Sam's Birth, Part 2 (before I forget)

Because if I forget, I may want another one, and that's out of the question.  Two hands, two parents, two kids.

Disclaimer:  The information contained in this blog post is long and detailed.  It explains a start-to-finish birth story, so there's pain, blood, non-white-girl hip waggling, and a Jurassic-period soundtrack of half-slain Brontosaurus moaning noises.  At the end, I have a sweet baby boy in one hand and a giant beef burrito in the other.  If any of that is likely to bother you, stop right here.

Sunday, November 22, 9:30 a.m.

I am 4 days overdue.

Me: "Let's just get this over with."
B: "I'm in."
Me: "Give me the castor oil."

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Poor Sam. Before he came out, I sloshed back 2 ounces of castor oil, orange juice, and some white wine (we didn't have any champagne and the midwife insisted this was a very important part of the cocktail -- nevermind that she had not yet given the go-ahead for the cocktail). I had taken the castor oil and OJ mixture when I was pregnant with John (and 8 days overdue), and it broke my water, so I was pretty sure with this one I would slide into an easy and quick second labor.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, will eventually be used as an example in an online dictionary under the entry "wishful thinking."

3:00 p.m.

My water breaks and I start having contractions that are 3 minutes apart. I am so excited! No Pitocin this time! I'd get to stay home and labor in my own tub until I couldn't stand the thought of getting in the car. That's what the on-call midwife had said when I phoned to report that my water had broken.

We call the grandparents and I email everyone I know.  We phone the neighbors to see if John can go to church and spend the night with them, assuming we'd be at the hospital holding our little angel by the time they said the first prayer. We pack his little bag (and mine) and send him over while we continue walking around the neighborhood urging my uterus to keep doing its thang.

5:00 p.m.

As we're approaching our house, B says, "Something's wrong. I hear John," and sprints toward the neighbor's house. John wasn't there. He had panicked and run back to our house looking for us. He thought we had left already and not said goodbye. He was hysterical. So we canned the church idea and went inside with him to play some games.

I sat down on the floor and got out Chutes & Ladders. Brian started dinner. John stopped crying. And my uterus stopped contracting.

We thought we'd give it some time.  I considered having another cocktail.  John calmed down, and we ate dinner. 

7:00 p.m.

I called the midwife.  She assures me that the contractions are very likely to start again during the night and advises me to get some rest. 

November 23, 7:00 a.m.

I awaken, refreshed after having slept with approximately ZERO contractions all night.  I call the midwife again.  It is Linda, my primary caregiver.  She says she has a plan and to come in to the hospital immediately "before all the good rooms get taken."

9:00 a.m.

I register and get taken to a labor and delivery room.  Linda sadly informs me that her plan involves Pitocin and something called a Foley Bulb.  I am disheartened.  Pitocin is really just the devil in the form of an IV fluid.   I have never heard of a Foley Bulb. 

11:00 a.m. 

I have an IV with Pitocin AND a Foley Bulb in place.  A mustachioed teenager who claimed to be an anesthesiologist is explaining the ins and outs of an epidural and I am refusing.  See my reasoning in a previous post.

1:00 p.m.

The bulb pops out -- that means I'm at 5 cm!  I think, "Just as expected: It's going quickly and easily."  Linda comes in to inform me that the real work is now beginning as my uterus, prompted by the Pitocin, must now take over.  This does not bother me.  I have done this before.  You just get in the tub and wait.  It's not that bad, really.

Then she tells me that the hospital has a policy that you can't get in the tub or shower if you have an IV.  Then I remember that I have left all my Hypnobirthing CDs at home.  Then I start thinking that if this goes past Linda's shift I will definitely get an epidural.  Then, right then, I know that this won't be easy like the first baby.

Linda gets me up, has me place my upper body across the bed, and teaches me how to waggle my hips in the air "not like a white girl" during each contraction.  This is kinda fun.  I sit in a rocking chair and then whenever a contraction comes, I just stand up and waggle.  The nurse comments that I'm good at this and that I seem to be handling the pain relatively well.  I inform her that I took dance lessons for 15 years.

3:00 p.m.

Linda comes in to check me and reports that what we want is about 1 cm of dilation per hour.  I'm hurting.  I'm guessing I'm at 7 or 8 based on past experience.

Linda is down there for a long time.  She's looking off to the side and sort of wincing as I calmly ask her to pleasehurryupthathurtssomethingawful. 

"You're almost a 6."

Excuse me?  It's been two hours!  I start calculating the rate of dilation, knowing that Linda's shift ends at 7 p.m.  It hits me that I won't make it ... that not only will she be gone, but that I'll still be in labor 8 hours after the induction began (my first labor was only 5 hours from start of induction to baby). 

Brian calls the grandparents, who are all at our house with John.  They were just walking out the door to come to the hospital, guessing that surely we'd have the baby by then.  He tells them to hold off.  Then he goes to get some sushi. 

While he's gone, the nurse tells me that I should really consider getting an epidural.  I ignore her.  Nobody is getting near my spine with a needle.

5:00 p.m.

Linda is back to check me.  (Sidenote: Do not confuse "midwife" with "doula."  I expected her to be in with me most of the time, supporting me, and giving ideas about pain management.  Other than the tail waggle, she mostly just offered Stadol and spine needles.) 

I have gotten somewhat worked up by this time.  The contractions are coming strong and often and I can't seem to concentrate on getting through them. 

"You're still a 6."

I begin convulsing and crying and telling everyone to call that mustachioed teenager and put a needle in my back pronto.  I begin making a noise that is probably similar to what it sounded like millions of years ago when a Brontosaurus felt the bite of a T-Rex:  a low-pitched, uncontrolled, roaring groan.  Now I know that Linda will not be there to catch the baby. 

Brian calls home again.  The moms decide to come to the hospital.  They're worried.  I'm losing my mind.

7:00 p.m.

Linda comes in to check me and informs me that her shift is up and that her replacement is Soheyl (the only full time midwife I haven't met).  She also mentions that Soheyl is running a bit late and that Kate will be sitting with me until she arrives because I am now in transition.

Oh sweet deliverance.

7:10 p.m.

Kate arrives.  She is 14 and a half years old.  She pats my needle-pierced hand.  I am inconsolable. 

7:15 p.m.

Soheyl arrives.  She introduces herself.  I smell her perfume.  It's horrid.  I try to make myself feel better by telling myself that since Soheyl, like my dental hygienist, is Iranian, she will help me through this calmly and without too much extra pain, just like my dental hygienist.  Plus, many of my best students have been Iranian.  But the perfume keeps distracting me and I am not being very nice.

Soheyl, despite my thrashing, is extremely collected.  She is calm and fresh, having just arrived for her shift.  She checks me.  I'm almost a 9.  She has ideas about positions for me to get into. 

Three people hoist me up onto the bed on my knees.  They move the head of the bed up and drape me over it.  Bitten Brontosaurus noises abound.  I draw blood with my fingernails in B's arms.  Soheyl leaves.

7:30 p.m. (WARNING: This is graphic, do not read on unless you're really into birth stories)

I'm still draped over the back of the bed, still brontosaurussing, and then it happens.  The pushing sensation is there.  And I've read enough to know that if it feels like you're gonna poop then somebody better get in catching position.

So I'm yelling, "I'm gonna poop!  Go get Soheyl!  The baby's coming!" 
And B's yelling, "She's pushing!  The baby!  Go get her!  Go!  NOW!"

And the nurse is saying, "What exactly does it feel like?  A lot of pressure?"

Then she looks. 

Then she's gone. 

And for a while (approximately one minute and 15 seconds) I thought that Brian was gonna have to deliver the baby, ignoring the fact that I had clawed almost all the way into his hypodermis and immobilized him at the wrong end of the bed). 

The nurse comes back and informs us that Soheyl is on the phone.  Brian tells her he doesn't care and to GO GET HER OFF THE PHONE.  The nurse leaves again.

7:42 p.m.

Soheyl is back in all her perfumed glory.  She is ever-so-calm as she tells me that I need to get into a better position for delivery.  This is equivalent to informing the contestants on The Biggest Loser that their first challenge is to climb Mt. Everest.  In winter.  While carrying their weight-loss partners.

Somehow I manage to turn over.  In about 3 seconds, a team of baby nurses convenes on an area just to my right and another couple nurses come in and the bed is magically transformed into some strange stair-step position.  Soheyl confirms that it is indeed time to push.  Slowly, and with control.

And to me, this pushing, of all things, seems like the easiest, most normal, natural, most sane thing on the whole planet Earth.  So I do.  Maybe 3-4 pushes, and out pops a baby. 

My Sam.  He's perfect.

What happens next is just too awful for me to recollect or write about, so I'll spare you.  With both of my labors, the "repair stage" was one of the more horrid parts.  Luckily, this time, I was on Stadol, and the beef burrito was on its way. 

8:00 p.m.