I was very scared to find out that #3 was on the way. Although, I foretold her coming into existence, I think, by remarking at dinner the week before #2's first birthday that she was growing up much too fast and we should have another. I was pregnant already, but didn't know.
My entire pregnancy, I was eaten alive with guilt for #2. That Jason Mraz "I'm Yours" song was at the peak of popularity and every time he sang "Our time is short", I knew he was talking about #2 and me, and would weep accordingly.
#1 had us to himself for almost 6 years. I think he was ready for us to let go a little bit. I knew #2 would never even remember being the littlest, the baby we lavished with love.
And we did. Man, we did. #2 is a spoiled little thing. We tried for 2 1/2 years to get pregnant with her. Things were reaching a crucial point when I finally got the plus sign on the pregnancy test. I had talked myself into making an appointment with a fertility specialist on a Monday, and got my positive test the Friday before. She was a long-desired baby. The girl I'd always dreamed I'd have.
And, suddenly, there was a new kid on the scene. I was afraid...would I feel intruded upon? What if the new baby didn't "fit"? Was I stretching myself too thin? (Although, it would be nice to be thin...) What if I couldn't handle it? What if we pushed our luck and had an even more difficult baby (More difficult than a special needs kid and a kid with a bad eye and going on a year of bitter separation anxiety? I shuddered to think.) How would I know we'd done the "right thing"?
The Littlest One has been here about a month and a half now, and I can say with confidence that Yes. We did the Right Thing.
When #1 was a babe, I was a young, new, scared mom; thrust into parenthood by birth control failure. His first year is mostly a blur of me holding him and crying, afraid that my inexperience and ignorance would ensure his doom. His first night home, he got a case of the hiccups and I hysterically called the hospital, convinced he was having a seizure or possibly getting ready to explode.
When #2 was little, god love her, she was the angriest, most colicky baby on the planet. I can admit that now, but couldn't at the time. (The technical definition of colic is when they cry for 3 hours straight. If she clocked in at 2 hours, 58 minutes, I'd proclaim to my husband "See? We just weren't doing it right before.) She had (and still has) a bum eye and didn't smile at us until she was 4 1/2 months old. (Most babies smile between 4 and 6 weeks.) There was a generous portion of her babyhood that I spent holding her wondering why, when we loved her so much, she hated us so much back. (She now has grown to tolerate us.) :)
But this one, this one is a calm, consistent baby. From the day she was born, she would snake her little arm out of her swaddling blanket to wrap her teeny fingers around my thumb. She does this whenever I hold her. Tonight, as I was giving her the last feeding before bed, she did it again and looked up at me with her wide, calm, steady baby eyes. The way she holds my thumb is reassuring. It communicates to me that she belongs with us, we belong with her, and she is a fit with our family after all.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Zip, Zam, Zoom
I am so tired. Which is a good thing, I think. We're on week 2 of the summer and we haven't been zombified by the TV. Yet. (Is it bad that TV watching is an enjoyable family activity to me?)
The big one joined the Boy Scouts in order to attend their summer camp this week. He came home from his first day and informed me that his favorite activities was "peeing on spiders to kill them." I guess it's a good thing that we joined him up because it never would've occurred to me that peeing on spiders would be an enriching activity for him. He also got to shoot arrows and BB guns; something he's very excited about and proud of. He came home from camp today and casually strolled up to me, hand in pocket, and said, "Hey, mom. Wanna see a bullet?" He then proudly pulled a tiny BB from his pocket. I'm glad he's getting all of this boyish experience because, again, I never would've thought to do these things with him.
In the meantime, New Baby and I have been sleeping a lot. I think she's having a growth spurt so she's nursing near-constantly. So, we just stretch out on the couch and doze off. I've slept tremendous amounts these past couple days, but I am still tired. So tired, the other day I fell asleep in an MRI machine so loud that it rattled my molars.
My husband had an appointment in the city today so I was on my own with all 3 for awhile. It is a juggling act. (While at my mother's over the weekend she commented that she doesn't know how we do it. We only have one more kid than she had! I was surprised she said that.) (But it really is crazy, but that's OK. Who needs down time? Am I right?) I plan activities to keep them busy while I cook and then while they eat, I get chores done that the middle one likes to thwart. (Laundry. Putting away dishes. Vacuuming. Pretty much any chore that you can think of.) But there's still no time for any but the immediate chores now. There are dust bunnies watching me from the corners. Cobwebs are hanging further up than my broom can reach in the ridiculously tall living room. (Because cleaning cobwebs would be too easy if the room was a normal size.) Our ceiling fans are striped with dust (same problem as the cobwebs in the living room. *sigh* I hate that stupid tall ceiling. It drives up the electric bill too. OK. Enough about the stupid tall ceiling.), the kitchen floor could use a good mopping. We are using one half of our couch as a dresser...meaning that's where our clean clothes have taken up residence. We are now operating 4 junk drawers that barely close. There is a mismatched sprinkling of out of place items on the floor of every room. (Thanks, middle one.) In this room alone, there is a crib toy, a bicycle pump, a recipe card, liner notes from an Octopus Project CD, and an instruction booklet for a phone we no longer own on the floor.
We have a 20 item list of things to do and it's taken a week to accomplish half of it. It's great if we can get two things done (besides meals) per day. Unfortunately for me, this means that sometimes a shower gets edged out by more pressing items. And when I get a couple minutes to myself, it takes awhile for my brain to focus on the task at hand. I have no idea how I've divided up what I've written into paragraphs. It may not make sense. I don't even remember what I was talking about two lines ago.
Let this not make you think that this life with 3 kids is not fun, it is. It's just fast paced and my mind (and my reflexes) have not caught up yet.
The big one joined the Boy Scouts in order to attend their summer camp this week. He came home from his first day and informed me that his favorite activities was "peeing on spiders to kill them." I guess it's a good thing that we joined him up because it never would've occurred to me that peeing on spiders would be an enriching activity for him. He also got to shoot arrows and BB guns; something he's very excited about and proud of. He came home from camp today and casually strolled up to me, hand in pocket, and said, "Hey, mom. Wanna see a bullet?" He then proudly pulled a tiny BB from his pocket. I'm glad he's getting all of this boyish experience because, again, I never would've thought to do these things with him.
In the meantime, New Baby and I have been sleeping a lot. I think she's having a growth spurt so she's nursing near-constantly. So, we just stretch out on the couch and doze off. I've slept tremendous amounts these past couple days, but I am still tired. So tired, the other day I fell asleep in an MRI machine so loud that it rattled my molars.
My husband had an appointment in the city today so I was on my own with all 3 for awhile. It is a juggling act. (While at my mother's over the weekend she commented that she doesn't know how we do it. We only have one more kid than she had! I was surprised she said that.) (But it really is crazy, but that's OK. Who needs down time? Am I right?) I plan activities to keep them busy while I cook and then while they eat, I get chores done that the middle one likes to thwart. (Laundry. Putting away dishes. Vacuuming. Pretty much any chore that you can think of.) But there's still no time for any but the immediate chores now. There are dust bunnies watching me from the corners. Cobwebs are hanging further up than my broom can reach in the ridiculously tall living room. (Because cleaning cobwebs would be too easy if the room was a normal size.) Our ceiling fans are striped with dust (same problem as the cobwebs in the living room. *sigh* I hate that stupid tall ceiling. It drives up the electric bill too. OK. Enough about the stupid tall ceiling.), the kitchen floor could use a good mopping. We are using one half of our couch as a dresser...meaning that's where our clean clothes have taken up residence. We are now operating 4 junk drawers that barely close. There is a mismatched sprinkling of out of place items on the floor of every room. (Thanks, middle one.) In this room alone, there is a crib toy, a bicycle pump, a recipe card, liner notes from an Octopus Project CD, and an instruction booklet for a phone we no longer own on the floor.
We have a 20 item list of things to do and it's taken a week to accomplish half of it. It's great if we can get two things done (besides meals) per day. Unfortunately for me, this means that sometimes a shower gets edged out by more pressing items. And when I get a couple minutes to myself, it takes awhile for my brain to focus on the task at hand. I have no idea how I've divided up what I've written into paragraphs. It may not make sense. I don't even remember what I was talking about two lines ago.
Let this not make you think that this life with 3 kids is not fun, it is. It's just fast paced and my mind (and my reflexes) have not caught up yet.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
New Baby Of Mine
Dear Littlest One,
Thank you for yourself. I feel so lucky that you joined our family. You're the mellowest baby I've had so far and I appreciate it.
I love just sitting with you and holding you. I hope time passes really slowly during your first year so that I can savor every second.
Last night when the storms came through and you were grunting in your hammock, I picked you up and held you and you curled up on my tum (probably the same way you were when you lived inside of it) and fell right asleep. It makes me so happy that I can provide you that comfort and soothe your fears.
Love,
Mom
Thank you for yourself. I feel so lucky that you joined our family. You're the mellowest baby I've had so far and I appreciate it.
I love just sitting with you and holding you. I hope time passes really slowly during your first year so that I can savor every second.
Last night when the storms came through and you were grunting in your hammock, I picked you up and held you and you curled up on my tum (probably the same way you were when you lived inside of it) and fell right asleep. It makes me so happy that I can provide you that comfort and soothe your fears.
Love,
Mom
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
riders on the storm
This evening, for a change of pace, I took the big one and the middle one out to run errands. Usually, I am partnered with the littlest one because I am nursing. Tonight though, I just had to run and pick up mine and the biggest one's glasses. (Yes, we are getting glasses.). Plus, the middlest one hurriedly threw down her half-eaten granola bar so she could put up her arms and say "Up? Up?", begging to come with me. (Just so you know, this speaks volumes about how the kid feels about me. She loves those granola bars.)
Off we went to the glasses place, I noticed a high rim of clouds edging upon us. Lightening streaked across them horizontally. They were just a shade or two darker than the dusky sky. I was not worried.
As we were leaving the glasses place (Where they mistakenly had put my lenses in the biggest one's frames and vice versa. Thanks a lot, Vision
Plaza.), my husband called. A tornado warning had been issued for the two counties in our area. (We live a mere 3 miles from where the counties meet.). But the warning was for the northern part, and we live in the southernmost edge.
I mentally crossed stopping at the gas station off my list of things to do. The rim of clouds, I could now see, was being pushed forward by a bloated, charcoal cloud mass. Was it hiding the tornado reported 45 minutes away? I estimated that even if it was the fastest tornado ever recorded, we would make it home safely before it could make an appearance.
I stopped to get dinner. Everything was still ok as I ordered but as I waited for our tacos in the drive-thru, outside suddenly changed.
It was like the storm took a deep breath and began exhaling...huffing and puffing and trying to bring everything around us down. The wind threatened to pull the money from my hand, the back of which was stinging from a spray of sand. The dark clouds grew and came apart, revealing a sky behind them like I've never seen: a brilliant, sickening emerald green. (Briefly, my mind wandered to the Emerald City...and we all know how she got there!).
To get home, I had to drive towards the storm and do a u-turn to get on the highway. My instincts balked but they don't understand about access roads being one way only.
Litter was exploding into the sky, plastic bags with air suddenly thrust into them fell and looked like parachutes, until the next gust of wind would scoop them up and fling them high into the sky. Sand and dirt started being sucked from the ground, looking like hair standing up on goosebump arms. The streams of sand were rising taller than my car. The dark cloud armada was closing in fast. I felt the rush of wind press firmly against my car. I wondered if it would become strong enough to push us.
The traffic on the access road was stacked up back to the highway. Fortunately (???), a couple cars back, a driver was frozen in what looked like terror, staring at the storm. I took that opportunity to pull onto the road. (Meanwhile, my instincts were screaming to drive the wrong way on the access road to get home and get away from the monster clouds.)
As I pulled onto the highway, I noticed that even the slow lane was traveling at a solid 90 miles an hour. It then occurred to me that these people aren't just driving home, they're running away. The traffic was as tightly woven as can be, but in perfect synchronicity we panicked and fled together.
The swiftly moving traffic gave me some breathing room. We were getting away from it. A little. But our exit was the second up the road and we had a long trip south (parallel to the edge of the storm) before we'd get home.
I called my husband. In my most cheerful forced mom voice, I asked him to meet me outside to help me get the children out of the car. I handed my purse to the big one and told him it was his job to get it in the house. I was sweating so profusely that it poured, stinging, into my eyes. Meanwhile, my instincts were running wildly in a circle wringing their hands, wailing "The children! The children! You have to get the children out of this; fast!". I mentally calculated how fast I could get the middle one out of her car seat.
Exiting the highway, my panic increased. The power was out. We had 4 stoplights to clear in less than a mile and lines of panic stricken drivers snaked back to where we were. The space I put between us and the storm vanished as I waited for my turn to clear the intersection. Trash and birds spun by in a crazy tangle. Lightening flashed green. The black clouds willed themselves bigger.
I zipped towards our house, a cacophony in my head, bits of prayers for our safety, my clamboring instincts, and mental cursing as I called my husband again (to see if we should seek shelter at one of the powerless grocery stores or press on home) and realizing the phones were down.
We made it in the nick of time, before a drop of rain fell. My husband was in the driveway watching shingles being torn from neighboring roofs. His shirt was flapping around him like a flag. Our trees were bent in half. He grabbed the middlest one, the big one jumped out on his own and I hustled our dinner into the house.
We huddled in a hallway (the power gave out as we sat down) and ate our dinner. I thought back to the other drivers on the highway, their (and my own) ridiculous speeds and urge to keep going...fast. It must've been our survival instinct kicking in. It took over. And I know it is a good thing. It helps us. We are a product of eons of it. But I feel like choosing to help fellow man is what we could and should be...but that our "every man for himself" mentality is what we are and what we have to overcome.
I also felt very primal, huddled in the middle of our darkened hallway sharing a meal with my family.
After the worst passed, we emerged into our living room. There was still a little daylight (but no electricity) and I found myself wanting to take pictures of the kids. They looked so different in the dim light. I wonder...if we lived in that dim light, how differently we might feel about eachother, and how much physical imperfection we might forgive. (Not that my kids aren't absolutely perfect. I apply this thought to the general public. A zit is much more tame when seen through the gray light of dusk.)
Off we went to the glasses place, I noticed a high rim of clouds edging upon us. Lightening streaked across them horizontally. They were just a shade or two darker than the dusky sky. I was not worried.
As we were leaving the glasses place (Where they mistakenly had put my lenses in the biggest one's frames and vice versa. Thanks a lot, Vision
Plaza.), my husband called. A tornado warning had been issued for the two counties in our area. (We live a mere 3 miles from where the counties meet.). But the warning was for the northern part, and we live in the southernmost edge.
I mentally crossed stopping at the gas station off my list of things to do. The rim of clouds, I could now see, was being pushed forward by a bloated, charcoal cloud mass. Was it hiding the tornado reported 45 minutes away? I estimated that even if it was the fastest tornado ever recorded, we would make it home safely before it could make an appearance.
I stopped to get dinner. Everything was still ok as I ordered but as I waited for our tacos in the drive-thru, outside suddenly changed.
It was like the storm took a deep breath and began exhaling...huffing and puffing and trying to bring everything around us down. The wind threatened to pull the money from my hand, the back of which was stinging from a spray of sand. The dark clouds grew and came apart, revealing a sky behind them like I've never seen: a brilliant, sickening emerald green. (Briefly, my mind wandered to the Emerald City...and we all know how she got there!).
To get home, I had to drive towards the storm and do a u-turn to get on the highway. My instincts balked but they don't understand about access roads being one way only.
Litter was exploding into the sky, plastic bags with air suddenly thrust into them fell and looked like parachutes, until the next gust of wind would scoop them up and fling them high into the sky. Sand and dirt started being sucked from the ground, looking like hair standing up on goosebump arms. The streams of sand were rising taller than my car. The dark cloud armada was closing in fast. I felt the rush of wind press firmly against my car. I wondered if it would become strong enough to push us.
The traffic on the access road was stacked up back to the highway. Fortunately (???), a couple cars back, a driver was frozen in what looked like terror, staring at the storm. I took that opportunity to pull onto the road. (Meanwhile, my instincts were screaming to drive the wrong way on the access road to get home and get away from the monster clouds.)
As I pulled onto the highway, I noticed that even the slow lane was traveling at a solid 90 miles an hour. It then occurred to me that these people aren't just driving home, they're running away. The traffic was as tightly woven as can be, but in perfect synchronicity we panicked and fled together.
The swiftly moving traffic gave me some breathing room. We were getting away from it. A little. But our exit was the second up the road and we had a long trip south (parallel to the edge of the storm) before we'd get home.
I called my husband. In my most cheerful forced mom voice, I asked him to meet me outside to help me get the children out of the car. I handed my purse to the big one and told him it was his job to get it in the house. I was sweating so profusely that it poured, stinging, into my eyes. Meanwhile, my instincts were running wildly in a circle wringing their hands, wailing "The children! The children! You have to get the children out of this; fast!". I mentally calculated how fast I could get the middle one out of her car seat.
Exiting the highway, my panic increased. The power was out. We had 4 stoplights to clear in less than a mile and lines of panic stricken drivers snaked back to where we were. The space I put between us and the storm vanished as I waited for my turn to clear the intersection. Trash and birds spun by in a crazy tangle. Lightening flashed green. The black clouds willed themselves bigger.
I zipped towards our house, a cacophony in my head, bits of prayers for our safety, my clamboring instincts, and mental cursing as I called my husband again (to see if we should seek shelter at one of the powerless grocery stores or press on home) and realizing the phones were down.
We made it in the nick of time, before a drop of rain fell. My husband was in the driveway watching shingles being torn from neighboring roofs. His shirt was flapping around him like a flag. Our trees were bent in half. He grabbed the middlest one, the big one jumped out on his own and I hustled our dinner into the house.
We huddled in a hallway (the power gave out as we sat down) and ate our dinner. I thought back to the other drivers on the highway, their (and my own) ridiculous speeds and urge to keep going...fast. It must've been our survival instinct kicking in. It took over. And I know it is a good thing. It helps us. We are a product of eons of it. But I feel like choosing to help fellow man is what we could and should be...but that our "every man for himself" mentality is what we are and what we have to overcome.
I also felt very primal, huddled in the middle of our darkened hallway sharing a meal with my family.
After the worst passed, we emerged into our living room. There was still a little daylight (but no electricity) and I found myself wanting to take pictures of the kids. They looked so different in the dim light. I wonder...if we lived in that dim light, how differently we might feel about eachother, and how much physical imperfection we might forgive. (Not that my kids aren't absolutely perfect. I apply this thought to the general public. A zit is much more tame when seen through the gray light of dusk.)
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Observations on Having 3 Kids
1. It takes a really long time to go anywhere with all of them. This is mostly because the younger 2 have very brief windows of being able to leave the house before they need to eat/sleep/be changed again.
2. Instead of meeting immediate needs, you are constantly prioritizing immediate needs and meeting them in order of urgency.
3. You go through unbelievable amounts of baby wipes.
4. Someone is ALWAYS hungry.
5. I have never walked around while nursing so much...not even with the other two kids combined.
6. I never thought that a newborn baby would enamor both my 7 year old son and 20 month old daughter.
7. Only with the 3rd child will you find yourself letting her sleep on a blanket on a picnic table at the park or at a restaurant.
8. You make do with less sleep than you ever thought possible.
9. I thought that with 3 kids I'd be so busy with the baby that I'd start referring to the older ones as "What's her face" or "That one kid". I still have time to spend with each of them one on one. What a relief!
10. There is so much love in our house, there was a perceptible increase when we brought The Littlest One home.
2. Instead of meeting immediate needs, you are constantly prioritizing immediate needs and meeting them in order of urgency.
3. You go through unbelievable amounts of baby wipes.
4. Someone is ALWAYS hungry.
5. I have never walked around while nursing so much...not even with the other two kids combined.
6. I never thought that a newborn baby would enamor both my 7 year old son and 20 month old daughter.
7. Only with the 3rd child will you find yourself letting her sleep on a blanket on a picnic table at the park or at a restaurant.
8. You make do with less sleep than you ever thought possible.
9. I thought that with 3 kids I'd be so busy with the baby that I'd start referring to the older ones as "What's her face" or "That one kid". I still have time to spend with each of them one on one. What a relief!
10. There is so much love in our house, there was a perceptible increase when we brought The Littlest One home.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Lola's Birth Story
This was much more difficult to write than I thought it would be. I wanted a natural childbirth like I had last time. Instead, I feel like my labor was done to me instead of done by my body. I've had less than a week to process what happened and there are some parts that are still painful to think about and write about. Maybe putting this out there will be a healing process. Some of my negative feelings about my labor are so strong that they feel almost silly or melodramatic to discuss. But I don't want to hide from the truth and the truth is that I feel there was a lot about my labor that was wrong.
I had a drs. appointment on Tuesday, May 12. They said I was a 2 and that they wanted to induce on Friday morning.
I didn't want to induce on Friday morning. Or ever, really. At least not hospital-style. I had had a hospital induction with The Big One and it was not fun. I was not very educated about childbirth and didn't know how much my body knows how to do and how much I would have to fight against the medicine they would give me to make birth happen. I ended up with a 4th degree tear, two black eyes, and a broken tailbone...and hair-raising PPD. I didn't want any of that again.
I had found a doula and a midwife who would take my case pro bono but they both happened to be out of town until Saturday (the doula) and Tuesday (the midwife). (And the midwife stressed that a doula should not be the one to deliver my baby.)
I reluctantly decided that I would see how I felt about the induction as the week progressed.
When my doctor's office called Wednesday morning to tell me that I would have to call in to win a slot for induction Friday morning between 4 and 4:30, it cemented the fact that induction is not for me. I wake up at 4 a.m. in emergency situations only.
But then, I wondered, maybe the doctors aren't being overly cautious. Maybe they're not trying to get me over and done before the weekend. Maybe I was teetering on the edge of being in labor or not being in labor. With this in mind, I walked almost 3 miles Wednesday night.
Nothing.
Thursday, I decided to shampoo the carpets in the whole house. I was assisted by a mocha frappucino. It took all day long to do it and I finished just before 10 p.m. I had my iPod on, blasting party music (Elvis Crespo's "Pintame" got repeated a half dozen times.) My back and sides were tight after I was through. I saw down to watch the Daily Show. About halfway through, I realized that I couldn't tell you anything that had been said or shown. It occurred to me that I was being distracted by contractions! I glanced at the clock. Five minutes apart.
I thought I had probably stirred stuff up with the shampooing and that they would probably die down, like they always do. My husband made me a cold roast beef sandwich with provolone. It was so good. I drank a big glass of water and waited.
Suddenly, I noticed that the Colbert Report was ending. Where had the last hour gone? I was still contracting every five minutes. I noticed that Jon was pacing and smoking lots of cigarettes out the back door. I saw in his eyes that he was worried. I knew he didn't want to deliver the baby. I didn't want to put it on him. But then, I preferred to do it myself to doing it at the hospital. But what if I needed him? I didn't want to force him into anything. I wanted him to be a willing participant and I knew that he wasn't. Because I love him, I decided to not be angry or blamey. I accepted him as he was, even if it meant giving up something I wanted. I felt like that choice was a little bit of what marriage is about.
I made up my mind to have a good time giving birth at the hospital. I'd given birth to my 45 minute labor and delivery baby at the hospital and it was fine, I felt good after and was up and showering half an hour later.
As the contractions adjusted to be even closer together, I suggested that he call and see if his sister was available to come down and stay with the kids.
I went outside and looked up at the stars. There was a nice, cool breeze.
The contractions marched on. I started to consider the possibility that I was in labor. I smiled, remembering how last time, I asked if I was in labor mere minutes before my daughter's head emerged.
It was difficult for me to wrap my mind around because of how my previous birth had gone. 45 minutes from start to finish. Transition, two pushes, no drugs. That was it. My whole pregnancy, I carefully considered the possibility that I could roll over, say "UNGH" and have a baby.
We drove to the hospital in silence. As we exited the highway and turned onto the hospital's street, it occurred to me that I should call my mom. It was 11:45. I figured they would be asleep, but my stepdad answered on the first ring. Perhaps they were anticipating my call. "I might be in labor." I giggled nervously. "I will call you and let you know."
The contractions would make me pause and let my breath out long and slow, like a sigh. As I came into the hospital, the check in lady sent me back immediately. They had me fill out paperwork which seemed like kind of a joke. I am gripping the counter top at the nurses station and they are like "Fill out the top portion here." I briefly wondered if this was some sort of "Are you in labor" test and if you fling the clipboard across the counter you are probably too close to giving birth and need to go upstairs.
They were out of beds in triage. I got a closet. The "bed" was more like an ironing board. They checked me. A 4. They hooked me up to the machines and a strip of paper kept the time of the contractions. Between 3 and 4 minutes apart. My husband sat in a chair at the foot of the ironing board. He stared at the contraction machine with the intensity of an investment banker watching a stock ticker.
After 30 minutes, they came back and checked me again. A 6. "You're in labor", they said.
"Really?", I replied; nude and sweaty, contorted into a half side lying, half Indian style position. (I can say that. I'm Cherokee.) I'd removed my hospital gown because I was so hot.
(They would not let me ride the wheelchair naked to the next floor.)
Once upstairs, I was visited by a trio of nurses. One started stringing up an IV. One started entering information into a computer. One started having me sign paperwork. The first one was about them giving me pitocin. I knew right then that this would be a struggle. I'd told me doctor I didn't want pitocin. He countered my feelings with "We'll just give you a whiff." (Pitocin is not dispensed in whiffs.) I guess nothing had been communicated with the hospital about the approach I wanted to try.
I explained to them that I didn't want pitocin. (Devil drug! It makes you have very strong contractions and puffs you up and eventually you have to sweat it all back out again. I had it with my first child and 4 nights I woke up and thought I must've caught myself in the middle of bleeding to death because I was in such a huge, wet puddle.)
I explained to them I didn't want an IV. (I was walking around the room and stretching against stuff to deal with the contractions. With an IV, it would be a lot more difficult to maneuver around.)
I explained to them that I didn't want an epidural. (I felt that my epidural with my first child interfered with my ability to push. With my 2nd child, it sure didn't. I got her out in 2 pushes. And it wasn't even like I pushed, but my body pushed for me. This was awesome because I got to avoid that stupid pushing to the count of ten where they always stretch out the last five digits to make you push longer.)
The paperwork nurse didn't like the sound of this. The IV nurse stopped hooking it up, shrugged her shoulders, and left. The computer nurse waited till the other two left and told me that she would help me. She said that they had lube to help me not tear, and showed it to me on the shelf. She said they could put in a heplock so I wouldn't be strung up but I would have a "line in" in case I needed an emergency c-section. (A lot of their theories were supported by me needing an emergency c-section. Kind of a dark outlook for them to have. It's like driving around in your car with your air bag deployed because you might be in a wreck.)
I liked this nurse. I was glad she'd be helping me have my baby.
She wanted to give me stadol. I hadn't wanted any drugs, but she said that this would have no effect on my labor and it would give me a chance to sleep before I had to push. This definitely sounded appealing but I wanted to wait.
My mom and stepdad showed up and sat for a bit. After 45 minutes, they decided to go home. (I think everyone predicted that this baby would just fly out and when it didn't, they got bored, concerned, or extra tired.) I told my mom to stop by in the morning to meet the new baby and she looked disappointed. Gotta love the mother/daughter relationship. I made a mental note right then and there to not put any pressure on my girls when they have kids of their own. I wasn't sure if she would be more disappointed by staying and missing out on sleep if I didn't deliver or if she went home to sleep and I had the baby.
After that, my husband started fading fast...even though he was laying on the chair that morphs into a very hard kind of longer, lower chair. (I hesitate to call it a bed.) "If I'd known I was going to be on my own anyway, I'd have stayed home," I thought. Then I noticed the time. It was almost 3. I couldn't believe it. Where was the time going? And why was this taking so long?
I thought, "I must be having normal people labor."
I didn't think it was too bad, but I was keenly aware that my birth partner was now snoring and that I wasn't sure just how far the roast beef sandwich I ate before coming would stretch. They told me they'd only give me ice chips until I had the baby. (Again, I longed for home, a feeling slightly exacerbated by my husband, the sheet pulled over his sleeping face.) I wished I could go to sleep.
The nice nurse came back in to check on me. No change, but the contractions kept going. She offered me some stadol so I could sleep before pushing. I hadn't wanted any drugs. I didn't want my body to be interrupted from what it was doing. She told me that all it would do is allow me to sleep during contractions. I've had stadol before and it wasn't too bad. I knew it would wear off quickly and that maybe it would relax me enough to go the rest of the way and when I woke up, it would be time to push. Plus, it would give my husband a chance to rest. Maybe it would even make it so my mom would be back in time for the baby to be born. I accepted the stadol.
When I take stadol, I don't really sleep. My eyes are closed. As far as I know, I don't respond to the outside world. But instead of feeling like sleep, it's more like laying there with my eyes closed thinking very deep, intricate thoughts. I did this for a long time, rolling from side to side throughout the night.
The next thing I knew, there was light coming through the windows. It was 7 a.m. My husband was still asleep. I didn't feel any contractions. Stadol was a miracle drug. Wahoo! Maybe I was about to give birth and didn't even know it. I quietly texted friends from the bed. I was wife of the year, over here in labor, not disturbing my husband.
At 7 a.m., there is a shift change for the nurses. I knew this from being in that hospital in the past, but I didn't think about it. Not for one millionth of one second.
Then my new nurse arrived.
I was prepared to like her a lot. She had a British accent. I love British accents.
She came in and checked me. No change. She checked my contraction strip. They had spread out. She said she would call my doctor's office when it opened to see how much pitocin to give me.
"I don't want pitocin", I said.
She gave me a funny look and then told me that she had volunteered as a nurse in other countries and that the maternal and fetal death rates in countries where they don't have access to pitocin is 1 in 6.
I stifled a weird noise in my throat...some kind of combination of disbelieving laughter and uneasy surprise. "That's just not true", I said. I don't think she had planned a reply to my type of reaction. She stared at me for a long time and then asked me why I didn't want pitocin. I explained the side effects from the last time I had it. She asked me whether the doctor told me those were side effects from it or if I "just guessed." (They told me the sweating and hard contractions were a side effect...these things were backed up from my own research into it.)
I told her that I was aiming for an unmedicated birth and that I was concerned that the intensity of pitocin contractions would make that impossible. She told me that the drugs I get are not my own choice but hers.
My husband was still asleep. I was worried. I texted some of my friends, letting them know what I was up against. Still, she couldn't control when I gave birth or how I gave birth. I began to fervently hope that the baby would just pop out under my sheet while she was out of the room.
My husband finally woke up and I briefed him on the nurse situation. He promised to run interference for me.
More hours passed. As our friends and relatives woke up, phonecalls and texts poured in. Everyone figured we'd already had the baby. The nurse kept checking me. No change. "Your contractions have spaced out", she said, like I was doing it on purpose. "Send me home, then", I replied, "I will come back when they start up again."
She shook her head, still reading the contraction strip, and left the room.
I had kind of hoped to give birth and be all finished up by the time the kids woke up. They were asleep when I'd left for the hospital and when they woke up, they'd find their aunt (who they don't know very well) instead of Daddy or me. But that time had passed. Not only were they awake now and aware that their aunt was there, but my mom must almost be to my house by now. I wondered how things would go for her.
My husband ran to get him something to eat. While he was gone, my mom called. The power was out at our house. Anytime it is cloudy or we have a slight breeze, the power goes out. I felt bad, she was there stuck with 2 kids and no power...and I knew that one of the kids was probably less than thrilled to be babysat.
With my husband still gone, the doctor and nurse marched into the room. "We have to break your water" they said. My labor needed to be "augmented". They really wanted to start pitocin but were "respecting my wishes" by demanding to break my water instead.
I wished my husband was there.
I explained to them that I didn't think my labor needed any augmentation. If it had stopped, I was really and truly happy to go home and not at all worried about delivering there. They were not interested in my bargaining. I knew in my gut I didn't want my water broken. But I also knew that it was better than pitocin and that Ina May Gaskin has broken lots of people's water. I didn't like the way that the doctor kept coming at me with the thing to break my water. I didn't like the way he kept repeating that they "had to" break my water.
But I acquiesed.
I am sure that I could've fought them off. I know that I chose not to. I felt pressure to move my labor forward. I felt pressure to "go along to get along" since I'd been fighting the hospital staff on every little thing since my arrival. And it had been hours already. Almost 12. I was getting hungry. My other kids needed me. My husband was tired after sleeping on the weird chair "bed".
At the same time, I was worried that the baby wasn't ready to come yet and that that's why my labor had slowed. I wasn't even 38 weeks until the following day. Maybe my contractions going away were her way of saying "Not yet." With my other daughter, I'd had a night with hours of "this is it!" seeming labor that eventually tapered off. Maybe that's why that birth had gone so quickly. Maybe I got it over with in pieces and once it was real labor time, I'd already done all of the parts leading up to it.
But they weren't going to let me go home. And I worried how long they'd let me labor before the wheeled me off for a c-section. I desperately wished at this point that I had stayed home. I didn't want to force helping me give birth on my husband, but now I felt like there were many things I disagreed with being forced on me.
They broke my water and I knew there was no going back. As the waves of warm fluid washed out of me, warm tears flooded my cheeks. I hoped I was doing the right thing.
The nurse smiled over me. "Now that we've broken your water, you are not allowed to get out of bed." They hadn't mentioned that before. She knew that I wanted to be able to get up and walk around if I felt like I needed it. I felt betrayed. Why would she do that?
She left the room. My husband came back and I told him what had happened. He didn't grieve the breaking of my water. He seemed excited to get down to business. He could see that I was upset but I don't think he understood it.
The nurse came back in to see what progress I'd made. She called me a "cheap 7" and left again.
The contractions came back. I knew I was entering transition. I also knew that it wouldn't last long. In everything I have read, transition lasts no longer than 2 hours. And that's rare. With my last birth, when I went into labor and saw it through to the end, it was just transition and only 45 minutes. I could handle that. A midwife I'd spoken to said "You can do anything for a couple hours." That became my mantra.
I laid on my side and tried to let the contractions come on. I thought about how they were bringing the baby down. When they got particularly intense, I pretended that they were the achey feeling just before an orgasm. I thought that would be a better way to picture them rather than like pain. I had my eyes closed a lot and tried to keep my breathing even. I kept my lips loose, like a didgeridoo player.
I tried not to look at the clock as much as possible because I didn't want it to seem like it was taking longer. After it had seemed like a long while, (the nurse had checked me twice during this time) I peeked at it. One hour. Already I'd lasted longer than with my previous delivery. I was strong. I was doing it. It couldn't be much longer.
The second hour was more difficult. I laid on my other side and had my husband rubbed my back. Neither of us were able to look at the contraction strip machine anymore. (He was on the wrong side of the bed and my eyes were closed.) But they were coming fast. I knew they were coming fast because there were things I wanted; another spoonful of ice chips, for instance, or for him to turn off both of our cell phones. But there wasn't time between contractions for him to do those things because I needed his hands on my back. Even when he took a break to try to get some blood back into his fingers, I would beg him to continue.
With my previous labor, when it started for real, the contractions were 2 minutes apart and lasted for 90 seconds. That's what this felt like. I stayed with it for as long as I could. The nurse came in and checked me. Now I was an 8.
An 8?
I peeked again at the clock. Another hour had passed. I had now been in transition as long as anybody I'd ever read about. And I'd done a lot of reading. What the hell was going on?
The next hour, things started to fall apart. I decided to take matters into my own hands and help my labor along. All on my own, I adjusted the hospital bed and got up on all fours. I labored that way for awhile. I have an arthritic knee and it was wobbling violently under the pressure. I raised the back of the bed and squatted, holding myself up by gripping the top edge of the bed.
The nurse came in and I told her I needed to pee. She said she would get me a catherter. I said I didn't want a catherter. (I had one once during a kidney infection, those hurt. I knew that extra pain would only shut my body down more.) She begrudgingly brought me a bed pan. She helped me get into position on the bed pan. Suddenly, the contractions were bearable again. After I finished peeing, I asked her if I could have a clean bed pan to labor on, since it had helped with the pain.
She screwed up her face and shook her head no. "Why not?", I demanded. (I was losing my manners fast.) She said that the way I was sitting on the bed pan was a pushing position and I needed not worry about pushing now. I was appalled. I felt like she was trying to keep me in pain to prove herself right. That laboring women "need" pitocin and epidurals and whatever else. On her way out of the room, she locked the supply closet that stored the bed pans.
I tried to strengthen my resolve. I was like an animal. Each contraction made me push, strongly, 4 times. I couldn't control it. The pain was stronger than I've ever, ever felt. I went back to squatting. She said I needed to not be in that position. I ignored her. She kept coming in every few minutes to tell me I was doing it wrong or some other messed up stuff. At one point, she told me that my fear was prolonging my labor. I was not afraid. I grabbed the lube the other nurse had left for me and lubed myself up, knowing that New Nurse would probably deny me that as well. I grunted and roared...everything I could remember from the books I'd read to open myself up more.
I peeked at the clock. Another hour had passed. I had now been in transition for 3 hours. I couldn't believe it. She checked me again. I was holding steady at an 8. The nurse started looking at the contraction strip and making worried faces. She said that the baby was having "dips". I knew that that was normal during contractions. She said I should let her put a monitor on the baby. This is done by sticking needles into the baby's scalp. I swore at her. "Get the fuck out of here and stop talking to me!" I shouted. She whirled around and slammed out of the room.
(A word about the fetal monitor. It measures heart rate. It is invasive and it must hurt, being that it is needles in a baby's scalp. The thing about it, however, is that since its introduction to use in labor and delivery, it hasn't reduced the amount of cerebral palsy. Not even a bit. So, it isn't preventing any medical conditions. It is just another tool used to make doctors and nurses want to speed up your labor, making them think (or giving them the opportunity to think, I guess) something is wrong when it is not. Babies heart rates go down when there is a contraction. That's normal. The nurse would not admit this.)
Now, I was falling apart. If I got into a position or breathing pattern or back rubbing pattern where I felt OK for a minute, the nurse would come in and yell about things and I would feel terrible again. She used my baby's well being as a bargaining chip to try to get me to do what she wanted. I was overwhelmed with pain. I went from sobbing, asking my husband why he did this to me to biting the backs of my hands to relieve the pain I was in (when the nurse saw this, she stuffed a towel into my mouth). I started puking in earnest, all over my bed sheets. The nurse wanted to move me to change the sheets. I told her I didn't want to move. She kept at it, not taking no for an answer. "We have to change these sheets." "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!", I bellowed. My husband said that it would probably be better to just leave me be. She was checking me every few minutes and announcing that there had been no change. I was convinced at this point that they were taking the baby too early. I said I wanted pain relief. They said there was nothing they could give me. I started banging my head against the bed rail in the hope of knocking myself unconscious. I asked them to knock me out and give me a c-section. I asked them to just go ahead and kill me.
Another nurse came in with my nurse and held my hand. (The other one never looked me in the eye again after I yelled at her to stop talking to me.) She said I could have an epidural. My husband, god bless him, piped up and said "Oh, she doesn't want an epidural-" to which I shouted "Give me the epidural, NOW!" My nurse took obvious pleasure in informing me that because I refused the IV initially that they would have to give me saline solution for 20 minutes before an epidural could be done.
I could no longer open my right eye. I had bruises and welts from the backs of my hands up to my elbows. I had vomit in my hair. I had burst blood vessels all around my temples and eyeballs from pushing too early. I had bruises and bumps on the side of my head where I'd been trying to knock myself unconscious. I peered at the nurse through my left eye and said "Why don't you run this labor the way you see fit, then?"
She wasted no time in stringing me up with saline solution. I lay still on the bed, clinging to the rail like it was somehow going to pluck me out of this situation.
I had been laboring for 18 hours.
The anesthesiologist came in to do the epidural. I could no longer talk. He asked me some questions and I didn't answer. I'm kind of surprised he performed the thing. The other nurse, the one who'd accompanied my nurse earlier came in. "You made it to an 8", she said encouragingly. "Do you know how many people don't make it to an 8 before their epidural?"
I didn't answer.
I felt the epidural going in and just like biting my hands and banging my head had done, it distracted me from the pain. I could actually feel the little tube working it's way along my spine. It felt great. I would've taken 10 epidurals at that point. I knew this was the last I would feel of my laboring pain. (But I knew it would be replaced later by recovery pain...something I could have avoided without the epidural...and the neverending transition.) I bid it a fond farewell.
Maybe it was all the screaming and biting but I believe they turned that epidural up higher than any epidural could go. I felt nothing below my neck. Which was nice, but weird. When the nurse would come to check me, it would look like her hand was going to go all the way up to my brain the way she would force it in there. But I still felt nothing. In minutes, I was a 10. But the baby wasn't coming down.
I felt terrible guilt for starting this process. The baby wasn't ready and machines were going to force her delivery, instead of our bodies coming to a mutual agreement and working together.
The nurse told me "I am going to give you pitocin." I didn't even open my eyes. Another nurse appeared immediately with the IV bag. The medicine started flowing in and in a couple minutes, she told me to push.
She told me to hold my legs back. I grasped at them but for some reason, they were difficult to hold on to. I guess because they were numb? But that doesn't make sense. All I know is that they were constantly slipping from my grip. "Couldn't my husband hold one back and you hold the other one?" "Oh no," she says "you will progress better if you do it yourself."
I pinched at the skin on my legs to try to keep them in place. She did the counts of 10 while I pushed. I think this part is stupid. Your body pushes the baby out. If you interfere with that, or try to poop it out yourself, your body will retaliate with black eyes, burst blood vessels, and sometimes broken tailbones. With my previous labor, my body did the pushing with no conscious involvement from me. And it felt great. This felt like I was grasping in the dark for something that was not there.
Even so, after just a couple of pushes, the nurse calmly turned to my husband and asked him to hit the nurse call button on the side of my bed. She asked them to call my doctor. (He works across the street from the hospital, so we wouldn't have to wait long.) I guessed that she could see the baby and that I was close to giving birth. That seemed nice. She stood with her hand at my crotch. My husband told me later she was holding the baby's head in. If she was so worried about those "dips" that I "had to" have my water broken and have pitocin, why wasn't she trying to get the baby out ASAP?
Minutes passed and the doctor didn't appear. The nurse had my husband call the front desk again. They hadn't called the doctor at all. They said they "forgot" but that they'd call him right away.
During this time, I held my hand to my stomach saying goodbye to the special relationship I shared with New Baby. I would never feel her (or, according to my husband and 90% of myself at this time, any other baby) in my womb again. Silent tears streamed down my face. I hoped I'd made the right decision. Nobody commented on my crying or had anything supportive to say.
A couple other nurses came in and started setting up. A few minutes later, I heard the door to the room thrown open and it was my doctor. I like him well enough and was kind of glad to see him. I was glad for the whole experience to be near conclusion.
My husband tells me I barely had to push, that her head was just out. With one other push, she was born. They set her on my chest. They ignored all of my previous requests (to not cut the cord until it stopped pulsing, to let the placenta be delivered on its own). I saw her jump and gasp as they cut the cord. "I'm sorry", I thought. I wanted so much for this experience to be different.
I wished so much I had just stayed home. I wished I had just gone into the bathroom by myself when it came time to give birth (which I was pretty certain wasn't that day). I didn't have to force my husband to be a part of it but at least I would've protected myself and New Baby from what the hospital had to offer.
She looked small. There was no scale in the room so we didn't find out her weight until later but she was a full pound lighter than my first child and a half pound lighter than my second. She scored 9 and 9 on her Apgar's, which gave me some teeny relief. They kept wiping her with towels on my chest, making it hard to see her face. And I guess the lube I'd applied earlier had worn off because I got the same 2nd degree tear I got last time.
In the first picture taken after she was born, you can see the doctor, you can see New Baby looking confused, and you can see my arms outstretched from the corner of the shot.
After they took her to the nursery the epidural wore off. I'd been almost an entire day without sleep or food. I staggered painfully to the bathroom and threw up for what felt like hours. (This does not feel good on stitches.) I remembered how good I'd felt after my last delivery. I was up and in the shower, whistling when they took my daughter to the nursery. I had given that up to take this path. I felt cheated and betrayed and just plain angry at myself for letting all of this occur. I wish I would've taken the heplock out of my arm and gone home when the contractions slowed down.
My mom was there by this point and she held me while I cried and told me she was sorry they messed with me.
I have pushed the hospital experience out of my mind as much as possible in the days since my daughter's delivery. And really, all that matters to me now is that she is here and healthy. I don't have to relive any of that again. I never have to see that nurse again. I never have to go back there.
And I try to look at some of it in a humorous light. Like the fact that your first night postpartum, they force you to attend a class (bleeding profusely and wearing a hospital gown) with a dozen other ladies in your same situation where they give you useless info like "Don't forget to feed your baby!" or "We won't let you take your kid home without a car seat." and everyone's faces are gray and pained. And their "breastfeeding" section of the class is one sentence about feeding on demand and the rest is about how to dry up your milk. It is obvious that this hospital and I are not a good match. Our thoughts on childbirth couldn't be more different. And I guess that that's why I had the experience I had.
On our way out the door to go home, New Baby decided she wanted to nurse. I nursed her in the wheelchair. Upon our exit from the hospital, the nurse informed me that she needed to get her wheelchair back and left me standing and nursing in the cold wet parking lot.
The further I get away from what happened, the funnier and more irrelevant I'm sure it will be. I look down at New Baby and tell her I'd do it all again for her. And I would. With a smile. (Well, with a smile I guess until I actually started doing it again.)
But there is a teeny voice inside of me who feels angry (mostly at myself, but with a good-sized portion for that awful nurse) and betrayed...mostly like I betrayed myself. I knew what I was choosing when I chose a hospital birth. But I did it anyway. Part of it was that I was being optimistic. Another part was that I thought I was protecting my husband and the baby. But my husband bore the burden of my difficult labor, my baby was possibly born too early, and I was chopped on the chopping block and am left alone to recover.
I am near positive this will be my last baby so there won't be a chance for me to fix it. And it is unnecessary, I guess, to fix. I wish I could end this with "live and learn" but I'd already lived it and learned it. I can't explain why this happened again. I kind of thought that after writing it out, the explanation would present itself, but it is still a mystery to me.
I want to anonymously mail that nurse my copy of Spiritual Midwifery.
I love my New Baby.
The End
I had a drs. appointment on Tuesday, May 12. They said I was a 2 and that they wanted to induce on Friday morning.
I didn't want to induce on Friday morning. Or ever, really. At least not hospital-style. I had had a hospital induction with The Big One and it was not fun. I was not very educated about childbirth and didn't know how much my body knows how to do and how much I would have to fight against the medicine they would give me to make birth happen. I ended up with a 4th degree tear, two black eyes, and a broken tailbone...and hair-raising PPD. I didn't want any of that again.
I had found a doula and a midwife who would take my case pro bono but they both happened to be out of town until Saturday (the doula) and Tuesday (the midwife). (And the midwife stressed that a doula should not be the one to deliver my baby.)
I reluctantly decided that I would see how I felt about the induction as the week progressed.
When my doctor's office called Wednesday morning to tell me that I would have to call in to win a slot for induction Friday morning between 4 and 4:30, it cemented the fact that induction is not for me. I wake up at 4 a.m. in emergency situations only.
But then, I wondered, maybe the doctors aren't being overly cautious. Maybe they're not trying to get me over and done before the weekend. Maybe I was teetering on the edge of being in labor or not being in labor. With this in mind, I walked almost 3 miles Wednesday night.
Nothing.
Thursday, I decided to shampoo the carpets in the whole house. I was assisted by a mocha frappucino. It took all day long to do it and I finished just before 10 p.m. I had my iPod on, blasting party music (Elvis Crespo's "Pintame" got repeated a half dozen times.) My back and sides were tight after I was through. I saw down to watch the Daily Show. About halfway through, I realized that I couldn't tell you anything that had been said or shown. It occurred to me that I was being distracted by contractions! I glanced at the clock. Five minutes apart.
I thought I had probably stirred stuff up with the shampooing and that they would probably die down, like they always do. My husband made me a cold roast beef sandwich with provolone. It was so good. I drank a big glass of water and waited.
Suddenly, I noticed that the Colbert Report was ending. Where had the last hour gone? I was still contracting every five minutes. I noticed that Jon was pacing and smoking lots of cigarettes out the back door. I saw in his eyes that he was worried. I knew he didn't want to deliver the baby. I didn't want to put it on him. But then, I preferred to do it myself to doing it at the hospital. But what if I needed him? I didn't want to force him into anything. I wanted him to be a willing participant and I knew that he wasn't. Because I love him, I decided to not be angry or blamey. I accepted him as he was, even if it meant giving up something I wanted. I felt like that choice was a little bit of what marriage is about.
I made up my mind to have a good time giving birth at the hospital. I'd given birth to my 45 minute labor and delivery baby at the hospital and it was fine, I felt good after and was up and showering half an hour later.
As the contractions adjusted to be even closer together, I suggested that he call and see if his sister was available to come down and stay with the kids.
I went outside and looked up at the stars. There was a nice, cool breeze.
The contractions marched on. I started to consider the possibility that I was in labor. I smiled, remembering how last time, I asked if I was in labor mere minutes before my daughter's head emerged.
It was difficult for me to wrap my mind around because of how my previous birth had gone. 45 minutes from start to finish. Transition, two pushes, no drugs. That was it. My whole pregnancy, I carefully considered the possibility that I could roll over, say "UNGH" and have a baby.
We drove to the hospital in silence. As we exited the highway and turned onto the hospital's street, it occurred to me that I should call my mom. It was 11:45. I figured they would be asleep, but my stepdad answered on the first ring. Perhaps they were anticipating my call. "I might be in labor." I giggled nervously. "I will call you and let you know."
The contractions would make me pause and let my breath out long and slow, like a sigh. As I came into the hospital, the check in lady sent me back immediately. They had me fill out paperwork which seemed like kind of a joke. I am gripping the counter top at the nurses station and they are like "Fill out the top portion here." I briefly wondered if this was some sort of "Are you in labor" test and if you fling the clipboard across the counter you are probably too close to giving birth and need to go upstairs.
They were out of beds in triage. I got a closet. The "bed" was more like an ironing board. They checked me. A 4. They hooked me up to the machines and a strip of paper kept the time of the contractions. Between 3 and 4 minutes apart. My husband sat in a chair at the foot of the ironing board. He stared at the contraction machine with the intensity of an investment banker watching a stock ticker.
After 30 minutes, they came back and checked me again. A 6. "You're in labor", they said.
"Really?", I replied; nude and sweaty, contorted into a half side lying, half Indian style position. (I can say that. I'm Cherokee.) I'd removed my hospital gown because I was so hot.
(They would not let me ride the wheelchair naked to the next floor.)
Once upstairs, I was visited by a trio of nurses. One started stringing up an IV. One started entering information into a computer. One started having me sign paperwork. The first one was about them giving me pitocin. I knew right then that this would be a struggle. I'd told me doctor I didn't want pitocin. He countered my feelings with "We'll just give you a whiff." (Pitocin is not dispensed in whiffs.) I guess nothing had been communicated with the hospital about the approach I wanted to try.
I explained to them that I didn't want pitocin. (Devil drug! It makes you have very strong contractions and puffs you up and eventually you have to sweat it all back out again. I had it with my first child and 4 nights I woke up and thought I must've caught myself in the middle of bleeding to death because I was in such a huge, wet puddle.)
I explained to them I didn't want an IV. (I was walking around the room and stretching against stuff to deal with the contractions. With an IV, it would be a lot more difficult to maneuver around.)
I explained to them that I didn't want an epidural. (I felt that my epidural with my first child interfered with my ability to push. With my 2nd child, it sure didn't. I got her out in 2 pushes. And it wasn't even like I pushed, but my body pushed for me. This was awesome because I got to avoid that stupid pushing to the count of ten where they always stretch out the last five digits to make you push longer.)
The paperwork nurse didn't like the sound of this. The IV nurse stopped hooking it up, shrugged her shoulders, and left. The computer nurse waited till the other two left and told me that she would help me. She said that they had lube to help me not tear, and showed it to me on the shelf. She said they could put in a heplock so I wouldn't be strung up but I would have a "line in" in case I needed an emergency c-section. (A lot of their theories were supported by me needing an emergency c-section. Kind of a dark outlook for them to have. It's like driving around in your car with your air bag deployed because you might be in a wreck.)
I liked this nurse. I was glad she'd be helping me have my baby.
She wanted to give me stadol. I hadn't wanted any drugs, but she said that this would have no effect on my labor and it would give me a chance to sleep before I had to push. This definitely sounded appealing but I wanted to wait.
My mom and stepdad showed up and sat for a bit. After 45 minutes, they decided to go home. (I think everyone predicted that this baby would just fly out and when it didn't, they got bored, concerned, or extra tired.) I told my mom to stop by in the morning to meet the new baby and she looked disappointed. Gotta love the mother/daughter relationship. I made a mental note right then and there to not put any pressure on my girls when they have kids of their own. I wasn't sure if she would be more disappointed by staying and missing out on sleep if I didn't deliver or if she went home to sleep and I had the baby.
After that, my husband started fading fast...even though he was laying on the chair that morphs into a very hard kind of longer, lower chair. (I hesitate to call it a bed.) "If I'd known I was going to be on my own anyway, I'd have stayed home," I thought. Then I noticed the time. It was almost 3. I couldn't believe it. Where was the time going? And why was this taking so long?
I thought, "I must be having normal people labor."
I didn't think it was too bad, but I was keenly aware that my birth partner was now snoring and that I wasn't sure just how far the roast beef sandwich I ate before coming would stretch. They told me they'd only give me ice chips until I had the baby. (Again, I longed for home, a feeling slightly exacerbated by my husband, the sheet pulled over his sleeping face.) I wished I could go to sleep.
The nice nurse came back in to check on me. No change, but the contractions kept going. She offered me some stadol so I could sleep before pushing. I hadn't wanted any drugs. I didn't want my body to be interrupted from what it was doing. She told me that all it would do is allow me to sleep during contractions. I've had stadol before and it wasn't too bad. I knew it would wear off quickly and that maybe it would relax me enough to go the rest of the way and when I woke up, it would be time to push. Plus, it would give my husband a chance to rest. Maybe it would even make it so my mom would be back in time for the baby to be born. I accepted the stadol.
When I take stadol, I don't really sleep. My eyes are closed. As far as I know, I don't respond to the outside world. But instead of feeling like sleep, it's more like laying there with my eyes closed thinking very deep, intricate thoughts. I did this for a long time, rolling from side to side throughout the night.
The next thing I knew, there was light coming through the windows. It was 7 a.m. My husband was still asleep. I didn't feel any contractions. Stadol was a miracle drug. Wahoo! Maybe I was about to give birth and didn't even know it. I quietly texted friends from the bed. I was wife of the year, over here in labor, not disturbing my husband.
At 7 a.m., there is a shift change for the nurses. I knew this from being in that hospital in the past, but I didn't think about it. Not for one millionth of one second.
Then my new nurse arrived.
I was prepared to like her a lot. She had a British accent. I love British accents.
She came in and checked me. No change. She checked my contraction strip. They had spread out. She said she would call my doctor's office when it opened to see how much pitocin to give me.
"I don't want pitocin", I said.
She gave me a funny look and then told me that she had volunteered as a nurse in other countries and that the maternal and fetal death rates in countries where they don't have access to pitocin is 1 in 6.
I stifled a weird noise in my throat...some kind of combination of disbelieving laughter and uneasy surprise. "That's just not true", I said. I don't think she had planned a reply to my type of reaction. She stared at me for a long time and then asked me why I didn't want pitocin. I explained the side effects from the last time I had it. She asked me whether the doctor told me those were side effects from it or if I "just guessed." (They told me the sweating and hard contractions were a side effect...these things were backed up from my own research into it.)
I told her that I was aiming for an unmedicated birth and that I was concerned that the intensity of pitocin contractions would make that impossible. She told me that the drugs I get are not my own choice but hers.
My husband was still asleep. I was worried. I texted some of my friends, letting them know what I was up against. Still, she couldn't control when I gave birth or how I gave birth. I began to fervently hope that the baby would just pop out under my sheet while she was out of the room.
My husband finally woke up and I briefed him on the nurse situation. He promised to run interference for me.
More hours passed. As our friends and relatives woke up, phonecalls and texts poured in. Everyone figured we'd already had the baby. The nurse kept checking me. No change. "Your contractions have spaced out", she said, like I was doing it on purpose. "Send me home, then", I replied, "I will come back when they start up again."
She shook her head, still reading the contraction strip, and left the room.
I had kind of hoped to give birth and be all finished up by the time the kids woke up. They were asleep when I'd left for the hospital and when they woke up, they'd find their aunt (who they don't know very well) instead of Daddy or me. But that time had passed. Not only were they awake now and aware that their aunt was there, but my mom must almost be to my house by now. I wondered how things would go for her.
My husband ran to get him something to eat. While he was gone, my mom called. The power was out at our house. Anytime it is cloudy or we have a slight breeze, the power goes out. I felt bad, she was there stuck with 2 kids and no power...and I knew that one of the kids was probably less than thrilled to be babysat.
With my husband still gone, the doctor and nurse marched into the room. "We have to break your water" they said. My labor needed to be "augmented". They really wanted to start pitocin but were "respecting my wishes" by demanding to break my water instead.
I wished my husband was there.
I explained to them that I didn't think my labor needed any augmentation. If it had stopped, I was really and truly happy to go home and not at all worried about delivering there. They were not interested in my bargaining. I knew in my gut I didn't want my water broken. But I also knew that it was better than pitocin and that Ina May Gaskin has broken lots of people's water. I didn't like the way that the doctor kept coming at me with the thing to break my water. I didn't like the way he kept repeating that they "had to" break my water.
But I acquiesed.
I am sure that I could've fought them off. I know that I chose not to. I felt pressure to move my labor forward. I felt pressure to "go along to get along" since I'd been fighting the hospital staff on every little thing since my arrival. And it had been hours already. Almost 12. I was getting hungry. My other kids needed me. My husband was tired after sleeping on the weird chair "bed".
At the same time, I was worried that the baby wasn't ready to come yet and that that's why my labor had slowed. I wasn't even 38 weeks until the following day. Maybe my contractions going away were her way of saying "Not yet." With my other daughter, I'd had a night with hours of "this is it!" seeming labor that eventually tapered off. Maybe that's why that birth had gone so quickly. Maybe I got it over with in pieces and once it was real labor time, I'd already done all of the parts leading up to it.
But they weren't going to let me go home. And I worried how long they'd let me labor before the wheeled me off for a c-section. I desperately wished at this point that I had stayed home. I didn't want to force helping me give birth on my husband, but now I felt like there were many things I disagreed with being forced on me.
They broke my water and I knew there was no going back. As the waves of warm fluid washed out of me, warm tears flooded my cheeks. I hoped I was doing the right thing.
The nurse smiled over me. "Now that we've broken your water, you are not allowed to get out of bed." They hadn't mentioned that before. She knew that I wanted to be able to get up and walk around if I felt like I needed it. I felt betrayed. Why would she do that?
She left the room. My husband came back and I told him what had happened. He didn't grieve the breaking of my water. He seemed excited to get down to business. He could see that I was upset but I don't think he understood it.
The nurse came back in to see what progress I'd made. She called me a "cheap 7" and left again.
The contractions came back. I knew I was entering transition. I also knew that it wouldn't last long. In everything I have read, transition lasts no longer than 2 hours. And that's rare. With my last birth, when I went into labor and saw it through to the end, it was just transition and only 45 minutes. I could handle that. A midwife I'd spoken to said "You can do anything for a couple hours." That became my mantra.
I laid on my side and tried to let the contractions come on. I thought about how they were bringing the baby down. When they got particularly intense, I pretended that they were the achey feeling just before an orgasm. I thought that would be a better way to picture them rather than like pain. I had my eyes closed a lot and tried to keep my breathing even. I kept my lips loose, like a didgeridoo player.
I tried not to look at the clock as much as possible because I didn't want it to seem like it was taking longer. After it had seemed like a long while, (the nurse had checked me twice during this time) I peeked at it. One hour. Already I'd lasted longer than with my previous delivery. I was strong. I was doing it. It couldn't be much longer.
The second hour was more difficult. I laid on my other side and had my husband rubbed my back. Neither of us were able to look at the contraction strip machine anymore. (He was on the wrong side of the bed and my eyes were closed.) But they were coming fast. I knew they were coming fast because there were things I wanted; another spoonful of ice chips, for instance, or for him to turn off both of our cell phones. But there wasn't time between contractions for him to do those things because I needed his hands on my back. Even when he took a break to try to get some blood back into his fingers, I would beg him to continue.
With my previous labor, when it started for real, the contractions were 2 minutes apart and lasted for 90 seconds. That's what this felt like. I stayed with it for as long as I could. The nurse came in and checked me. Now I was an 8.
An 8?
I peeked again at the clock. Another hour had passed. I had now been in transition as long as anybody I'd ever read about. And I'd done a lot of reading. What the hell was going on?
The next hour, things started to fall apart. I decided to take matters into my own hands and help my labor along. All on my own, I adjusted the hospital bed and got up on all fours. I labored that way for awhile. I have an arthritic knee and it was wobbling violently under the pressure. I raised the back of the bed and squatted, holding myself up by gripping the top edge of the bed.
The nurse came in and I told her I needed to pee. She said she would get me a catherter. I said I didn't want a catherter. (I had one once during a kidney infection, those hurt. I knew that extra pain would only shut my body down more.) She begrudgingly brought me a bed pan. She helped me get into position on the bed pan. Suddenly, the contractions were bearable again. After I finished peeing, I asked her if I could have a clean bed pan to labor on, since it had helped with the pain.
She screwed up her face and shook her head no. "Why not?", I demanded. (I was losing my manners fast.) She said that the way I was sitting on the bed pan was a pushing position and I needed not worry about pushing now. I was appalled. I felt like she was trying to keep me in pain to prove herself right. That laboring women "need" pitocin and epidurals and whatever else. On her way out of the room, she locked the supply closet that stored the bed pans.
I tried to strengthen my resolve. I was like an animal. Each contraction made me push, strongly, 4 times. I couldn't control it. The pain was stronger than I've ever, ever felt. I went back to squatting. She said I needed to not be in that position. I ignored her. She kept coming in every few minutes to tell me I was doing it wrong or some other messed up stuff. At one point, she told me that my fear was prolonging my labor. I was not afraid. I grabbed the lube the other nurse had left for me and lubed myself up, knowing that New Nurse would probably deny me that as well. I grunted and roared...everything I could remember from the books I'd read to open myself up more.
I peeked at the clock. Another hour had passed. I had now been in transition for 3 hours. I couldn't believe it. She checked me again. I was holding steady at an 8. The nurse started looking at the contraction strip and making worried faces. She said that the baby was having "dips". I knew that that was normal during contractions. She said I should let her put a monitor on the baby. This is done by sticking needles into the baby's scalp. I swore at her. "Get the fuck out of here and stop talking to me!" I shouted. She whirled around and slammed out of the room.
(A word about the fetal monitor. It measures heart rate. It is invasive and it must hurt, being that it is needles in a baby's scalp. The thing about it, however, is that since its introduction to use in labor and delivery, it hasn't reduced the amount of cerebral palsy. Not even a bit. So, it isn't preventing any medical conditions. It is just another tool used to make doctors and nurses want to speed up your labor, making them think (or giving them the opportunity to think, I guess) something is wrong when it is not. Babies heart rates go down when there is a contraction. That's normal. The nurse would not admit this.)
Now, I was falling apart. If I got into a position or breathing pattern or back rubbing pattern where I felt OK for a minute, the nurse would come in and yell about things and I would feel terrible again. She used my baby's well being as a bargaining chip to try to get me to do what she wanted. I was overwhelmed with pain. I went from sobbing, asking my husband why he did this to me to biting the backs of my hands to relieve the pain I was in (when the nurse saw this, she stuffed a towel into my mouth). I started puking in earnest, all over my bed sheets. The nurse wanted to move me to change the sheets. I told her I didn't want to move. She kept at it, not taking no for an answer. "We have to change these sheets." "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!", I bellowed. My husband said that it would probably be better to just leave me be. She was checking me every few minutes and announcing that there had been no change. I was convinced at this point that they were taking the baby too early. I said I wanted pain relief. They said there was nothing they could give me. I started banging my head against the bed rail in the hope of knocking myself unconscious. I asked them to knock me out and give me a c-section. I asked them to just go ahead and kill me.
Another nurse came in with my nurse and held my hand. (The other one never looked me in the eye again after I yelled at her to stop talking to me.) She said I could have an epidural. My husband, god bless him, piped up and said "Oh, she doesn't want an epidural-" to which I shouted "Give me the epidural, NOW!" My nurse took obvious pleasure in informing me that because I refused the IV initially that they would have to give me saline solution for 20 minutes before an epidural could be done.
I could no longer open my right eye. I had bruises and welts from the backs of my hands up to my elbows. I had vomit in my hair. I had burst blood vessels all around my temples and eyeballs from pushing too early. I had bruises and bumps on the side of my head where I'd been trying to knock myself unconscious. I peered at the nurse through my left eye and said "Why don't you run this labor the way you see fit, then?"
She wasted no time in stringing me up with saline solution. I lay still on the bed, clinging to the rail like it was somehow going to pluck me out of this situation.
I had been laboring for 18 hours.
The anesthesiologist came in to do the epidural. I could no longer talk. He asked me some questions and I didn't answer. I'm kind of surprised he performed the thing. The other nurse, the one who'd accompanied my nurse earlier came in. "You made it to an 8", she said encouragingly. "Do you know how many people don't make it to an 8 before their epidural?"
I didn't answer.
I felt the epidural going in and just like biting my hands and banging my head had done, it distracted me from the pain. I could actually feel the little tube working it's way along my spine. It felt great. I would've taken 10 epidurals at that point. I knew this was the last I would feel of my laboring pain. (But I knew it would be replaced later by recovery pain...something I could have avoided without the epidural...and the neverending transition.) I bid it a fond farewell.
Maybe it was all the screaming and biting but I believe they turned that epidural up higher than any epidural could go. I felt nothing below my neck. Which was nice, but weird. When the nurse would come to check me, it would look like her hand was going to go all the way up to my brain the way she would force it in there. But I still felt nothing. In minutes, I was a 10. But the baby wasn't coming down.
I felt terrible guilt for starting this process. The baby wasn't ready and machines were going to force her delivery, instead of our bodies coming to a mutual agreement and working together.
The nurse told me "I am going to give you pitocin." I didn't even open my eyes. Another nurse appeared immediately with the IV bag. The medicine started flowing in and in a couple minutes, she told me to push.
She told me to hold my legs back. I grasped at them but for some reason, they were difficult to hold on to. I guess because they were numb? But that doesn't make sense. All I know is that they were constantly slipping from my grip. "Couldn't my husband hold one back and you hold the other one?" "Oh no," she says "you will progress better if you do it yourself."
I pinched at the skin on my legs to try to keep them in place. She did the counts of 10 while I pushed. I think this part is stupid. Your body pushes the baby out. If you interfere with that, or try to poop it out yourself, your body will retaliate with black eyes, burst blood vessels, and sometimes broken tailbones. With my previous labor, my body did the pushing with no conscious involvement from me. And it felt great. This felt like I was grasping in the dark for something that was not there.
Even so, after just a couple of pushes, the nurse calmly turned to my husband and asked him to hit the nurse call button on the side of my bed. She asked them to call my doctor. (He works across the street from the hospital, so we wouldn't have to wait long.) I guessed that she could see the baby and that I was close to giving birth. That seemed nice. She stood with her hand at my crotch. My husband told me later she was holding the baby's head in. If she was so worried about those "dips" that I "had to" have my water broken and have pitocin, why wasn't she trying to get the baby out ASAP?
Minutes passed and the doctor didn't appear. The nurse had my husband call the front desk again. They hadn't called the doctor at all. They said they "forgot" but that they'd call him right away.
During this time, I held my hand to my stomach saying goodbye to the special relationship I shared with New Baby. I would never feel her (or, according to my husband and 90% of myself at this time, any other baby) in my womb again. Silent tears streamed down my face. I hoped I'd made the right decision. Nobody commented on my crying or had anything supportive to say.
A couple other nurses came in and started setting up. A few minutes later, I heard the door to the room thrown open and it was my doctor. I like him well enough and was kind of glad to see him. I was glad for the whole experience to be near conclusion.
My husband tells me I barely had to push, that her head was just out. With one other push, she was born. They set her on my chest. They ignored all of my previous requests (to not cut the cord until it stopped pulsing, to let the placenta be delivered on its own). I saw her jump and gasp as they cut the cord. "I'm sorry", I thought. I wanted so much for this experience to be different.
I wished so much I had just stayed home. I wished I had just gone into the bathroom by myself when it came time to give birth (which I was pretty certain wasn't that day). I didn't have to force my husband to be a part of it but at least I would've protected myself and New Baby from what the hospital had to offer.
She looked small. There was no scale in the room so we didn't find out her weight until later but she was a full pound lighter than my first child and a half pound lighter than my second. She scored 9 and 9 on her Apgar's, which gave me some teeny relief. They kept wiping her with towels on my chest, making it hard to see her face. And I guess the lube I'd applied earlier had worn off because I got the same 2nd degree tear I got last time.
In the first picture taken after she was born, you can see the doctor, you can see New Baby looking confused, and you can see my arms outstretched from the corner of the shot.
After they took her to the nursery the epidural wore off. I'd been almost an entire day without sleep or food. I staggered painfully to the bathroom and threw up for what felt like hours. (This does not feel good on stitches.) I remembered how good I'd felt after my last delivery. I was up and in the shower, whistling when they took my daughter to the nursery. I had given that up to take this path. I felt cheated and betrayed and just plain angry at myself for letting all of this occur. I wish I would've taken the heplock out of my arm and gone home when the contractions slowed down.
My mom was there by this point and she held me while I cried and told me she was sorry they messed with me.
I have pushed the hospital experience out of my mind as much as possible in the days since my daughter's delivery. And really, all that matters to me now is that she is here and healthy. I don't have to relive any of that again. I never have to see that nurse again. I never have to go back there.
And I try to look at some of it in a humorous light. Like the fact that your first night postpartum, they force you to attend a class (bleeding profusely and wearing a hospital gown) with a dozen other ladies in your same situation where they give you useless info like "Don't forget to feed your baby!" or "We won't let you take your kid home without a car seat." and everyone's faces are gray and pained. And their "breastfeeding" section of the class is one sentence about feeding on demand and the rest is about how to dry up your milk. It is obvious that this hospital and I are not a good match. Our thoughts on childbirth couldn't be more different. And I guess that that's why I had the experience I had.
On our way out the door to go home, New Baby decided she wanted to nurse. I nursed her in the wheelchair. Upon our exit from the hospital, the nurse informed me that she needed to get her wheelchair back and left me standing and nursing in the cold wet parking lot.
The further I get away from what happened, the funnier and more irrelevant I'm sure it will be. I look down at New Baby and tell her I'd do it all again for her. And I would. With a smile. (Well, with a smile I guess until I actually started doing it again.)
But there is a teeny voice inside of me who feels angry (mostly at myself, but with a good-sized portion for that awful nurse) and betrayed...mostly like I betrayed myself. I knew what I was choosing when I chose a hospital birth. But I did it anyway. Part of it was that I was being optimistic. Another part was that I thought I was protecting my husband and the baby. But my husband bore the burden of my difficult labor, my baby was possibly born too early, and I was chopped on the chopping block and am left alone to recover.
I am near positive this will be my last baby so there won't be a chance for me to fix it. And it is unnecessary, I guess, to fix. I wish I could end this with "live and learn" but I'd already lived it and learned it. I can't explain why this happened again. I kind of thought that after writing it out, the explanation would present itself, but it is still a mystery to me.
I want to anonymously mail that nurse my copy of Spiritual Midwifery.
I love my New Baby.
The End
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Terrifying Dream
I hate scary or violent movies. Or TV shows. That's right, sometimes even network TV gives cause for me to avert my eyes and plug my ears. The feeling I get from any type (even mild) of violence is like a panic attack coming on.
Which makes last night's dream super weird. If violence and suffering makes me feel so bad, why would that be the feature my brain picked out for dream entertainment?
I dreamed that there was a house...one of those old homes restored to be like how it was back whenever. It was owned by a crazy doctor (who looked like a cross between Rasputin and Sirius Black) who hated people and would torture them to death in his home.
Two victims who stood out to me were people he'd put under. One, he filled their chest cavity with sedated bees so that when the person woke up the bees slowly woke up and then stung him to death from the inside. The other person's breathing passages were filled with stinging caterpillars who stung him to death once he/they woke up.
I remember trying to get out of the house (people were visiting it, like a tourist attraction!) and running through this awful green glowing hallway where the limbs of people he'd tortured tried to grab you...I guess to help them. To try to get them out.
I had to write this down to get it out of my head. Brrrr. What a messed up dream for someone who abhors violence and suffering to have. I don't get it. My brain is weird.
Which makes last night's dream super weird. If violence and suffering makes me feel so bad, why would that be the feature my brain picked out for dream entertainment?
I dreamed that there was a house...one of those old homes restored to be like how it was back whenever. It was owned by a crazy doctor (who looked like a cross between Rasputin and Sirius Black) who hated people and would torture them to death in his home.
Two victims who stood out to me were people he'd put under. One, he filled their chest cavity with sedated bees so that when the person woke up the bees slowly woke up and then stung him to death from the inside. The other person's breathing passages were filled with stinging caterpillars who stung him to death once he/they woke up.
I remember trying to get out of the house (people were visiting it, like a tourist attraction!) and running through this awful green glowing hallway where the limbs of people he'd tortured tried to grab you...I guess to help them. To try to get them out.
I had to write this down to get it out of my head. Brrrr. What a messed up dream for someone who abhors violence and suffering to have. I don't get it. My brain is weird.
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