June 30, 2020
Friday – June 26, 2020
My sweetest girl, you are due.
Sunday – June 28, 2020
You hadn’t come on your own yet, so we were preparing to go into the hospital at 9pm so we could start the process of bringing you into this world with medical intervention. It should have been a relaxing day. It started out that way. We woke up, got ready, got coffee, and took Hank and Poppy to the park. The last park adventure just the 4 of us for a while. Something special for them. We had two guest dogs with us and it wasn’t ideal for preparing our dogs, so we wanted that time to be special. We also wanted Hank extra worn out for your Aunt Becca, because he can be a handful. When we got back, we were going to make one last dinner before heading in. Instead, a storm rolled through and Hank’s anxiety went through the roof. Which led mine to do the same. A panic attack came crushing down. How was Becca going to manage this dog? She just wasn’t equipped. What do we do? Crying hysterically I call your Aunt Jes and ask if she could take him. I wasn’t going to be able to focus on safely brining you into the world without him being in a safe place too. Vizsla’s require extra attention from someone who knows how to handle their shit. She agreed to meet us at the hospital and take him until we returned home with you. My mind was at peace again, but now I was emotionally exhausted with no nap and no good last meal. Who knew when I’d get to eat again.
You were being brought into this world in the middle of a pandemic. Nothing was normal. Not even how we entered the hospital. We were made to walk into the ED instead of just going straight to the L&D floor, so that they could take our temperatures and tag us with bracelets saying it was okay for us to be there. They had blocked off all of the waiting room seating. Stacked chairs almost to the ceiling. They had draped plastic and put up cheap plexiglass for employees to stand behind while they vetted us. It all felt very apocalyptic. Like we should have our guards up and weapons ready. It was not a calming way to enter into the building.
We were taken to a room, asked a million questions that I had already answered in a survey online to try and avoid the asking, and told to get comfy. I had an extremely uncomfortable IV put into my hand, something they said I wouldn’t notice once things got going. (They were so right.) The idea of going in on Sunday night was to ripen my cervix so that they could induce labor Monday morning. I asked the random night nurse what the process was like, and she said it was 3 pills placed on my cervix to thin it, so that inducing labor would be successful. It took 1. At 3 am, my water broke. A couple of hours after the first pill, I felt something snap, and a trickle started down my leg. I called the nurse to tell her I thought my water broke. When she came in to check, I told her what happened. She said it was likely just jelly from them putting the pill in. I decided I needed to use the restroom and stood up to go, only for water to come gushing out and all over the floor. My thoughts were right, my water had broken.
Everyone says you should sleep. I don’t know why people bother saying it. The excitement, anxiety, and adrenaline make it impossible. So instead, while I had mild contractions, I watched One Tree Hill. Several nurses complimented me on my choice of distraction.
Monday – June 29, 2020
Labor was moving along slowly. At 7 am I was at 3cm. Our day nurse, Deanna, had come in to take over, and the same information we gave the night before was taken again. Deanna was a very direct person. She didn’t hesitate to say what she was thinking. My intention with this birth was to go as long as possible without medication. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel you. I wanted to listen to my body. Your dad and I had a safe word, pineapple. If and when we had to make any major decisions, or if I changed my mind on medication, I would say pineapple and he would confirm I wanted what I was saying I wanted, not just out of a weak moment but out of truly making the decision. We were set on this. Dr. B knew this was the plan and knew the word. But Dr. B wasn’t here yet, and so we had to let Deanna know that I meant what I said, I did not want medication and I did not want to be asked about it. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve seen a lot of first time moms say the same thing you are saying. They all end up with an epidural by 5 cm. Have you taken any birthing classes?” We hadn’t. The thought never crossed my mind, honestly. I told her that’s fine, if at 5cm I decide I want and epidural, then that’s okay. But it’s my decision and I don’t want to be pressured into it. You could see the skepticism in her face, even behind the two masks she wore. (She had to wear a traditional PPE mask, but really liked her personal mask with dachshunds on it. Can’t say I blame her, it was really cute.) She had no confidence in my ability to labor and deliver without medication. Just what I needed, someone to prove wrong.
Things started moving along. They put us on a slow drip of pitocin, just to encourage things to move a little faster. The contractions got stronger, harder, and longer. I was so uncomfortable in the bed. Laying on my back just felt like a bowling ball was on it, and laying on my side was even worse. I asked for a medicine ball, and Deanna got it for us. It was a game changer. I leaned over the bed and focused on breathing with every wave that came in. Your dad rubbed my lower back as the pain got stronger and stronger. Before I knew it, we were at 6cm. This is when my composure was starting to crack. You were pushing on my back so hard. My pelvis felt like it was on fire, and it made it difficult to walk. I wasn’t sure I could keep my focus. I started to say I couldn’t do this. Positive reaffirming thoughts and self doubt cycled in and out of my head. The concept of time was gone. At a stand still. Here comes Deanna, opinionated, strong willed, and still direct. As I’m starting to cry, and not breathing through the contractions well anymore, she gets in my face. She firmly tells me to look at her in the eyes. So I do. I’ll never forget her southern accent calmly and firmly saying, “Yes. You. Can. You can do this, because you are. You do not need that medication, and trust that if I thought you did, I’d be telling you to get it. You CAN do this. Focus. Breath. You are going to make it. This labor is moving faster than you think it is.” I cried, nodded my head, and took a deep breath. This is when your dad started breathing with me when I was struggling to take the deep breaths.
Just a pause to brag on your dad, little one. Your dad is a champion. That man worked almost as hard as I did. He didn’t sit. He didn’t eat. He took no breaks unless I was taking one. He was such a rock for us. He kept his composure even when I couldn’t, which honestly wasn’t something I expected him to be able to do. He’s a very empathetic man, and historically cries when I cry, or even when I don’t – ha. Your dad is the strongest man I know. He got me to my goal of unmedicated labor.
The ball stopped being comfortable. The exhaustion was overwhelming. I hadn’t slept in over 24 hours. Delusional is putting it mildly. Deanna put up a squat bar and had me get in the bed. Every time a contraction came on, so much stronger than the last, I would sit up, death grip that bar, and breath through it. Rocking back and forth, back and forth. Eventually, and unknowingly, I took to lightly banging my head against the bar. It was a pain distraction, honestly. I didn’t really realize I was doing it until Deanna taped a pillow to the bar to add some padding and keep me from bruising my head. In the short breaks between the contractions I had started to drift off to sleep, for minutes at longest. Your dad said I started saying things that didn’t make sense, mostly concerning the dogs. “Poppy, no don’t do that, come here. Hank, where are you? Look at him go! Aww my sweet Poppy Bug.” Safe to say the dogs were a mentally happy place for me to go between the pain.
No one was saying it, but you weren’t in the right position. The level of pain in my back was abnormal. I knew that, but I couldn’t think through it. Deanna said she thought you needed to rotate some, and said the peanut would do that and likely speed the process up some too. The peanut was hell. White light excruciating pain, worse than labor itself. I couldn’t do it, even though I needed to. In hindsight, this is when I should have gotten an epidural. Maybe the outcome would have been different.
15 hours of labor. Apparently that’s pretty short for a first time mom, I’d argue that’s way too damn long!
Around 6 pm, we hit 10cm. It was time to push. Apparently I went into it like I was doing a sprint, instead of a marathon, and Deanna called my shit out real quick. Told me to slow down, to not waste energy. Taught me how to push. Push one hold hard 10 counts, take a breath, push two hold hard 10 counts, take a breath, push three extra hard hold 10 counts and rest, until the next contraction comes. Your dad helped her by holding one of my legs with each push. So much sweat, out of breath, so uncomfortably HOT. Pushing hurt. Bad. You were putting so much pressure on my previously injured tailbone. We turned the squat bar around and I stood at the end of the bed. With your dads help I would squat to push while Deanna ended her shift and let Keri, our next nurse, know everything she needed to know. As Keri looks over the chart she looks at me and exclaims, “Oh my God! You’re the first timer whose water broke last night! You’re still here? Damn girl. Not many make it here, you’re a rock star. Let’s get this done.” As they finished up their conversation, I couldn’t take how hot it was anymore. I started to pull my dress off and it got stuck on the IV. I begged loudly for them to get it off of me. They undid my IV and now, mostly naked and not give a damn who saw me, I wasn’t too hot. The one thing I remembered as Deanna said goodbye, was she looked at Keri and said, “You text me after baby is here. I want to know how this one ends. She’s got it!” She was so invested in your delivery, and I still hope she wasn’t disappointed in the outcome.
We pushed for two hours. With each push, my back hurt more and more. Keri got me some apple juice, which was the greatest thing I had ever consumed in my life at that point. Dr. B came in to see how it all was going. Keri was giving a concerned vibe. Dr. B was starting to be concerned about my BP and your heart rate. Your Aunt M taught me enough to know when I needed to be worried, and when I needed to make decisions. In my gut I knew if I alleviated my pain, my BP would calm down, and with it you would too. I could tell Dr. B was considering making us do a c-section. So it was time.
Pineapple.
In a quivering, begging plea, I repeatedly said to your dad pineapple. Please, make it stop. Medicate me.
I cried. He cried. It was a hard decision for me to make. The pressure I had put on myself to accomplish my goal, and it wasn’t being met. I was crushed. Keri looked at me and said, “as far as us nurses are concerned, you’ve delivered this girl naturally. You did all of the steps except her actually fully coming out. That is no small feat. You’ve been the talk of the staff today.” Now, looking back, I’m sure her words were mostly to make me feel better about the decision, but then it was exactly what I needed. Reassurance that I did my absolute best, and that the decision was okay.
In comes Paul the anesthesiologist. They wasted no time. I needed help getting into an upright position so that we could do this thing. This was almost equally as hard as labor in my mind. My heart was also breaking. The experience I wanted to have, was not happening. To sit still while a giant needle was being inserted into my back felt impossible. I couldn’t control my bodies natural reaction to the contractions. So, I told him each time one was about to hit. I said some profanities. He made a joke about speaking French too, sine he was from France and had a heavy accent. I didn’t laugh. What has been true since my childhood, is I cannot be made to laugh when I’m focused on getting through the pain. I’m stone cold. He was so kind, patient, and truly amazing at his job. I felt like I was screaming at the top of my lungs trying to control myself. I held your dads hand and just yelled. So I thought, your dad later told me that I in fact did not scream at all, and was eerily silent through the whole thing. Guess that was completely internalized. The wave of relief that came over me is indescribable. It was euphoria. Paul came back in to check and make sure the epidural worked, and I smile at him. He tells another joke, and this time I actually laugh.
My BP went down, your heart rate got better, and Dr. B and Keri agreed we needed to take some time and rest. They put me back on the peanut now that I can’t feel the pain, and for the first time in 40 hours, I get a short 40 minute nap. It was all I need to feel rejuvenated and ready to go. We pushed for 3 more hours in every position you could think of. On my back, knees, sides, elevated both ways. The epidural allowed me to be in touch with my body in a different way, and I could tell when each contraction was coming exactly 60 seconds before it actually did. Like clock work. It allowed us time to make sure we were ready to use the contraction fully. We could see your head. You were so close, I could touch you. (I didn’t, because that wholeheartedly freaks me out, but I did see you in a mirror). I tore a little and began bleeding. We were approaching 24 hours of labor and I knew that dramatically increased the chances for hemorrhaging.
Tuesday – June 30, 2020
I looked at Keri and I saw worry.
I looked at Dr. B and I saw doubt.
Their words were encouraging, but their eyes said something else.
I asked Dr. B how much longer she was going to let me keep trying. She asked me, “how long do you actually have in you? It’s been a long time, there are signs that baby is starting to be distressed. I can’t safely let you go too much longer.” Keri let me know then that Dr. B had already let me go much longer than she typically lets her patients go, because of my sheer will.
I knew you weren’t coming. I knew something wasn’t right.
I looked at your dad and soberly said, pineapple. While still looking at him, and now with a quivering lip I said to Dr. B, “okay. I accept it. Let’s do the c-section.” It took everything I had left in me to not sob in front of the room full of staff. Dr. B said “alright, you heard mom, lets do this, let’s get this girl here safely,” and told everyone to get out and prep so we could have a minute alone. Keri grabbed my hand and said, “You did it girl. You are amazing. Don’t think for a second you failed, because you didn’t. I’ve been holding my worry in trying not to show you, but your labor is to heavy in your back, this is the right decision.” With tears silently streaming down my face, I told her I needed a minute to cry alone with my husband. They all left. Together, we cried. There were so many feelings. Disappointment, frustration, sadness, exhaustion, defeat. But also gratitude, readiness, joy that you were finally going to be here, and thankfulness that we were okay. Your dad has said he was disappointed and heartbroken for me, because he knew it’s not what I wanted, but also grateful that his family was safe.
They rolled us into the operating room, while your dad had to wait for all the prep to be done. It felt like forever before he joined us. Paul stood at my head, overwhelming my body with more of the epidural medication so that I couldn’t feel the surgery. Looking back, I am so thankful that Paul was there that day. He was reassuring when I started to get scared. I wasn’t cold, but I couldn’t stop violently shaking. It was distracting, at least. I don’t remember too much of the OR. Aggressive pulling. Dr. B yelling “go go go!” Keri having to put her arm up me to push you back to an acceptable place in my uterus for the surgery. Your first cry. Overwhelming relief. Joyful sobbing. Paul, not able to control his emotions with us.
Tuesday June 20, 2020, 2:49 AM.
You were here. You were safe. Dad was with you.
To maintain a sliver of my wishes, they cleaned you up, and placed you on my chest, letting me hold you first while they stitched me up. You were so calm. You looked into my soul. You look at me the exact same way to this day. I spoke softly to you. I started to fade, so a nurse grabbed you and gave you to dad. I don’t remember what happened after that. I had an allergic reaction to something and the medication they gave me to stop the reaction put me to sleep. I briefly woke up in the recovery room with Keri attaching you to my breast for a feeding, but fell back asleep while she did it. The next time I woke up, we were in our room for our stay.
We spent the next few days being poked and prodded. People in and out running tests, taking blood, pushing paperwork in our faces. One day I cried after the fifth time being interrupted trying to take a shower. We were once again given a saint of a nurse, Nikki. She took such good care of us both. She gave you your first bath, and it was a beautiful experience. I was still so tired. I didn’t know how to put you down. You needed to just be safe in my arms. I was in bliss, and unaware of how much pain I was truly in. Until we went home.
Thursday – July 2, 2020
We finally got to take you home. I thought going home would make everything better. Finally be left alone to figure out what our new normal looked like. That Thursday was the hardest night since you had been born. Far harder than the constant poking, prodding, and interruptions. I hadn’t laid flat at the hospital, because you were constantly feeding, so I didn’t realize that I couldn’t. It felt like I was being strangled by my organs. You fed constantly. My supply hadn’t come in yet, you were a lazy eater, and the only seat in the house that was comfortable was your rocking chair. So, that’s where we slept.
No one can prepare you for what postpartum is like. It was far harder than I could have imagined. Time continued to stand still. I cried, uncontrollably, and almost constantly. Self doubt, hints of regret, overwhelming sadness. Every single fiber of my body hurt. I could barely walk, my boobs were on fire, you were upset because you weren’t getting as much milk as you needed and wanted, and no one tells you the first poop after surgery is literally hell on earth. I had struggled with depression in the past and I knew my limits. We were there. I couldn’t stand to be touched by you. I didn’t want to look at you. I sobbed every single time you needed to latch, and cried the entire feeding. You felt that, and reacted to it. It was miserable. Extreme guilt overwhelmed me for feeling this way, and for wanting to not breast feed you. Since I was up all night anyway, I researched. I read countless articles. We are always told “breast is best!” What I came to find, is that’s total and complete bullshit. Fed is best, period. I still had guilt, and so much fear of being judged. But we stopped. It was like a curtain was lifted. Suddenly, you were content, because I was. You were eating so much better. Your dad finally stopped feeling helpless because he could feed you too. And for the first time since that Sunday when we entered the hospital to have you, I got 5 hours of uninterrupted sleep! Glorious, glorious sleep.
It took me several months, but I finally watched the video of the c-section. It was very healing to see you being born finally. What I learned from it is, you were completely face up, instead of down like you should have been. I couldn’t get you past my pelvis because your neck couldn’t bend that way. This is a product of the shape of my pelvis. Had I stayed on that peanut the first time we were put on it, it’s very possible we could have avoided surgery. Your positioning in my uterus on my pelvis, and the extended labor and delivery resulted in you having brachycephaly, and needing a doc band to fix your head shape. I’d like to say that I’m okay with the events that happened, but honestly, I’m still not. I’m hopeful that one day I’ll look back at the experience with complete joy, not just mostly joy with a hint of sad. I know some may think it’s selfish to still feel that way, but I don’t think so. It’s the biggest life event I’ve ever had, and it’s impossible to not change and mourn that change.
Your 6 months old now, and the literal light of my life. (Your dad’s, too.) You are pure joy, and it does make up for all of the other feelings. The experience taught me a lot about myself, and a lot about who I want to be as a person and as your mom. You are my greatest lesson and journey. I am so incredibly blessed to have you as my daughter. Every morning I wake up to you cooing, I stone faced shuffle into your room to get you, and then I see your precious smile, and my day is instantly a good one. Even our hard days are the greatest days I’ve ever had. Every minute with you is the greatest minute of my life.
Baby bug, you are so worth everything. I love you.