First, thank you
all so much for all the cheers and kind words on the last post and your warm welcome of baby Ezra's arrival. The last few
days have been a total whirlwind – of boobs and babies and teeny tiny
fingernails that are sharp as knives and jaundice and phototherapy spa lights
and then, mostly more boobs (mine) and pinchy gums (his). Much more on all of
that to come.
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| The tag on this hat says "infant." Because Baby Gap is full of liars. |
This post is
long and light on witty sarcasm, entertaining links and my usual banter.
Because you guys, I have human life to
sustain! So, for what it’s worth, here in a nutshell, is <wait for
it> THE BIRTH STORY.
Sunday, 3:00 pm – 9:00 pm
Sarah to C: this
feels…different
C to Sarah: you
seriously think you’re going into labor?
<Collective
panic and disbelief>
Around 3 on
Sunday afternoon, I began to notice some pretty intense lower back pain. It was
rhythmic, in a pattern, sometimes a bit of a scattered pattern, but a pattern
nonetheless. C thought I was crazy. Going into labor 12 days before my due
date? No way. So we went about our day.
I ran errands
and went grocery shopping and started cooking – C’s sister and her boyfriend
were coming for dinner. I made this
and this
and C roasted a chicken. And during it all, starting around 4, I began to keep
track of the frequency of what were increasingly becoming like, you know, real contractions.
By the time they
showed up to dinner, things were picking up in intensity and let’s just be
honest: I was pretty sure this was it. The pain was quickly ratcheting up. C
remained in denial while we wined and dined our guests and I kept a firm eye on
the clock. 5-1-1 totally ingrained in
my brain.
Sunday, 9:00 pm – 11:30 pm
Finally, around
9 pm, they left and I casually mentioned to C that we might want to consider
packing our hospital bag. We hastily took pictures of my bump – capture the moment! – and threw some
random and totally uncoordinated clothing, the Sunday New York Times, two pears
and a bag of almonds (?) into our already packed hospital bag. Like I said, collective panic.
I decided I
would just give the on-call OB a ring and you know, have a little heart to
heart. She said this was probably it but of course couldn’t know for sure
without examining me. She said I was more than welcome to stay home for as long
as I was comfortable – barring any of the scary stuff (blood, etc.) and since
I’m group B strep negative – and could check back in with her in an hour or so.
Not wanting to jump the gun on hospital admission, I decided to see if I could
ride things out.
This was when
things started to get pretty dicey. The contractions were definitely every five
minutes and the pain rhymed with… excruciating. I got down on all fours and
tried to breathe through it. I threw myself over an exercise ball and tried to
breathe through it. I grabbed C’s hand in agony and cursed my way through it. I
took a hot shower. Mostly, I just tried to stay relaxed. In between
contractions I was a completely sane and rational person, I was packing up
snacks for the hospital, hanging out with the dog, responding to work emails. But
during the contractions? It was like I’d had a lobotomy. I was in a trance. A
totally altered state. I could not speak nor be spoken to. It might have been
enchanting if you know, I didn’t feel like I was dying.
Sunday, 11:30 pm
My water didn’t
break, but something about this just started to get a bit too real. The pain, the frequency (was that
seriously 3 minutes between contractions? Good lord). So we tidied up the
house, took a nice long gander at the nursery - <imagine a total mind trip
as we envision putting a BABY, our baby,
in there> - and booked it to the hospital.
Did I mention it
was snowing?
Sunday, 11:30 pm – 2:30 am
By the time we
got to the hospital, I was about 3.5 centimeters dilated. So we just started
walking. Up and down the hall, past the nurses’ station and back again. Every 3
minutes or so, I would – please take a moment to put on your visualization caps
because, I promise you, this looked insane
– drop to my hands and knees, in the middle of the hallway, and start breathing
deeply while C put his hands on my lower back. About a minute later, I
would get up, back to my usual self, and keep walking. I looked, in a word,
like a maniac.
By 2:30 am I
hadn’t progressed any further and the nurses and doctors suggested I go back
home – that I’d be more comfortable there, I could be in my own bed (let’s take
a moment to laugh hysterically at the idea that I could sleep through any of
this), take a shower in my own shower, eat my own food (nauseating). So despite
my better judgment, we returned home. For approximately 30 seconds.
Sunday, 4 am onward
After going
home, indulging in suffering through a hot shower, one of us taking a
nap (not it!) and screaming obscenities at the dog when she tried to lick my
face during a contraction (I’m so sorry, Luna), I begged C to drive us back to
the hospital – a harrowing 10 minute ride during which I may have broken
several of his fingers.
Back at the
hospital, I was congratulated on being 4 cm dilated <curtsy> and we were
admitted to a room. Before this, my birth plan had been pretty simple: healthy
baby, healthy mama. Those were the goals. Would I prefer to avoid medical
interventions like epidurals and c-sections? Absolutely. Had I had the
requisite conversation with my doctor and the nurses about taking natural
measures to avoid all that? You betcha.
Here’s what
happened when I reached 5 cm dilated:
GIVE ME AN EPIDURAL WHERE THE FUCK IS THE
EPIDURAL WHAT ON EARTH ARE WE WAITING FOR FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
I cannot
adequately articulate the depth of the pain. I think I’m a strong person, but
I’m also not sure that I don’t have an unusually low threshold for pain. This
pain was deep – it was burning, it was relentless, it was overwhelming and all
consuming in its intensity. It left me breathless. Not that I didn’t expect
labor to be painful – even toe curling – but this, this was other worldly.
The epidural
took more than 45 minutes to place in my back. Apparently I am blessed with
“shallow vertebrae” and need more back fat. I was not amused.
But I can say
without hesitation, the epidural was the best decision I ever made. I still
felt my contractions, I still felt my legs and my feet. But it was so much more
manageable. I could doze a little bit, have a conversation, breathe. At some
point during this time, my water broke, my parents arrived and C ate a
cheeseburger. Maybe even in that order.
Monday, about 3 pm
And then, just
like that – or rather 24 hours after I first began to believe I was in labor –
it was time to push. So with each contraction, I pushed. C would count to ten
as he and the nurse held my knees and I pulled back my legs, bearing down as
hard as I could, 3 times with each contraction, holding all the air in like an
Olympic swimmer. Despite everyone’s repeated praise and admiration about my
tremendous pushing abilities, it took eons (approximately) for the baby’s head
to clear my pelvic bone. At a certain point, much to everyone’s amusement, I
apparently began screaming demands like just
pull him out of me! I don’t care! Just pull him out of me! JUST GRAB HIS
EVERLOVING HEAD AND YANK HIM THE HELL OUT.
And then, after
an hour and twenty minutes, at approximately 4:26 pm, there he was. Dropped
immediately on my chest like a fetal pup[1]
– red and eyes closed and fussing and oh
my god he is peeing all over me and I do not care[2].
After that they
delivered the placenta – that was less fun than I might have imagined, just
saying – and proceeded to <gulp> stitch me up. At which point I was
informed that I had a third degree (with fourth being the worst – which must
mean, apparently that they basically just cut off your legs?) laceration and
was essentially going to have stitches from my ankles to my elbows. And those
stitches? ALSO less fun than I might have imagined. More on that harrowing
adventure in another post.
But for now,
that’s where I’ll call it a day.
This post has been brought to you by the
Medela hands free freestyle pump, the Obamacare that paid for it and some ridiculous
pink hands free bra that has a stylish 90s front zipper but is also totally
amazing and OH MY GOD ALL I DO IS PUMP, FEED, PUMP, FEED, PUMP, FEED.
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| Not me, but totally could be. |
<End
Scene>.
[1] We had asked for immediate skin to skin
contact (check) and delayed cord cutting (check).
[2] It’s entirely possible that I did not
shower for more than 24 hours after my new born son peed all over my chest.
That is love, people. Love and being totally preoccupied with someone else’s
needs that are not my own. It’s also disgusting.
