April 8, 2012, was Easter and my mom's birthday. Robert and I were both nesting like crazy, trying to get the baby's room painted and the furniture together. Robert was busy all morning mixing some leftover paint in the garage, trying to find just the right color. Being Easter, Dunn Edwards was closed, so buying more paint was out of the question. I really wanted to get the nursery painted before my sister and her husband came to visit on Tuesday, April 10, so we could enjoy the weekend with them in Yosemite. I taped the molding to prepare to paint the walls, and by the time I finished taping, I was exhausted and a little crampy, so I laid down to take a nap. I vaguely felt little cramps as I slept, but it was nothing out of the ordinary.
When I woke up, Robert asked me to run to Home Depot to pick up some plastic drop cloths and some more tray liners. They were closing at 6 since it was Easter, so I had only half an hour before they closed. When I got there, the baby was very active, and one kick had me almost doubling over. I did not want to cause alarm, however, so I just kept walking to the paint aisle. I picked up the box of plastic first and then went to find the tray liners. They were on the bottom shelf, so I had to squat precariously to reach them. The roll of plastic came with me, of course, but then I couldn't stand back up with all that extra weight. I slid the tray liners up onto a higher shelf, stood the roll of plastic on one end, and used the shelf and the plastic roll to pull myself up. Whew, that could have been embarrassing.
I checked out, walked to the car, and got in. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I felt a HUGE gush. Oh crap. I had put some chux pads in the glove box a few days before in case my water broke in the car, so I grabbed one, shook it out and shoved it underneath me. I tried calling Robert but he wasn't answering his phone. I yelled at the baby, "You're coming TODAY?!?" I had a couple of miles of stop lights between me and the house, and I was behind a Firebird. One would think that a Firebird would be a good car to be behind in such a situation, but the person driving this particular Firebird was either old or worried about getting another speeding ticket. They were SO SLOOOOOOW!!! Finally, at one intersection, I swerved around it and hit about 80 in the Prius in less than a block. I screeched around two more corners and then into the driveway, where I proceeded to honk and scream for my husband to come rescue me. He did not. He told me later that he heard something and asked Jose, our handyman friend, if it was me, but Jose said he didn't think so.
Finally, I figured it best to waddle my dripping wet self into the house since, obviously, my knight in shining armor was ignoring his 8.5 MONTHS PREGNANT WIFE. Jose saw me waddling, looked very concerned for half a second, then just as quickly got out of my way. Smart man. I finally found Robert, who looked at me and said cheerfully, "Hi, honey! Did you get the tray liners?" I said, "Yes, they are in the car but we have to go to the hospital." He said, "Why?" Fortunately he seemed to remember what "my water broke" meant. I told him to get the stupid car seat in the car like I had been asking him to do for months, and then to get a suitcase from the garage. I took a shower and ate a bowl of cereal since I knew I wouldn't be eating for a while. 45 minutes later, I still didn't have a suitcase. Robert came in the house dripping with sweat and said "That carseat won't fit!" And then proceeded to ramble about the instructions not making sense, etc, etc, etc. I reminded him about my suitcase and he flew out to the garage to get it while I called the hospital. The nurse who answered the phone had the NERVE to say "You THINK your water broke?" Um, yeah, lady, I just called because I peed my pants and oh by the way can you induce me today?
We finally got everything in the car (suitcase, birth ball, my favorite pillow, car seat), and took off for the hospital. By this time I was starting to feel my contractions, but I was not in any kind of pain. But, since it had already been almost two hours since my water had broken, I wanted to get to the hospital as soon as possible, first of all to avoid infection and second of all to get out of the wet Depends I was wearing to keep my pants dry. If you've never had a baby, it's difficult to grasp just how much fluid there is, and how it just keeps gushing and gushing when you least expect it to.
Anyway, when we were a few blocks away from the hospital, Robert suddenly exclaimed, "Man, I'm hungry!" I told him there were Clif Bars in my suitcase. He said, "No, I'm REALLY hungry. Would you mind if I stopped to get something to eat?" I don't remember what I said, but he drove those last few blocks faster than he ever had before.
The wheelchair escort was there waiting for me, and he took me up to Labor and Delivery. I got into the triage room after changing into the gown and infinitely stretchable underwear. The resident did an excruciatingly painful pelvic exam. I was only 1/2 cm dilated. My contractions were 6 minutes apart, and the baby was at -2 station, still quite high in the pelvis. The doctor came in and said they would keep me (duh) and that if my contractions didn't get closer together in the next couple of hours, they would start a pitocin drip. Gee, thanks for completely ignoring my birth plan, dude. I argued that I had at least 16 hours before they even started to worry about infection. Thankfully, I never saw that doctor again while I was there.
So, on to Labor and Delivery. Robert took off to eat as soon as I got to the room. He was REALLY hungry, after all. My contractions were still very mild and no less than 4 minutes apart. I was able to get some sleep between contractions, and by breathing slowly during the contractions, I stayed pretty relaxed. They had me on a monitor for the first few hours because the baby's heart rate was dipping a bit at the beginning, but they let me move around pretty much as much as I wanted. The hospital had this little open-air courtyard filled with pretty Spring flowers, and we went out there more times than I can count. By morning, my contractions were stronger, but still far apart. The doctor did another excruciating pelvic exam, this time I was 2 cm. Meh. I was bored. I didn't want to turn on the TV because I felt it would take my focus away. We had the phones on airplane mode since they don't allow you to plug anything into the room outlets. Lame. So, I walked, I sat, I breathed, I tried to take a shower but couldn't figure out how to get the hot water. Those hospital showers are complicated, man! So I took a sponge bath.
Noon was the magical hour that they would start antibiotics and I would be stuck in bed. The doc came in and said since the baby was doing well and I was not feverish, he'd let me go another six hours without antibiotics. Yay, Dr. Fabulous!
Six o'clock came and went. It was now 24 hours since my water had broken. After another stupid pelvic exam (they really try to make those as painful as humanly possible, just so you know what it's going to be like when the baby's head pops out), I was only 4 cm, 90% effaced, and baby's head was still at -2. Let's start that pitocin, shall we? I said no. I asked for another few hours since I felt my contractions were getting stronger. Three hours were granted.
I walked my little (huge) self all up and down those hallways, danced in my room, told the baby that it was time to come out now, prayed, breathed, visualized the wave, the growing circle, and the danged red triangle. Contractions were still three to five minutes apart by 9:00. No exam this time, since they didn't want to risk infection. (Praise Jesus.) They connected the pitocin drip. I cried. Then ... Then ... Oh, the pain. I breathed through the first hour, but I wasn't allowed to walk. I could sit on the ball next to my bed, but that was as far as I was going. Robert brushed his teeth and pulled out the sleeper chair so he could get some rest. The second hour, I moaned so loudly that the charge nurse came in to adjust my monitor since it was reading mild contractions but clearly I was in more pain than that. Then my nurse came in and told me there was no reason for me to be in this much pain. My birth plan was for no meds, but pitocin is an evil, evil drug. I tearfully said I would get the epidural. My husband tried to convince me otherwise, but he said it was my decision. I felt like such a failure. I silently breathed through three more contractions waiting for the anesthesiologist. I was angry at myself, angry at that coworker who had implied that I wouldn't be able to do it naturally, angry with my husband for letting me go through with it. I felt like I was not even there in that room. I was floating in a sea of anguish somewhere else, and my failure of a self was going to regret this for the rest of my life. But, oh, the pain!
The anesthesiologist looked like an angel when he came in the room. He talked with me about the epidural, how it would make me feel, and how long it would last. I said yes, okay, let's do this. He left to get his supplies rounded up, and I smiled at my husband. It was going to be okay. The baby would be fine and healthy. I felt present again.
Then, he came back. He told me he couldn't do the epidural, not on me, not on someone who had had a lumbar laminectomy. He told me I would have back pain the rest of my life. I pleaded with him, begged him, kissed his feet (in my head ... they wouldn't let me get out of bed), he said maybe. Then, definitely no. What about morphine? he asked. I said no, absolutely not, morphine makes me itch and I did not want a lethargic lump of a baby coming out of me. So, that was it. Nothing they could do. The doctor shrugged his shoulders, said he was sorry, and told me he would come back in an hour to check me. I cried and cried. Then I screamed through another contraction. It was all I could do at that point. Robert looked me in the eye and said, "You can do this. It's only another six hours." (They say pitocin dilates you a cm every hour.) Are you effing kidding me?!? Six more hours? Kill.me.now.
He said a prayer that the baby would be healthy and that I would be okay, and I didn't hear the rest of the prayer because I had a contraction, then another, then another. That little line that's supposed to go down between contractions? It didn't go down. Six straight minutes of horrifying pain. I screamed and cried and said "NO!!! NOT AGAIN!!!" And then, I pushed. I had to. I screamed that I was pushing. Robert said to wait, I said no way. He asked if he should get the nurse. YES!!! He poked his head out the door and said "She's pushing," calm as a summer breeze. The nurses looked at him blankly for a few seconds, then they all were moving. My nurse said to wait. I said no way. Then another gush (Really? More fluid? I thought I was bleeding profusely and told, or rather screamed at, the nurse). She put on a glove and did a quick check and said, "Oh, the baby's right there!" She hauled me up on the bed, made it into a chair, twenty people came in the room, and my head was spinning. The OB's and the Pediatrician and the residents and the nurses and the CNA's, and, wait, was that George Clooney? No. And there I was, feet in stirrups, in all my glory, and all these people staring at my nether regions. I pushed when they said push, I rested when they said rest, my own wonderful OB from my clinic came in to assist (boy, was I glad to see her! She just happened to be doing her weekly rounds that night), and twenty minutes of pushing later, the head emerged. My beautiful baby's head. The nurse said it was a girl because the baby's hands were by its face. I was ecstatic. One more push for the shoulders, and it WAS a girl! And she was screaming! And they grabbed a blanket and put her on my chest, where she proceeded to poop all over both of us.
Oh, she was beautiful, and she was a girl, and her name was Karlina.
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| 6 lbs, 10 oz, 20", and cute as a bug. |
