Isn't She Lovely, Made of Love

Early Friday morning, March 6, seems like so long ago.

Bruce and I woke a little late, showered, finished packing the bag and headed off for a light breakfast. We were both moving slowly, worn out and exhausted in the early morning sun. We got to the hospital a little late, but they checked us in right away and set me up in a labor and delivery room. The monitors were set, the IV was inserted, the Pitocin was started, and all we had to do was wait.

The contractions started coming regularly some time after the Pitocin was begun. It took some fairly high dose to get them regular, but once they started regularly, we were on our way. My wonderful friend Kelley came in at some point in the mid-afternoon; she had driven all the way up from her home in south Georgia to be with me for the weekend. She's my oldest friend, and is in school with ambitions to be a labor and delivery or nursery nurse, so besides being greatly supportive for me, it was a matter of professional interest for her. I was thrilled to have her there. Anyway, it took a number of hours before the contractions started to be painful; I watched TV on the computer with Bruce and chatted with Kelley while I waited for things to happen. The nurses kept offering me pain medication, but it honestly didn't hurt any more than the Braxton-Hicks contractions I'd been having for the last two months. The doctor came in and broke my water around midday. That was an experience; since he was having trouble snagging the bag with the hook, it felt like he was rooting around somewhere near my sternum for an extended period of time.

The contractions got painful, but bearable, sometime after my water was broken. I hung in there as long as I possibly could, but asked for IV pain medicine around 4 p.m. I was only 3-4 centimeters dilated at that point, and I really wanted to wait until 5 centimeters before I asked for the epidural. I remain convinced that the epidural slowed my labor with Caetlin, and I was determined to hang in there as long as possible to prevent that from happening here. The IV pain medicine took the edge off for another hour or so, and I breathed through another handful of stronger contractions and then asked for the anesthesiologist.

The nurse sprang into action, apparently having been waiting for something to do for me. She ushered my wonderful friend Kelley out of the room, turned up my IV fluids, and started setting up for the epidural. The doctor came in and performed the procedure; it went pretty well, as these things go. I was laid back down on the bed and watched for side effects and complications. Unfortunately, I was laid down flat, and became really uncomfortable. Then the nurse indicated that they were having a hard time tracking Phoebe's heart rate because mine was so high, they couldn't tell whether they were monitoring hers or mine. Tachycardia is not a common side effect of an epidural, and soon I had several nurses, the anesthesiologist and my doctor in the room trying to determine what, if anything, was wrong with me. The nurses were having trouble placing the internal scalp monitor on Phoebe's head and getting it to read consistently. I was uncomfortable, and a little scared, although I understood at that point that nothing was wrong with Phoebe. I honestly thought, not that I am suggesting I know more medicine than the personnel in the room, but I truly believed that if they had let me sit up or turn on my side to get more comfortable, and then left me alone for 10 minutes, I could relax and my heart rate would go down. That didn't happen, of course.

I tried relaxing as much as I could, given the frantic atmosphere in the room. I will say that from the two doctors, I got a vibe that they were more interested in understanding what was happening as a matter of professional curiosity, rather than that this was something to get worked up over. The nurses gave the vibe of an emergency, which was somewhat disconcerting. An EKG was performed, which was normal. My heart began to slow a bit. Then they lost Phoebe's monitor, and my nurse called for backup, "I need some help here!" The other nurse came in at a sprint, and my heart rate went way back up again. The anesthesiologist happened to be standing near me right then, and asked me how I was feeling. I noted that I had been starting to relax until all of this started, waving my hands around vaguely at the nurses.

I need to digress briefly here to say that my nurse, Claire, was lovely all day. Her backup, Heather, was, ah, lacking in the bedside manner department. Heather was the nurse who came in at a sprint when Claire called for help in monitoring Phoebe. When I made the comment to the anesthesiologist about all the activity in the room having made my heart rate go back up, Heather heard me and said, "Oh, sometimes we just move a little fast, that's all."

Now, I am not stupid. I realize Heather had not been caring for me all day, and maybe could be forgiven for not realizing that I am not stupid, but I did not appreciate being patronized at that particular moment. I could easily perceive that she and Claire, at least, thought there was something wrong that required quick action, and even though I tried to take my cue from the doctors that nothing was wrong, my increasing heartbeat betrayed me.

Finally, though, they got Phoebe monitored well, and the ping pong of her heartbeat, strong and steady, filled the room. They all left me, Kelley came back in, and I was able to get comfortable and really relax.

Except I wasn't. The epidural was wonderful, in that I remained able to wiggle my toes and move my legs and retain some sensation in my lower body. When I had Caetlin, I was completely numb from the waist down, until I laid on one side and the medication drained out of the other. I was actually grateful for that, even though it meant some of the pain was back, because at least I could feel something. Here was a much nicer experience, where I had a good amount of feeling, and even a little pain with the contractions, but it was completely bearable. Anyway, by the time everything calmed down, I had started to feel really uncomfortable pressure, like I needed a toilet immediately. I mentioned this to Claire, and she said, that's great, you're close to being able to push, I bet. Call me when it feels constant, not just pressure with the contraction.

I waited. I chatted with Kelley and Bruce, and I waited, and I grew more uncomfortable. I probably waited longer than strictly necessary, because when I called for the nurse, the doctor came in and checked me and said, "You're completely dilated. Looks like it's time to push." He left the room, promising to be back for delivery, and the nurse (a different nurse, as the shift had changed) and Bruce helped me hold my legs to push. I pushed through one contraction- and it felt so wonderful to give in to the urge to try and relieve that pressure!- and then another, and maybe one more, and then I felt the pain that meant that Phoebe's head was crowning. The nurse had realized that I was not going to be pushing for very long, and had already paged the doctor, mere moments after he left the room, but he hadn't shown back up yet. The nurse told me to breathe through the contraction, to try and wait for the doctor to arrive, and that may have been the hardest thing I've ever done. I did it through a second contraction, and marveled between the pains that the doctor hadn't shown up yet. I could feel the urgency, the immediacy of birth, and not pushing took superhuman effort. (Kelley later told me that at that point, maybe an inch or so of Phoebe's head was already out, meaning I wasn't going to be able to hold her back for long.)

When the third contraction came, I tried to breathe again as it ramped up, and I whimpered, "It hurts," to no one in particular, and the nurse said, "Just do what you have to do, sweetie." With the largest relief I can ever remember feeling, and gratefulness, I gave one long, hard push, and felt Phoebe's head pop out- like a champagne cork, like I remember Caetlin's doing as well. I gave a long groan, a product of the release of that awful pressure more than of pain, and the rest of Phoebe's body slithered out with no extra effort from me. She was born on the bed between my legs, delivered by the nurse.

I heard her cry immediately, and looked down and there she wriggled, covered in blood and goop. They wiped her off a little and handed her to me, and I tried to put her to breast but she was too angry at the disruption of her warm, dark home, at having been thrust into this cold, bright place. She cried non-stop for the first 20 minutes of her life, only stopping after she had been wrapped up, clean and warm and brought back to me. So I held her and looked at her in wonder, she with her mouth screaming open, and watched Bruce cut her umbilical cord, and saw her large amounts of dark hair (the old wives' tale about heartburn was right in this case). She was clearly perfect, healthy and strong.

The doctor finally came in at some point during all this, having never received his page. He apologized so profusely; I felt worse for him than for myself for his having missed Phoebe's big entrance. He found out later the cell service had a nearby tower that was down, so pages didn't come through. He was appalled and clearly very upset, but the hard work was upon him anyway. The delivery was easy; getting me together afterward was a little more challenging. I apparently bled pretty freely, and lost more blood than was strictly good for me. I didn't need a transfusion, thankfully, but I did stay hooked up to the IV for another day, so I could continue to receive Pitocin to help my uterus contract sufficiently to stop the bleeding. He also stitched me up- I had two really small tears, minor skid marks, really, that required a couple of stitches each. When all was finished, I was horribly woozy from blood loss, and when the nurse brought me apple juice, it was the best thing I ever tasted, raising my blood sugar to a level where I could think clearly. After I was moved to my post-partum room, I was able to order food, which also helped.

Phoebe started nursing at some point after all the ministrations were done, and she suckled for an hour without stopping. I took that as a good sign that our breastfeeding journey might go well together. They took her off to the nursery for her various tests and examinations, and wheeled me down the hall to my room, where I was unable to sleep because of hormones and adrenaline (I remember that from Caetlin too, only because she was born in the morning, that energy was expended during the day. This time I just lay awake looking at the ceiling and trying to get comfortable).

The rest is denoument. My IV came out Saturday afternoon, as my bleeding was well under control and my uterus was in great shape. I was up and walking around within a few hours of Phoebe's birth, and I was in very little pain. Kelley stayed with me most of the day on Saturday, so Bruce could be with Caetlin and his folks, and then I was discharged on Sunday (Caetlin was suffering from a little cold, so we didn't bring her to visit me in the hospital). I filled the pain medication prescriptions I was given, but I haven't taken any of the pills- haven't needed so much as an Advil. My blood pressure trended down while I was in the hospital, and though I haven't checked it since I've been home, I feel so much better, I have to believe it's lower. I feel so incredibly good- even though I am dealing with the whiplash psychological strangeness of being Not Pregnant instead of Pregnant, I am just so happy to feel physically well. No more heartburn, I'm sleeping better (not quantity, but definitely quality), no more being stuck in bed.

When they discharged us from the hospital, I felt the sun and warm breeze on my face as I climbed into the car. I looked with wonder up at the beautiful blue sky. Phoebe slept peacefully in the car seat. I blinked, having not been outside in two days, having been pregnant the last time I breathed fresh air, now having a new life in my care. It was only two days, but- in all respects, in every way- it was a lifetime.