The Birth Story
A few of you have asked about The Birth Story, and here I shall deliver (heh heh) it to you. My apologies if this is a wee bit too graphic for comfort, but I can’t think of how to write The Birth Story without a bit of gore. Birth is messy. So here we go . . .
On the Monday before Charlotte was born, I had my weekly doctor’s visit and Dr. Apgar announced things were starting roll. I was shocked—and absolutely convinced that this child would arrive early. I did way more online research than was wise, learning that every first-time mom thinks her baby will be early but of course the vast majority of first babies arrive late. Still, I hustled through everything at work, secretly convinced this baby was coming before February 6th.
Then on Thursday, I was doing the dinner dishes and I felt a very odd pop deep inside that took my breath away. I just knew that pop had instigated something. Sure enough, when I went to bed, I felt subtle tightening in my lower back, which was different from the Braxton Hicks contractions (or “practice contractions”) that I had been experiencing for the past couple weeks. On Friday morning, I felt odd. I just knew this was the day things were going to start happening. I wavered back and forth as to whether or not to go into work, but I figured we lived 2 miles from my office, so I could always leave early if necessary. Besides, I had a million loose ends to tie up.
At work, I maintained a charming Excel spreadsheet that documented each contraction, but they were super sporadic and I started to wonder if this whole possibly-going-into-labor thing was all in my head. At 2:00, I had a lovely baby shower with my coworkers, and when I returned to my office, I continued the log. More of a pattern with contractions began to emerge, so I called Chris around 4:30 p.m. and strongly suggested that neither of us work late—I wanted to get home. While I waited for him to pick me up, I uploaded the last pieces of a book project to our ftp site so the freelancer temporarily taking my place would have all the materials if I didn’t come in on Monday. Finally comfortable with leaving everything at work, we drove home—with Chris timing contractions the whole way.
Once at home, we packed our bags, Chris ate some dinner, and I took a shower—and we continued to time and document contractions. They weren’t quite at the duration the doctor said they should be before calling, but they were very frequent. Besides, I really didn’t want to go to the hospital too early—or be told I was experiencing false labor. Finally, Chris simply insisted I call the doctor. Dr. Apgar told me to head to the hospital to see what was going on, so around 8:00 p.m., off we went. We called our families from the car, and I just couldn’t believe we were on our way to the hospital. By the time we got there, the contractions were more intense and my back was killing me. This tipped me off that I had a fun night of back labor ahead of me. A nurse led me to triage, did an exam, and announced I was 2 centimeters dilated (what? only two?), hooked me up to a couple monitors, and Chris and I hung out for an hour while the nursing staff tried to get a read on what was happening with my uterus.
Sure enough, they said the contractions were quite regular and decided to admit me. The nurse asked me to walk around the maternity ward for another hour if I felt up to it, and I happily agreed to waltz around, mainly so I’d be freed from the monitors and better able to move into more comfortable positions. I made it one loop before I was crouched on the ground, clutching Chris. We struggled through one more loop, and then I insisted we return to triage, hobbling back to the bed.
At that point, I was getting in every single possible position to try to release the pressure on my back, and the contractions were building in intensity. I gained another centimeter or two (this is where my memory starts to get fuzzy), and eventually a nurse took us to a labor and delivery room. The next 2 hours consisted of what I refer to as the “descent into hell.” The nurse asked if I wanted an epidural yet, and I said YES. I mean, why suffer? The thing is, you have to have 2 liters (or something like that) of fluids pumped into you first, so she got that started and called the anesthesiologist. When she arrived, she took one look at my still-full bag of fluids and I could see her vacillating as to whether or not to risk inserting the epidural quite yet. While the anesthesiologist sat on the fence debating, she got called away to an emergency c-section, and the nurse said that I just needed to hang on for 45 minutes and she would be back.
And so I entered hell. The contractions were becoming insane—I felt like I was being split in two. I obsessed over the clock, trying to will the 45 minutes to go faster. I broke the useless bars on the side of the bed as I tried to survive each contraction. I moaned and groaned. I shouted out numbers, counting frantically and probably not in order. I declared breathing exercises as useless. Worst of all, I begged Chris not to touch me at all because the slightest movement seemed to launch another contraction. I had never been so out of control of my own body, which was terrifying. Finally, at the magical 45-minute mark, Chris went out to harass the poor nurse about the anesthesiologist. Apparently things were taking longer than expected and she told him that I needed to try to tough it out—like I had a frickin’ choice—for another 20 minutes. Pale-faced, Chris delivered this nugget of news to me. I couldn’t see how I’d possibly survive another 20 minutes. By now my body was shaking uncontrollably, which freaked Chris out. But it didn’t hurt, so it didn’t really bother me. All I cared about were the contractions. I was vaguely aware of Chris pacing the room and I remember thinking that I needed to do something to calm his anxiety, but I was so lost in my own world. Besides, I don’t think there was a thing I could have said to take that grim look off his face!
Finally, 20 minutes somehow passed and when the nurse came in, I asked how much longer I had. She said FIFTEEN MINUTES! At this point, I downright panicked and screamed at Chris that he had said 20 minutes, 20 whole minutes ago! I totally regretted it because he looked like he was about to cry, and the nurse quickly swooped in and explained some weird twist about the c-section taking place—or something like that. I don’t really remember. An eternity later, the very sweet nurse intercepted a different anesthesiologist and sent her to my room. When she arrived and I was so relieved I almost hugged her. I was now at 7 centimeters and worried that I’d veer into 10-centimeter land and miss my entire opportunity for the epidural.
I assumed the position for that long, blessed needle, but my contractions were coming so frequently that I had THREE of them while the epidural was being inserted. THREE! For the last one, both the anesthesiologist and the nurse (whom I was clutching for dear life and I can’t even remember her name) shouted at me to NOT MOVE, and Chris just closed his eyes and waited for it to be over. I don’t know what the ramifications of moving would have been, but since the needle was going into my spine, it seemed wise to obey. Nothing but a sheer desire to keep the anesthesiologist on task and continuing to insert the epidural kept me still. Finally, RELIEF. Oh, I’m a fan of the epidural. I want to write poetry in praise of the epidural. It’s THAT wonderful. My body continued to shake, but I didn’t care. I was now capable of talking to Chris and I apologized for scaring the crap out of him during the descent into hell.
As he left to go scrounge up some coffee, I started to feel nauseous and mentioned it to the nurse. She took one look at my blood pressure—77 over 44—and quickly called the anesthesiologist. I felt super lightheaded but pretty apathetic about it, and I remember seeing the anesthesiologist running over with a needle out in front of her. Then she leaned over my bed and shot something magic into my IV. Almost immediately I started to feel better and I was quite grateful that Chris had missed that little dramatic moment. Now happily medicated, I quickly called my mom to update her. Dr. Apgar arrived and it turned out that the epidural had stalled dilation. I was still at 7 centimeters, but I didn’t give a hoot. Labor could drag on for 5 more days for all I cared, so long as that needle stayed put. She broke my water to help things progress, but an hour later there was still no progress. Dr. Apgar suggested pitocin to make the contractions more forceful, and I didn’t argue. Then the nurse pointed out that staying on my back would likely cause a lot of back pain post-delivery, so I grudgingly turned onto my side. In that position, I felt enormous pressure with each contraction, but it was pretty manageable compared to the horrible non-medicated contractions from earlier. An hour later, I still hadn’t progressed, so my doctor increased the dose. Predictably, the pressure really increased as well.
Before too long, we were at 10 centimeters! Because I had the epidural and because first babies tend to take a lot of pushing to enter the world, Dr. Apgar suggested we allow a half hour for a “passive descent,” meaning we let my uterus do all the work and not worry about pushing yet. This was fine by me.
At 5:00 a.m. it was show time. A mere 1 hour 40 minutes of pushing later, Charlotte took her first breath and cried her first cry! Dr. Apgar placed her right on my stomach and I just couldn’t believe she was here. Chris and I blubbered like idiots as we took in the sight of our slimy, squirmy girl for the first time. Like a magnet, Chris then followed her across the room while she got examined, leaving me behind to get all stitched up (a rather unpleasant process—epidurals don’t do squat for post-delivery stitches, I learned). I kept craning my head to try and see her while intermittently attempting to kick Dr. Apgar away while she tried to stitch. (Seriously, after the epidural, is lidocaine such a big deal?)
Finally, after what seemed like forever, a nurse brought Charlotte over to me. And lordy, what a head of hair this kid had! We took a bit too long in calling our families on the West Coast, mainly because there were so many procedures to go through, both for Charlotte and me. We finally got a moment to call Chris’s folks and mine, and of course neither of our mothers had gone to sleep yet. All in all, the delivery was quite quick and very textbook. Aside from the 2-hour descent into hell, I couldn’t have asked for a smoother, less eventful birth. Most importantly, Charlotte entered life a little on the petite side but healthy as can be.
Who could ask for anything more?
On the Monday before Charlotte was born, I had my weekly doctor’s visit and Dr. Apgar announced things were starting roll. I was shocked—and absolutely convinced that this child would arrive early. I did way more online research than was wise, learning that every first-time mom thinks her baby will be early but of course the vast majority of first babies arrive late. Still, I hustled through everything at work, secretly convinced this baby was coming before February 6th.
Then on Thursday, I was doing the dinner dishes and I felt a very odd pop deep inside that took my breath away. I just knew that pop had instigated something. Sure enough, when I went to bed, I felt subtle tightening in my lower back, which was different from the Braxton Hicks contractions (or “practice contractions”) that I had been experiencing for the past couple weeks. On Friday morning, I felt odd. I just knew this was the day things were going to start happening. I wavered back and forth as to whether or not to go into work, but I figured we lived 2 miles from my office, so I could always leave early if necessary. Besides, I had a million loose ends to tie up.
At work, I maintained a charming Excel spreadsheet that documented each contraction, but they were super sporadic and I started to wonder if this whole possibly-going-into-labor thing was all in my head. At 2:00, I had a lovely baby shower with my coworkers, and when I returned to my office, I continued the log. More of a pattern with contractions began to emerge, so I called Chris around 4:30 p.m. and strongly suggested that neither of us work late—I wanted to get home. While I waited for him to pick me up, I uploaded the last pieces of a book project to our ftp site so the freelancer temporarily taking my place would have all the materials if I didn’t come in on Monday. Finally comfortable with leaving everything at work, we drove home—with Chris timing contractions the whole way.
Once at home, we packed our bags, Chris ate some dinner, and I took a shower—and we continued to time and document contractions. They weren’t quite at the duration the doctor said they should be before calling, but they were very frequent. Besides, I really didn’t want to go to the hospital too early—or be told I was experiencing false labor. Finally, Chris simply insisted I call the doctor. Dr. Apgar told me to head to the hospital to see what was going on, so around 8:00 p.m., off we went. We called our families from the car, and I just couldn’t believe we were on our way to the hospital. By the time we got there, the contractions were more intense and my back was killing me. This tipped me off that I had a fun night of back labor ahead of me. A nurse led me to triage, did an exam, and announced I was 2 centimeters dilated (what? only two?), hooked me up to a couple monitors, and Chris and I hung out for an hour while the nursing staff tried to get a read on what was happening with my uterus.
Sure enough, they said the contractions were quite regular and decided to admit me. The nurse asked me to walk around the maternity ward for another hour if I felt up to it, and I happily agreed to waltz around, mainly so I’d be freed from the monitors and better able to move into more comfortable positions. I made it one loop before I was crouched on the ground, clutching Chris. We struggled through one more loop, and then I insisted we return to triage, hobbling back to the bed.
At that point, I was getting in every single possible position to try to release the pressure on my back, and the contractions were building in intensity. I gained another centimeter or two (this is where my memory starts to get fuzzy), and eventually a nurse took us to a labor and delivery room. The next 2 hours consisted of what I refer to as the “descent into hell.” The nurse asked if I wanted an epidural yet, and I said YES. I mean, why suffer? The thing is, you have to have 2 liters (or something like that) of fluids pumped into you first, so she got that started and called the anesthesiologist. When she arrived, she took one look at my still-full bag of fluids and I could see her vacillating as to whether or not to risk inserting the epidural quite yet. While the anesthesiologist sat on the fence debating, she got called away to an emergency c-section, and the nurse said that I just needed to hang on for 45 minutes and she would be back.
And so I entered hell. The contractions were becoming insane—I felt like I was being split in two. I obsessed over the clock, trying to will the 45 minutes to go faster. I broke the useless bars on the side of the bed as I tried to survive each contraction. I moaned and groaned. I shouted out numbers, counting frantically and probably not in order. I declared breathing exercises as useless. Worst of all, I begged Chris not to touch me at all because the slightest movement seemed to launch another contraction. I had never been so out of control of my own body, which was terrifying. Finally, at the magical 45-minute mark, Chris went out to harass the poor nurse about the anesthesiologist. Apparently things were taking longer than expected and she told him that I needed to try to tough it out—like I had a frickin’ choice—for another 20 minutes. Pale-faced, Chris delivered this nugget of news to me. I couldn’t see how I’d possibly survive another 20 minutes. By now my body was shaking uncontrollably, which freaked Chris out. But it didn’t hurt, so it didn’t really bother me. All I cared about were the contractions. I was vaguely aware of Chris pacing the room and I remember thinking that I needed to do something to calm his anxiety, but I was so lost in my own world. Besides, I don’t think there was a thing I could have said to take that grim look off his face!
Finally, 20 minutes somehow passed and when the nurse came in, I asked how much longer I had. She said FIFTEEN MINUTES! At this point, I downright panicked and screamed at Chris that he had said 20 minutes, 20 whole minutes ago! I totally regretted it because he looked like he was about to cry, and the nurse quickly swooped in and explained some weird twist about the c-section taking place—or something like that. I don’t really remember. An eternity later, the very sweet nurse intercepted a different anesthesiologist and sent her to my room. When she arrived and I was so relieved I almost hugged her. I was now at 7 centimeters and worried that I’d veer into 10-centimeter land and miss my entire opportunity for the epidural.
I assumed the position for that long, blessed needle, but my contractions were coming so frequently that I had THREE of them while the epidural was being inserted. THREE! For the last one, both the anesthesiologist and the nurse (whom I was clutching for dear life and I can’t even remember her name) shouted at me to NOT MOVE, and Chris just closed his eyes and waited for it to be over. I don’t know what the ramifications of moving would have been, but since the needle was going into my spine, it seemed wise to obey. Nothing but a sheer desire to keep the anesthesiologist on task and continuing to insert the epidural kept me still. Finally, RELIEF. Oh, I’m a fan of the epidural. I want to write poetry in praise of the epidural. It’s THAT wonderful. My body continued to shake, but I didn’t care. I was now capable of talking to Chris and I apologized for scaring the crap out of him during the descent into hell.
As he left to go scrounge up some coffee, I started to feel nauseous and mentioned it to the nurse. She took one look at my blood pressure—77 over 44—and quickly called the anesthesiologist. I felt super lightheaded but pretty apathetic about it, and I remember seeing the anesthesiologist running over with a needle out in front of her. Then she leaned over my bed and shot something magic into my IV. Almost immediately I started to feel better and I was quite grateful that Chris had missed that little dramatic moment. Now happily medicated, I quickly called my mom to update her. Dr. Apgar arrived and it turned out that the epidural had stalled dilation. I was still at 7 centimeters, but I didn’t give a hoot. Labor could drag on for 5 more days for all I cared, so long as that needle stayed put. She broke my water to help things progress, but an hour later there was still no progress. Dr. Apgar suggested pitocin to make the contractions more forceful, and I didn’t argue. Then the nurse pointed out that staying on my back would likely cause a lot of back pain post-delivery, so I grudgingly turned onto my side. In that position, I felt enormous pressure with each contraction, but it was pretty manageable compared to the horrible non-medicated contractions from earlier. An hour later, I still hadn’t progressed, so my doctor increased the dose. Predictably, the pressure really increased as well.
Before too long, we were at 10 centimeters! Because I had the epidural and because first babies tend to take a lot of pushing to enter the world, Dr. Apgar suggested we allow a half hour for a “passive descent,” meaning we let my uterus do all the work and not worry about pushing yet. This was fine by me.
At 5:00 a.m. it was show time. A mere 1 hour 40 minutes of pushing later, Charlotte took her first breath and cried her first cry! Dr. Apgar placed her right on my stomach and I just couldn’t believe she was here. Chris and I blubbered like idiots as we took in the sight of our slimy, squirmy girl for the first time. Like a magnet, Chris then followed her across the room while she got examined, leaving me behind to get all stitched up (a rather unpleasant process—epidurals don’t do squat for post-delivery stitches, I learned). I kept craning my head to try and see her while intermittently attempting to kick Dr. Apgar away while she tried to stitch. (Seriously, after the epidural, is lidocaine such a big deal?)
Finally, after what seemed like forever, a nurse brought Charlotte over to me. And lordy, what a head of hair this kid had! We took a bit too long in calling our families on the West Coast, mainly because there were so many procedures to go through, both for Charlotte and me. We finally got a moment to call Chris’s folks and mine, and of course neither of our mothers had gone to sleep yet. All in all, the delivery was quite quick and very textbook. Aside from the 2-hour descent into hell, I couldn’t have asked for a smoother, less eventful birth. Most importantly, Charlotte entered life a little on the petite side but healthy as can be.
Who could ask for anything more?
Ashley, I love birth stories, and yours was so fun to read. I felt myself getting a little emotional during your "descent into hell", though probably not nearly as emotional as you were! I'm glad that you are happy with how your birth went and that everyone came out of it healthy!
ReplyDelete