The doctor doesn't know what he's doing."
EFM #2: "Well, let's go tell him!"

*Sigh*

Meanwhile, back at the delivery room ...

The Long Goodbye (Part 3.1): Loose Ends

So.


Let us rewind to Friday, May 25th, shall we?

I went to my doctor's appointment as usual. I figured since the baby was due Sunday, May 27th, the visit would be my last. At the end of my checkup, however, the doctor said, "Well, it looks like it may be another week before this baby comes."

Drats! I really didn't want to spend another week bemoaning all the things that could go wrong (yes, I had been reading more literature on lost pregnancies and the like). After a minute, I consoled myself that now, at least, I'd have time to buy last-minute baby items. Plus, my parents wanted to attend my cousin's wedding (a 10-hr round-trip) on Saturday, but had debated going because of the baby. Now they could go without guilt.

That night, I went shopping which has a way of making me feel better. I walked around for quite a while in the baby section thinking about all of the preparations Tim & I had made. For crying out loud, we had a birthing plan. A birthing plan is basically a wish list of things parents can make for their doctors & nurses (ex: "Please do not offer pain medication unless specifically begged--er--asked for"). Apparently, only new moms/dads do this, because most experienced parents know that nothing is off the table when it comes to labor. In my mind, I had worked out what I hoped would happen: my contractions would start, I'd stay home to work through them, and at the last possible minute, head to the hospital. I wanted to be in a familiar area for as long as I could. My water would probably break at the hospital, like all of my mom's pregnancies had. My pregnancy books and magazines all said that the Hollywood version of labor (where a woman's water breaks and she calmly informs her husband that, "It's time") was unlikely, and in fact, some women have to have their amniotic sacs broken artificially at the hospital. Now I had another week to wonder where and when it would happen, and if I'd be alone when it did.

I didn't sleep well that night. I was uncomfortable, but that was nothing new. I felt unreasonably alert, and decided that when Tim woke up, I'd tell him I felt strange. At 6:40ish, I thought to myself how in an hour my parents would be picking up a rental car and heading out of town. I sat up.

*Gush*

People, I mean GUSH. Fluid started pouring everywhere, and all I could think to do was say, "Uh ... uh ... UH, UHH, UGHH!" I beat Tim with my hand and begged for towels. Though I knew what was happening, my mind sort of split in two. My logical half said, "Well, looks like the baby's coming." The unreasonable half thought, "Perhaps I've just wet myself. My, I hope Tim brings the blue towels, since those are a bit worn anyway ..." These two halves of my brain never reunited until two days later, but that's jumping ahead ...

Tim jumped out of bed, and in twenty minutes, we were on our way to the hospital. Hollywood, it turns out, wasn't too far from the truth (minus the dramatic music).

On the drive there, I asked Tim if he'd remembered to bring my pregnancy book. "No," he admitted sheepishly. What about the iPod, you know, for soothing music? No. The extra pillows? No. Anything on the list left on your desk for two weeks entitled, "Bring to the Hospital"? Nope.

I knew then we were looking at a long day.