SLIDER

Friday, April 20, 2012

Birth Story: Her Version

Alternate blog titles up for consideration:
The 6 1/2 Pound Shit
That Time I Was Raped by a Donkey
I Just Wanted to Die
Ice Chip
and, Why Me?

Exactly one month ago, to this very hour, I was crying out in pain during labor, only modestly looking forward to meeting my baby girl. And it's taken me this long to finally write about the experience, which has already been dulled and tainted by the passage of time.

Let me begin by saying that childbirth is the most traumatizing, painful, and intense experience I have ever endured. There was nothing beautiful or wonderful about the actual act of labor and delivery. The end result? Yes - a tiny miracle, totally worth the journey. And if given the chance to do it all over again, provided Francie was again the final product - I'd say yes in a heartbeat. But in and of itself, I would never, ever, ever (EVER!) wish to repeat the endeavor. I say screw all that female empowerment bullshit. Plus, I didn't get that ultimate "runner's high" that women who deliver naturally boast about. That was my solitary motivation for going drug-free. Well, that, and the simple fact that epidurals freak the hell out of me (not the needle, but the numbness; who the hell wants to be bed-ridden with zero lower extremity sensation - I mean, what if there was a fire?!?).

To my girlfriends - those of you currently with child and those of you working on getting that bun in the oven - I intend to be perfectly honest about my experience. Bear in mind it was simply my experience, and everyone has a different story. But nonetheless, it rocked my world. My only saving grace in the matter (aside from the Lil Bean), is my ability to have a great sense of humor, also known as "hindsight bias." So read on cautiously.

An additional purpose of this post is to debunk the notion that a fast labor is an easy labor. Au contraire, mon frere. I think of it this way: we all trained for the marathon. But most of us train to walk the distance. A marathon, 26.2 miles, is a bitch no matter how you add it up. Walking for 8+ hours requires both physical and mental endurance. And then there are the rare few who train and run marathons, like, actually run them. In well under 4 hours. Not me, no siree; that's not what I signed up for. But apparently, when it comes to childbirth you don't get much of a say. Needless to say, I completed a marathon distance at a Jackie Joyner Kersee pace. Your body has to do all the same things as that of a woman with a 24-hour labor; there's less fatigue, but more intensity. In other words, a quick labor is just as much work, but in less time.

I suppose Francie's birth story began the day I wrote the Labor? blog post.

Friday, March 16th, I woke up to the first inklings of impending labor. I passed my mucous plug (which I could only identify as having anything to do with childbirth after a Google images search), and proceeded to work what would be my last day at the VA. My coworkers hosted a nice baby shower during lunch that day, where I received gifts, ate cake, and genuinely felt supported by those childless women I previously judged as "baby haters." I felt differently that day - mother's intuition I now know - and warned my supervisors I was unlikely to finish out the month working, as planned.

Saturday, March 17th, I woke up with sopping wet underwear. I suspected my water had broken, given that my cotton hipster briefs were soaked from waistband to crotch line. Really, it looked as though I had taken a dip in the pool in my underhosen. But I also had my doubts, wondering if I'd had a night of hormonal sweats, or if I really was one of those people who peed myself without even knowing it. In hindsight, I recognize this as just another time I've had difficulty trusting my own instincts. I called my doula, Melissa. We talked through whether or not to call the hospital, and Alex and I made the executive decision to give my body some time, to let nature take its course, waiting to begin contractions without the watchful eye of nurses and midwives and doctors. Yes, we were aware of the risk of the ominous "infection," which seemed nebulous but somewhat frightening, but ultimately decided to err on the side of non-Western medical advice (a lot of literature gives a mother ~48 hours post amniotic leak before raising concern). Alex and I spent the day together, cleaning the house, getting our business in order, and enjoying our final hours of the Alex and Jo Show. We ate dinner with friends and got a good night's rest (likely our last for quite some time), knowing that we would be heading to the hospital the following day.

We slept in Sunday, March 18th, packed our hospital overnight bags, and made our way to Kaiser Sunnyside, just the two of us. I wore Alex's FUPA ("fat upper pubic/pussy area" for those of you unfamiliar with offensive male acronyms) t-shirt, in order to set the tone for the humorous adventure we'd desired. When we arrived at the hospital, we spent what felt like eternity in the triage room. The nurse attached me to the monitors, and we waited very patiently for the midwife to come and verify whether I was indeed leaking amniotic fluid. Turns out it was a busy, busy day in the Labor and Delivery department. We were told that they often witnessed an influx of laboring women with changes in the weather, something about barometric pressure (the weather was a mix of sunny, rainy, and snowy, and was damned cold for a Portland "Spring"). When the midwife on duty finally did visit with us, she confirmed the amniotic fluid, and not-so-subtley expressed her disapproval of our decision to wait a full 30+ hours after my water broke to seek medical care. Again, tsk-tsking and waving that "risk of infection" in our faces.


"Where did you get the idea it was okay to wait so long after your water broke?" She asked, a bit sharp-tongued.

I was surprised by how vulnerable I felt, how shamed I was by her disapproval. I started to get anxiety and worried that I had done something wrong that put my precious baby girl at risk. After a bit of questioning regarding our birth plan (she seemed to assume that my aversion to induction, internal monitoring, epidurals and narcotics, and C-sections took root in some hippy-dippy idealized version of childbirth rather than a simple fear of the complications associated with medical interventions), she condescended us a bit more before transferring us to our room.

Once checked-in and settled in our digs, the new nurse on duty explained to me that I was indeed having contractions, just two minutes apart, and that I'd likely been having contractions all along. I was hooked up to fluids and administered the lowest dose of Pitocin via IV, and waited for the show to begin. In the meantime, I read Real Simple, played on my iPad, and ate animal crackers and Jujubes. Truth be told, I was having fun! I thought, "I can totally do this." The nurse continually asked for my pain rating on the 1-10 scale. I found myself bluffing a bit, reporting a "2" or "3" when I felt the equivalent of the baby kicking. I sensed that they wanted to see me "progress" much more quickly.


Same (mean) midwife returned to check on me: "I'd really like to see things pick up. Your contractions are just two minutes apart, but you're clearly not feeling any pain. You came here to have this baby, right? So let's get her out of there. There are rules against upping the Pit, because your contractions are so close together. But I'd really like to see things progress more quickly ... internal monitoring ..."

My mind wandered nervously, as visions of surgery danced in my head. I decided it was time to phone Melissa and have her come in for moral support.

Funny thing, there was a shift change at 7 p.m. that evening. The new nurse, Tamara, was sweet as pie and let me order whatever I wanted to eat off the room service menu. Melissa arrived just a few minutes before our new midwife, Jodi, came to introduce herself. Jodi was great - there was just a positive energy about her. Actually, she reminded me a bit of my BFF, Stacy. She was upbeat, encouraging, supportive, and actively listened to my preferences and my fears. She basically told me that I wasn't a top priority given the number of other births that evening, and advised us to get some rest. She said she would check-in with me in the morning if nothing had progressed. She didn't threaten me with increased doses of Pitocin or push a discussion of additional medical interventions. She was on-board with letting things progress naturally, assuming there were no signs of infection (they monitored my temperature very closely). I felt a weight lift off my shoulders, re-gained my confidence, and crawled in to bed to force myself to rest up before the big event finally began.

Hah!

About 10 minutes later, sometime around 9 p.m., I started to feel cramping, similar to PMS. The cramps were intense enough to merit a slow walk around the ward. Alex pushed my IV pole, and I stopped every few steps because with the uterine pain came rushes of abdominal pain that threatened diarrhea.

Oh wait, no, yeah, oh shit, that is diarrhea. So where did I spend my next hours laboring? Walking around the ward? On the birthing ball? In the tub? Or (D), On the Toilet! That's right, I spent so much time on the pot, both bleeding and barfing out my butt, that I was afraid my baby girl's first view of the world would be the polluted toilet bowl. Did I mention I was also dry-heaving into the garbage can? Kind of like your worst version of food poisoning from eating that undercooked McDonald's Chicken McNugget - and then add in the pain of the intensifying contractions. Alex was a champ. Not only was he ever-supportive, but he didn't fall out of love with me. I mean, the poor guy - kneeling in the bathroom, breathing with me and encouraging me to keep up the good work - was at eye level with all my nasty bits. No man needs to see that. It's one thing to watch your wife endure the worst pain of her life, but a whole different story to bear witness to her bloody show, and every piece of food ever passed through her intestines. Again, at eye level (your eyes are on your face, which is next to your nose and mouth; that's dangerously close).

When I wasn't on the toilet white-knuckling Alex's hands, I did get to labor on an exercise ball. With the pain of the contractions at about a "7" or "8", I still felt like I could conquer this beast (between contractions I let down my guard, complaining: "This sucks," "This isn't fun anymore,""I don't really feel like doing this," and such). But during the contraction, I was able to go inside myself, breathe through the intense pain - less like menstrual cramps and more like being knifed from the inside - and get a few seconds of air before hunkering down for the next contraction. But then, out of nowhere it seemed, my pain level shot up to a "10," and my confidence wavered dramatically. I started to get curious about drugs and epidurals.

Melissa then encouraged me to labor in the tub.

"Why would I do that?" I whined. (Stupid questions asked in protest, despite having included use of the tub in my "birth plan").

"Because it can help to alleviate some of the pressure, to make you a bit more comfortable," she replied, calmly and kind.

"I don't think it will help," I argued. "This is all stupid and I hate it. I don't even want a baby."

Of course, I did comply with the recommendation. I hurt too badly to relocate to the room with the actual "labor tub," so I ripped off my pants and climbed into the small bathtub in my delivery room bathroom.  (By the way, I lost my bet to Alex and owe him $100. I bet that I wouldn't take my underwear off or get naked until I was actually pushing; he argued that I wouldn't care once I was in the moment, and he was right).

Somewhere in there my pain level intensified to a 12 or 13 (yes, on a 1-10 scale). I never knew this kind of pain existed. No longer just a knife searing through my insides, it felt more like both stabbing and burning. And not in a UTI kind of a way. In a way I couldn't have previously imagined. In a way I can just barely recall only one month later. (Our brains, they are impressive. I promised myself I wouldn't forget any detail or horrible sensation, to remind myself that I never want to do it again, and yet the memories are more explicit knowledge than they are experiential. I guess that is why the human race plods on).

There was no rest for the wicked. My contractions were one on top of the other. They took my breath away. Rather, they never let me inhale in the first place. I continued to use the rhythm of what would be my breath, now audible, to ride out the contraction; Alex described me as "a beast" during these intervals. But in between contractions, I just lost it, letting my anxieties run the show, my psyche overrun by sheer terror about the next wave that threatened to wipe me out. 

"I just want to die. Let me die."
"I need drugs. NOW!"
"I hate this. I hate my life. I hate myself."
"Please just let me go. Or MAKE IT STOP!"

All I wanted to do was cry. Or catch my breath. Or laugh maniacally. Anything. I just needed some cathartic release. Or medical intervention.

"Okay, I do want the epidural. You won't be mad at me if I get an epidural will you," I cried to both Alex and to Melissa. "How long will it take? I need it! Now! I'm so scared!"

As I had learned in my childbirth preparation course, the nurse needs to administer a bag of fluids before the anesthesiologist will administer the actual epidural block, to help manage blood pressure and dehydration. Somewhere in there, after deciding I needed either analgesics or an epidural - and stat - I was told I had to get out of the tub and into the hospital bed. I don't recall how I made it that short distance, but imagine I required significant help.

Turns out that whole bathtub scene was me in transition. No one can prepare you for the experience that is transition. Alex said it lasted only 20 minutes. But to me, it felt like a lifetime.

At no point did the midwives check my cervix. Not at the 36-week OB appointment. Not when I was admitted to the hospital (because of my increased risk of infection). Not after they administered Pitocin. And not while I was laboring. In the hospital bed I lay on my right side, still wearing my sports bra and tank top, my knees curled up in the fetal position and squeezed together with a vice-like grip.

"Do you feel pressure? Do you feel like you need to push?" someone, probably the nurse, inquired.

"I don't know.  I don't know. I don't know. But I don't want to push. I just want to rest for a little bit. What about the drugs?" I pleaded urgently.

And then the midwife, Jodi, did indeed check me. Ten centimeters. Crowning. All that jazz. So apparently it was time to push.

"Sorry, Joanna, there's no time for an epidural," the midwife said gently.

"What about the pain meds? I want those."

"It's too late, it will hurt the baby. You're almost done," she reassured.

"I don't care about the baby!!!"

I squeezed my legs together tighter.

"I don't want to do this! I'm scared. I don't know how to push. I'm just so scared," I cried.

"Bear down like you're going to the bathroom."

I took a big breath in, and pushed down and hard, directing all my energy toward my feet. I took one more large inhale, the same thing. And then one more meek little inhale.

"Am I doing this right?" I asked, sounding a but insecure and mousy, almost like I was learning to ski for the first time, not having a baby.

"You're doing great," everyone encouraged.

I grabbed Alex's hand with my right hand, and Melissa's hand with my left, keeping my eyes closed the entire time. I continued to take these big breaths, pushing downward with all my might, only able to get about three pushes per cycle. In between, Alex fed my single ice chips and I closed my eyes tightly for a few seconds. Although pushing the baby out was some of the hardest work I've ever done, the pain was not like that of transition. Images of an infant head ripping my vagina open threatened my efforts, but I tried to redirect my visualizations to include something more peaceful and natural, like a flower opening in bloom. I pushed for about 45 minutes before Jodi pulled the sprawling grey babe out from between my legs. It was 12:56 a.m. on Monday, March 19, 2012.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. In fact, I was sort of in shock. 

"This is so weird. I feel so funny. I don't know what to do."

I was dumbfounded, terrified, and totally overwhelmed with the timing of everything.  I did not experience any sort of euphoria, and I didn't even feel joyous. At least not at first. My baby girl was not only more than two weeks early, but she arrived in just under four hours from the time I first started feeling moderately painful cramping. To say it all happened quickly is an understatement. 

My memories of this time period are a bit more hazy. I do recall having the baby on my naked chest. I remember putting her to my breast. I also remember feeling "weirded out" and requesting a few minutes to process the experience. At some point the baby was handed to Alex, who if I recall correctly, was beaming.

I then delivered the placenta, which is an amazing organ. Alex cut the umbilical cord. I had a peri-urethral tear and required just a few stitches. We declared the baby's name - Francine Lynn Close (as if we didn't really know all along; I'm just a commitment-phobe). The nurses pushed on my belly (I think technically they pushed on my "fundis"- which has no "fun" involved and hurt like a motherfucker - to assist the uterus in expelling clots and initiating contractions to begin the healing process). Francie was eventually swept off to the other side of the room for her tests, vaccines and bath, and Alex stayed by her side. This gave me a bit of time to collect myself and return to the present, to one of the most significant moments of my life.

When Francie was in my arms once again, and the storm of stitching, pushing, cleaning and monitoring had subsided - this is when I felt overwhelmed by the love I already had for this child. My heart swelled with pride, and with intense love for my husband. We did it. I never want to do it again. But we did it. And now we're a family of three. (You know, a wolfpack, left to wander the desert in search of hookers and cocaine. Or something like that.)


***
Another perk of hiring a birth doula is you have a default photographer! Alex and I hadn't even thought to take any photos, but Melissa had the experience to know we would later appreciate the documentation. Here are a few pictures from the intimate affair ...

Anyone watch the TV show Lie to Me? This is what terror looks like. You don't have to be an expert in reading micro-expressions to recognize that one. Now, this picture makes me laugh. But I'll tell you, this facial expression doesn't even begin to describe the element of fear I felt on the inside when they handed that baby girl to me for the first time.

Getting a bit more used to the fact that I just transitioned to "mother."

Nothing but love and adoration for my ever-supportive husband.

Baby's first bath.

Getting weighed and measured. 6 lbs 7 oz and 18 inches long.

Nothin' like a baby bum. We're crossing our fingers she gets more of a ba-donk once she fattens up.

Happy new family. (The trick to not looking as though you just gave birth about 1.5 hours prior to your first photo shoot is to throw on a scarf. This was not premeditated. But I do realize we look as though we are visiting someone else's baby. Also, because the labor was quick, there wasn't a whole lot of time to get sweaty or bleary-eyed).

And here we are at 39 weeks/1 week old. 

Dear Bean,
This is your birth story as I remember it one month out. It was horrible and traumatizing, yes, but yielded the best gift yet. I love and adore you and can't wait to watch you grow and get to know you better with each day. You are my sunshine. Thank you for choosing us to be your parents. We are so lucky.
xoxo, Mama

1 comment:

  1. This is good stuff you two, seriously! If this were a book, "What to REALLY expect when you're expecting" - I WOULD BUY IT! :) Francine is so lucky to have you both!

    ReplyDelete

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