1. When are you due?
2. Do you know what you are having?
3. What is the name?
I was one of these people at one time, and now I have been the answerer of the questions three. On the last question, I kept it a tightly guarded secret. It was, however, partially true that we wanted to wait to see what name fit him - but I wasn't giving up anything other than that our list was "mostly Gaelic."
The second question was easy. A boy. People would exclaim with delight, which would be the case either way, I hope. It's how I felt as well.
The first question - June 12th - would become emblazoned on my brain. Two days after work was done for the summer. Would I make it all the way through? I felt a surge of pride when I finished my last day with everyone else. I had two days of preparation and "summertime" before the big day arrived. I walked nervously, feeling heavier than I had all of my pretty much perfect pregnancy. I felt the twenty five pounds I put on with each step now that the due date had arrived. I didn't allow jokes. I was on edge. But the day passed without action. The next day, it was as if something that was supposed to happen did not, and now it would not, and so I just wouldn't need to worry about it. I would just be pregnant forever, and the unknown big bad pain of labor would always remain a mystery.
More days passed. My husband and I went out to a spontaneous dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant. We went to the movies. We lounged on the couch together, watching tv and trading massages. We ate meals outside and watched the sun set. It was lovely.
The following Tuesday, we went into the city for some long awaited cinnamon buns from Bakehouse on King and coffee at Central Market. We sat on a bench outside the old brick building and talked to a man about his seven children. We ate the buns in ecstasy. I started to feel achy and was ready to go home without making other wanderings through the city. When we got home I took a short break, and then it was on to garage organization. The garage always somehow turns into a hellscape, and it was time to get it under control before the baby arrived. While it wasn't perfect, we got a few things categorized, consolidated, donated, and the floor swept. I wasn't feeling very good afterward. This was natural though in my state. My back still ached and it started to feel somewhat more rhythmic with the pains in front like cramps. I haphazardly started timing them, feeling pretty certain that it was a waste of time anyway.
Sometime later in the evening, I said to my husband, "this might be happening," and we called the doctor. She said that I was still relatively irregular, and to call back when things felt more steady. Two hours of steady waves later, we called again and were asked to come in to be checked. Bags were ready, we rushed around getting last minute chargers and glasses. The car ride to the hospital was pretty awful, with train tracks and famous Pennsylvania potholes making each contraction worse. Shaking, gritting my teeth, and taking each step as if on upturned needles, I checked in and got checked out. My husband was told by the main desk that he couldn't wear his scrubs because it was a risk to the other patients who might get confused. One can only imagine the sitcom-like situation in which he is unwittingly swept into some surgery or another. After shivering on the table,the doctor said, "1 centimeter." I was incredulous and disappointed. I was given a shot to help take the edge off so I could sleep and come back later when it felt "ten times worse". Oh good.
Back over the potholes, the train tracks, and onto the couch to "sleep" while waking for each contraction and moaning in spite of myself while my loyal dog rode out the night by my side. Tuesday became Wednesday. When I couldn't take it anymore around 5am, I slapped my husband awake and we loaded into the car again. Train tracks. Potholes. Shaking. Moaning. Finally, the welcome news of "three centimeters, 70% effaced" and "we're admitting you." No more car rides! Sweet sweet epidural! Huzzah!
I made my way into the labor room, into a gown, and got hooked up to an IV that traveled with me as I wandered around the room walking in infinite circles. Each contraction issued forth a low moan from me that I never expected, falling into the rhythm of the steps, the ohm-like sounds, and the time in between. I didn't want anything I thought I would want. No music. No hypnobabies. No jacuzzi. And no touching! It took all of my focus to stay on top of the pains each time.
We had been told in our childbirth class to wait until 4 or 5 centimeters to get the epidural, so I was anxious to be checked again. When I asked when this would be happening, the midwife gave me the third degree about why I wanted to know. This seems akin to a teenager asking about puberty only to be told, "don't worry about it." Citing infection and brushing off the 4-5 centimeter suggestion, she told me I should just get it if I want it. Ok. Well. Let's do it then. We had a great anesthesiologist who cheerily took away the pain while still allowing me to move my legs (albeit loaded with wet sand). The hours thereafter were comparative bliss. I slept and joked and waited. They broke my water and it had meconium in it. My heart dropped. I knew that babies could aspirate the meconium and get really sick. The NICU team would be in the delivery room as a precaution. I tried not to worry. I made it to 7 centimeters.
Even more hours later, I expected to be close to fully dilated. It was Wednesday evening and we were all ready for the baby to make his appearance. I started to feel a strong pressure to, putting it delicately, use the loo. I knew this was a telltale sign of getting ready to push. Meanwhile, I had been flipping from one side to the next as machines pumped out long strips of paper with jagged lines that told a story in a foreign tongue about strength and weakness. My husband kept checking these with his classic curiosity and peppering the nurses with questions. I suspected typical clinical interest. He didn't let on that he didn't like what he saw.
Once again I was checked by the same woman who had checked me back when I was a disappointed 1 centimeter, and instead of hearing, "it's go time!" I heard 7 centimeters. No progress. Decelerations. Long contractions. Meconium. Distress. "So, it's going to be a C-section then, right?" I asked. That was correct. I trusted them and said that we would do what needed to be done. The sweet nurse with me put up my hair in a surprisingly fashionable messy bun under my blue hospital cap. My husband was ushered into the same material all over his body. Everyone moved intentionally and quickly. There was a noticeable edge to everything.
Before I knew it, I was being wheeled into the bright surgery room with another blue piece of fabric directly in front of my face, and staring into the white round surgical light. It was entirely surreal. I had never expected to get a C-section and now this was happening. Like, right now. I tried not to think about all the things I know about the C-section process. There was relief in knowing that I would meet my baby within 45 minutes. A second anesthesiologist pinched me all over my stomach and asked me if I could feel it. I could not. His incredibly kind assistant stayed with me and distracted me with questions and compliments. She thought my rings were beautiful. I told her they were from Target because my fingers were too swollen to wear my real ones. I stared at the textured pattern of the fabric two inches from my face as my arms were laid out and semi-tied down to turn me into a human letter t. My husband was instructed not to look over the curtain, which frustrated him and relieved me. Couples need a few of their own secrets, like what their internal organs look like, right?
They pushed on my stomach (I think) and I suddenly couldn't draw breath very well. Everything felt shallow, ragged, and I focused on the tiny oxygen tubes in my nose. My husband asked, "Are you ok? Are you ok?" The anesthesiology assistant reassured me with "long, slow breaths" coaching. There was suction, and he was out! I stared into the curtain waiting for a cry. My husband and I were both silent. The seconds ticked by. I don't know if I asked if he was ok, but all I knew was that I didn't even see him. I couldn't hear him. The voices in the room were a low buzz, with maybe a "Come on..." thrown in there. Finally, about 60 of the longest seconds of my life later, a cry. The most welcome cry I had ever heard. My husband and I burst into noisy tears. The anesthesiology assistant grabbed my face and put hers next to mine, saying, "That was so scary, but he's ok! He's ok!"I had been balancing on the edge of not knowing if I would have a baby to bring home or not.
They later explained that they had not wanted him to cry right away. They kept the placenta attached for oxygen while they did a deep suction of the meconium he had partially aspirated (though not past the cords, they kept saying). Once he was clear, they stimulated him so he would come to and give that first cry we had waited for anxiously. His apgar score was initially a 3, but it soon shot up to 8, which, they explained, meant they had done the right intervention at the right time. He has been a strong boy ever since, eating, sleeping, and studying his new world like a champ.
I held him while I was observed right after being stitched up. My body shook and my teeth chattered uncontrollably from the hormones and medicines. His little head shook in my hands. He was calm. I think we fed right away, but the rest of that night was a blur. There were compression boots that made me think my calf muscles were rhythmically flexing without my telling them to, and my own perplexed studying of this child I felt I had almost lost. We stayed in the hospital for four days. During that time, the incredible nursing staff held up my weakened body, intimately cared for all of my needs, checked mine and my baby's vitals repeatedly, and made sure we were both fed. There were bodily fluids, tubes going into me and tubes going out of me. I was walked around with a blue belt around my middle and brown grippy socks on my feet. My hair stayed in that first messy bun for days.
My husband played the Christopher Robin movie on the tv, and the story went in and out of my consciousness while I dozed and focused on feeding the baby every 2 hours. I fiddled with the buttons on my hospital bed that cranked me up and down, and I was able to sleep on my back for probably the first time in my life. I ate a mushroom and cheese omelet with hashbrown patties and a banana nut muffin every morning for breakfast and it was glorious. People flowed into the room at all hours for various checks. They scanned my bracelet to give me meds while another set of bracelets identified my baby and I as belonging to each other with a little song. I titled it the "That's My Baby" song. He wore a little hospital-issued kimono shirt. My mom and my friend since first grade visited us in the hospital. They chatted while the nurses checked and changed various aspects of my body. Modesty had long gone out the window. I was so grateful for them to be there, making this alien landscape a little more familiar. It was a kindly alien landscape, but alien nonetheless.
After four days in the hospital, two of which I spent solely in bed, we were as ready as we were going to be to head home. The baby went into his car seat, which went on my lap while I was wheeled out. My husband took the rest of our stuff in a loaded up wagon. As we drove away, me in the backseat with the baby, it felt like we had been far removed from the world for a very long time. It felt the same as when we would retrieve our car from long term parking at the airport after a trip to another country. One week later, we are settling in to life as a new little family. It was difficult to not be able to greet my dog as I normally would, on the floor and hugging her all over, but the healing process has taken some time. Today we all went for a walk together before it got too hot. It was nice to assert the normalcy of that one act. I'm surprised at my ability to work through the loud cries that the baby sometimes has, and I hope that it continues. I love holding him. I love when he is sleeping peacefully and I can still do other things. I miss him. I feel guilty about not giving the same attention to my dog that she always got. I love when we all can do things together. I reach out to stroke my husband's back to remember that he is still him and I am still me. My heart feels like a tumbling kaleidoscope that switches and reassembles into new patterns of feeling everything around me and understanding new layers of love.
