So.
Rhys is seven months old. And I am a mere three days and change from being 32.
This makes no sense to me. That I am 32 years old. That I have lived 32 years and done so little with them. That I have lost more good friends than I've made, that I've let so many people and opportunities slip past me that I cling to the ones I have left with what I am not afraid to admit is a bit of desperation. How am I 32 years old, when I still make the same mistakes, fall prey to the same vanities, worry over the same insecurities, think the same thoughts as the silly little me I was 16 years ago - in Kira Nelson's basement or the back of Dave Crane's car or tied to a tree in the woods near Brent Concilio's house? (these are all very long stories. And let's face it, internet - we just don't know each other well enough yet.)
I realize this is absurd but...had I any idea how VERY formative were those formative years, I'd have been a lot more careful with them. You know, listened to more classical music. Paid a bit more attention in class. Learned how to apply makeup that didn't just involve black lipstick and heavy eyeliner. Loved more or loved less, or loved differently. Loved differently, definitely. I had a genius for befriending really wonderful young men and falling in love with absolute bastards. Uffda. This is probably my mother's fault, somehow.
Of course the bastards have all fallen away, pared off my life like the rind of a fruit, (and obviously I got over the habit of falling for them since Sandy is 110% NOT a bastard, except in the literal sense and who am I to judge, I was born out of wedlock also...), and the really wonderful young men for the most part I can look up and visit with on occasion but aren't a part of the me that I am the way they once were. For the most part. Ditto with all of the girls. Though I never really got the hang of being friends with girls...
And someday Le Squeak will be going off to high school and I will be chewing whatever nails I have left to the quick wondering and hoping and praying that he will have all the good and only a leavening of the bad.
32 years old. Ugh. I feel like I ought to feel old. Wise. Accomplished. Instead I just feel like me, only tired.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Not Dead Yet
I haven't forsaken y'all. Just haven't had a moment. Rhys has been dealing with some stuff, which means of course EVERYONE has been dealing with some stuff, (he's very egalitarian that way), and finding the time to brush my teeth has been wicked difficult, to say nothing of writing blog posts. I have them written in my head, but unfortunately the technology to suck them out of my head and onto the internet either doesn't exist yet, or isn't widely available.
The good news - Rhys has long stretches of time where he is a fairly sane person!
The bad news - He also has long stretches of time where he is NOT.
More on this when possible.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Parenthood
On our last day in the hospital, while I was enjoying the effects of post-partum hormone craziness and hooked up to an EKG and a bag of IV fluids, the baby photographer trotted into our room to take Rhys' photographs.
Sandy, crazed with the pride of new fatherhood, bought everything she showed him. If she'd offered to sell him a bridge in Brooklyn he'd have signed on enthusiastically. Couldn't REALLY blame him though - as the pictures she took of our wee one were lovely. Or as lovely as pictures of a baby could be, that, as Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman once wrote, distantly resembled Sir Winston Churchill.
And then, you know, we went home. We put the baby in the car seat, and put the car seat onto the Snap & Go stroller, and the nurses insisted on wheeling me out in a wheelchair because of my recent dizziness. A final injunction not to try and walk and carry the baby around until I was feeling "more myself" and off they sent us.
We got into the car, and we drove out into the damp early evening, as the sun broke through the clouds.
Sandy, crazed with the pride of new fatherhood, bought everything she showed him. If she'd offered to sell him a bridge in Brooklyn he'd have signed on enthusiastically. Couldn't REALLY blame him though - as the pictures she took of our wee one were lovely. Or as lovely as pictures of a baby could be, that, as Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman once wrote, distantly resembled Sir Winston Churchill.
We got into the car, and we drove out into the damp early evening, as the sun broke through the clouds.
And you've already seen the video of us arriving home and the dogs greeting us etc etc so I won't recap that. We took the baby out of his car seat, and we brought him up to the nursery, and I settled very, very gingerly into the giant glider that we had bought from Pottery Barn Kids because Sandy envisioned himself sharing in the nursing duties a month or two in the future and couldn't fit into the smaller, more me-sized chairs, and I held Rhys and stared at him and thought to myself, "holy shit. What now?"
Because no matter how many books you've read and classes you've attended, nothing prepares you for the moment when you realize it's all on you, and you'd better Man Up because this tiny, bird-boned creature lying across your lap has got no one else but you. Briefly, you pity him. You think, "oh buddy - did you ever draw the short straw. I have no idea what I'm doing." And you continue to think that at intervals for the next month or two, interspersed with the much vaster moments wherein you pity yourself.
Dear reader - I offer you this prayer, fervently, and with great passion - may you never, never experience new parenthood the way I did.
Because Rhys was a TERRIBLE newborn. And I'm sure there are people out there who would take exception to that expression, but if I was asked once, I was asked a billion times, by well-meaning family members, acquaintances, and complete strangers at the grocery store, "Is he a good baby?" and I, in my own forthright way, would look them in the eyes and say, "Absolutely not. No. Not even a little. But he is MY baby, and I love him. When he lets me." I don't really know what people mean when they ask "is he a good baby?" but I assume it has to do with being quiet and peaceful and sleeping well and being willing to sit in a car seat, or stroller, or placed down in a crib. Rhys was none of those things.
Rhys was not a lovable baby. He was not a cozy baby. He was not a comfortable little armful to snuggle. When the nurses say "we don't put the batteries in until you take him home" they are not f*ing kidding. We got him home, and he went from quiet little cuddly bundle who made tiny pterodactyl squeakings when hungry to demonic, possessed, back-arching, fist-flailing, purple-faced breathless screaming, psycho-baby monster. I thought when babies were upset you picked them up, held them close to you, and rocked and swayed and bounced a bit while telling them you loved them, and they would cuddle into your chest and hiccup a few times and settle down. I had dim memories of doing so with the baby I once au paired for, back when I was 15. And, you know, pushing him in a stroller until he fell asleep.
Not my baby. For one thing, I could never put him down. Putting him down would result in pyrotechnics I cannot even describe, and I'm a person who is pretty well at home to description. So I would start OUT holding and cuddling and swaying and telling him I loved him. That was our DEFAULT position. It left us pretty much nowhere to go when his hysteria escalated. My baby would punch me in the face. He'd push me away as hard as his tiny little newborn arms could push. He'd arch his back and try to dive out of my arms. He'd scream. And scream. And scream. And scream. Even while eating. Even while sleeping. The only time he EVER cuddled up to me was the time I was trying to clip his fingernails and accidentally clipped his finger instead. Then he burrowed into my neck, screaming and sobbing hysterically. I have never felt so guilty in my entire life. He never looked AT me, either. He'd stare at the wall next to the daybed in the nursery where we were sleeping and nursing, but never at my face. If I tried to put my face in his line of sight, he'd avert his - like looking at my face was overstimulating to him. It was awful.
The only time...the ONLY time...when I could hold my baby, and feel close to my baby, and freely love my baby, was when he was sleeping. A few people indicated some concern about me co-sleeping with Rhys, or said something along the lines of "maybe you'd sleep better in a different room?" and I didn't know how to tell them that those moments when Rhys slept next to me, with his feet shoved up against my legs and his hands resting on my chest, were the only moments in which my love for him could unfold in my heart gently, and naturally. All the times that he was awake I loved him with sheer bloody-minded stubbornness - I loved him against all sanity and against his will. When he was sleeping in my arms...that was the only time I felt like a mother. But how can you tell someone that although you HURT with how much you love your baby, the only time that it feels natural is when he is sleeping next to you? I would always just mutter something about it making him sleep a little better, and change the subject.
I asked everyone who came to visit him if this was normal - if it was normal for a baby to wake up from a deep sleep screaming like he'd been stabbed - to avoid looking at faces when all the books say that newborns are supposed to be obsessed with faces - and they'd all say, while not quite making eye contact, "oh yes...he's just colicky. They outgrow it." And I'd hold my desperately screaming, flailing baby and wonder what I'd done wrong. What I was doing wrong. How the heck I could fix it. Worrying, even though I had no reason to, and I knew you couldn't tell this early, if maybe there was something REALLY wrong with him...some dis-associative disorder. I worried all the time.
It seemed like he hardly ever slept. I read that newborns need to sleep 18 hours a day - Rhys was only sleeping 13, in tiny increments all day and night, cat naps from which he'd wake up howling and purple. Sometimes he'd scream so hard he'd stop breathing and nothing would come out and I'd hold him and count the seconds and say "breathe, Rhys, breathe..." and the eventual inward gasp would be such a relief...
For three weeks, this went on. I could write about how I was doing - the slow healing of all the birth trauma, my discovery that the Boppy really worked better as a haemorrhoid and torn vajayjay pillow than as a breastfeeding assistant, (true story ladies - write that down for when it's your turn. Very comfy to sit on, the Boppy, under certain circumstances), the weirdness of trying desperately to use the bathroom and then complete the VERY long and involved post-partum toilet ritual on oneself with a squirt bottle etc etc within the 5 minutes one's baby is able to sleep in a swing or in his father's arms.* I could go on. The bitch of the thing is, at a time when you really need all of your faculties and body parts working in perfect order, you're uncomfortable and exhausted even BEFORE you add in a screaming infant. But compared to what I was feeling and experiencing with Rhys, none of that mattered. I was obsessed with him, and his misery. I would use up precious minutes in which he slept reading websites and parenting help books and trying to find some piece of advice that would let me help him. People would say, "nap when the baby naps!" all cheerfully and I would try, of course, but a lot of that time I spent trying to figure out what on earth I could do to make him feel better. I read the Happiest Baby on the Block. We tried swaddling - he hated it and would wriggle his arms free in seconds, howling.
Sandy and I became two ships passing in the night. We'd trade off baby duty - one attempting to soothe the baby while the other caught some rest. One night, a few days after bringing Rhys home, Sandy was soothing him while I took a nap. He came into the bedroom with Rhys asleep in his arms and when I wistfully remarked that he was much better at putting the baby to sleep than I was, he showed me how hard he had been swinging him from side to side to get him to sleep. (He was cradling him in his arms and then doing a very fast upper body twist from side to side.) I freaked out, thinking he'd given Rhys Shaken Baby Syndrome. He pointed out that Rhys' head and neck were held totally still, but I reminded him that his wee brain was loose and boinking around in his skull. The evening went by fairly normally but the next morning, Rhys wouldn't wake up. Even when I put a wet washcloth on his neck. Even when I stripped him and took his temperature rectally. I FREAKED out. We brought him to the doctor's where they checked his eyeballs and of course as soon as we got there he woke up just fine. And promptly began "fussing," which is a really cute and polite way of describing what Rhys would do.
There were nights when I just sat on the nursery floor, alone in the dark, and held him while he screamed, because I had run out of ideas for things to try, and I just held him and sobbed and repeated "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." And I thought to myself that if he were someone else's baby, someone who had had a few before, he'd be happier, or healthier, or better taken care of. I felt like a failure.
We asked our pediatrician about his screaming at each visit, and she'd say, "we consider colic to be three hours of inconsolable screaming, three nights in a row..." and then she'd say, "is he consolable?" and we'd say, "well, sort of..." because we'd discovered through trial and error and many, many long days and nights, a few things that would help - (primarily sitting on a large exercise ball and bouncing quite hard while holding him in arms, although you could occasionally distract him by walking around in our living room, that has dark beams on a white ceiling - he would stare up at it and be quiet - and sometimes holding him and shhhhhhhing would work), and she'd say "call us when he's inconsolable" and we'd leave feeling like giant assholes. Giant assholes with a less-than-optimal baby. One of those babies that everyone tells you will "get better" with "time."**
I would hold him, and bounce on the exercise ball, and tell him all of the things he would someday do.
"Someday, you'll wake up and smile at me, instead of screaming and crying."
"Someday, you'll look AT me, instead of away."
"Someday, you'll nurse calmly and peacefully, instead of pulling off, and arching your back, and screaming, and then attacking the breast again, and then pulling off..."
"Someday, you'll hug me."
"Someday, you'll relax in my arms."
It helped, a little.
Then one day he vomited a few times. Not a passive spit up, but an actual vomit - he cleared my shoulder and launched a fair sized amount of milk onto the floor. The next day, he did it even more. Then, the next morning, he vomited 8 times in a 20 minute period. He vomited up so much milk I couldn't figure out where he'd been KEEPING it. We called the doctor and said we were coming in. She evaluated him and then sent us to the hospital. She wanted him to get an ultrasound to test for Pyloric Stenosis. We were at the exact window where symptoms for that disease would traditionally kick in, and she was concerned.
Sandy and I brought him to the hospital, where we met the very nice chief pediatric surgeon, who looked at him and said he didn't see any signs of pyloric stenosis just on examination, (he said normally babies would be much further along in terms of dehydration and general unhealthiness and that Rhys looked quite healthy), but he sent us up to get an ultrasound just in case his pyloris was just starting to harden/narrow.
We waited a long time for the ultrasound machine to be available, and Rhys screamed for all of it.
Finally the tech came and got us, and brought us into the room, and had us lay Rhys down on the adult sized examination table, and put the goo on his belly, and said "okay now I want you to feed him so I can see how his muscles work..." and I said, "oh. Okay..." and I went to let down the side of my tank top. And the tech said, "Oh - you're just breastfeeding?!" and I said "yes." And unspoken behind that "yes" was "are you kidding? This hospital pushed breastfeeding on me so hardcore I'd feel like a monster if I wasn't..." She said, "let me raise up the table then..." but in a somewhat miffed tone of voice. I don't know why she was pissed, I was the one who had to stand and dangle my breasts over the table and into Rhys' face, for all the world like a huge moo-cow, and let him nurse while she wanded his tummy.
She didn't find any evidence of stenosis. We went back to meet with the pediatric surgeon again, who told us that she hadn't found any evidence of stenosis, but that we were to keep watching him, especially any vomiting, because he could be JUST starting with the issue. And if the vomiting didn't improve we were to bring him back for another ultrasound. Then the doctor said, "to me, he's presenting more like a reflux baby." I stared at him. Reflux had come up again and again in my frantic internet searching. I'd actually mentioned it to our pediatrician, and she'd told us if he was, he would grow out of it eventually. I said, "I think so too." Then he said, "I assume you aren't against medication?" and I said, "Yes I am. Very strongly. But I don't give a damn - give it to me anyway. We will try ANYTHING." He prescribed Zantac for Rhys. We filled that prescription at light speed, and we drove home, and we prayed to any god that would listen that it would help our baby.
And thank all that is holy - it did. You would not believe the difference a week of being on Zantac worked on Rhys. He slowly...slowly...slooooowly improved. I think it took a week or two for his esophagus to heal, because we still had some screaming for a bit, and some arching, etc, but by the end of the first week it was like we had a brand new baby. There were actually times when he was awake, and NOT screaming.
He was still a difficult baby - he still wouldn't tolerate being put down - he still slept poorly - he still wouldn't look at me - he still got fussy and gassy and miserable and would have crying jags but...but he no longer woke up from a sound sleep screaming like he'd been stabbed. He no longer fought my breast at every feeding. He was no longer this impossible cipher that nothing I did would please. Sandy and I could start to find humor in our previous, desperate attempts to soothe our baby.
And we started to get to know Rhys.
*and in retrospect the wild way in which I would slather a few witch hazel pads with the haemorrhoid cream the hospital sent me home with, and stuff them into places I won't enumerate here, while hopping towards the bathroom door hauling up my pants with the other hand because the baby had started screaming in the swing, is very funny. In retrospect. At the time, it was all of one piece with the rest of the pathos.
**When I was working on this post, I asked Sandy for his memories of that time, because I was sure that I was remembering it wrong - and that there had to be times when he was awake and content. But Sandy said, "all I remember is screaming. I remember that one night when you needed to sleep so badly I took him into the TV room and turned the volume up on the tv as high as it would go because I couldn't hear it otherwise over his screaming. For three hours he and I sat there, and all three hours, he screamed."
So I guess my memories aren't that far off.
Because no matter how many books you've read and classes you've attended, nothing prepares you for the moment when you realize it's all on you, and you'd better Man Up because this tiny, bird-boned creature lying across your lap has got no one else but you. Briefly, you pity him. You think, "oh buddy - did you ever draw the short straw. I have no idea what I'm doing." And you continue to think that at intervals for the next month or two, interspersed with the much vaster moments wherein you pity yourself.
Dear reader - I offer you this prayer, fervently, and with great passion - may you never, never experience new parenthood the way I did.
Because Rhys was a TERRIBLE newborn. And I'm sure there are people out there who would take exception to that expression, but if I was asked once, I was asked a billion times, by well-meaning family members, acquaintances, and complete strangers at the grocery store, "Is he a good baby?" and I, in my own forthright way, would look them in the eyes and say, "Absolutely not. No. Not even a little. But he is MY baby, and I love him. When he lets me." I don't really know what people mean when they ask "is he a good baby?" but I assume it has to do with being quiet and peaceful and sleeping well and being willing to sit in a car seat, or stroller, or placed down in a crib. Rhys was none of those things.
Rhys was not a lovable baby. He was not a cozy baby. He was not a comfortable little armful to snuggle. When the nurses say "we don't put the batteries in until you take him home" they are not f*ing kidding. We got him home, and he went from quiet little cuddly bundle who made tiny pterodactyl squeakings when hungry to demonic, possessed, back-arching, fist-flailing, purple-faced breathless screaming, psycho-baby monster. I thought when babies were upset you picked them up, held them close to you, and rocked and swayed and bounced a bit while telling them you loved them, and they would cuddle into your chest and hiccup a few times and settle down. I had dim memories of doing so with the baby I once au paired for, back when I was 15. And, you know, pushing him in a stroller until he fell asleep.
Not my baby. For one thing, I could never put him down. Putting him down would result in pyrotechnics I cannot even describe, and I'm a person who is pretty well at home to description. So I would start OUT holding and cuddling and swaying and telling him I loved him. That was our DEFAULT position. It left us pretty much nowhere to go when his hysteria escalated. My baby would punch me in the face. He'd push me away as hard as his tiny little newborn arms could push. He'd arch his back and try to dive out of my arms. He'd scream. And scream. And scream. And scream. Even while eating. Even while sleeping. The only time he EVER cuddled up to me was the time I was trying to clip his fingernails and accidentally clipped his finger instead. Then he burrowed into my neck, screaming and sobbing hysterically. I have never felt so guilty in my entire life. He never looked AT me, either. He'd stare at the wall next to the daybed in the nursery where we were sleeping and nursing, but never at my face. If I tried to put my face in his line of sight, he'd avert his - like looking at my face was overstimulating to him. It was awful.
The only time...the ONLY time...when I could hold my baby, and feel close to my baby, and freely love my baby, was when he was sleeping. A few people indicated some concern about me co-sleeping with Rhys, or said something along the lines of "maybe you'd sleep better in a different room?" and I didn't know how to tell them that those moments when Rhys slept next to me, with his feet shoved up against my legs and his hands resting on my chest, were the only moments in which my love for him could unfold in my heart gently, and naturally. All the times that he was awake I loved him with sheer bloody-minded stubbornness - I loved him against all sanity and against his will. When he was sleeping in my arms...that was the only time I felt like a mother. But how can you tell someone that although you HURT with how much you love your baby, the only time that it feels natural is when he is sleeping next to you? I would always just mutter something about it making him sleep a little better, and change the subject.
I asked everyone who came to visit him if this was normal - if it was normal for a baby to wake up from a deep sleep screaming like he'd been stabbed - to avoid looking at faces when all the books say that newborns are supposed to be obsessed with faces - and they'd all say, while not quite making eye contact, "oh yes...he's just colicky. They outgrow it." And I'd hold my desperately screaming, flailing baby and wonder what I'd done wrong. What I was doing wrong. How the heck I could fix it. Worrying, even though I had no reason to, and I knew you couldn't tell this early, if maybe there was something REALLY wrong with him...some dis-associative disorder. I worried all the time.
It seemed like he hardly ever slept. I read that newborns need to sleep 18 hours a day - Rhys was only sleeping 13, in tiny increments all day and night, cat naps from which he'd wake up howling and purple. Sometimes he'd scream so hard he'd stop breathing and nothing would come out and I'd hold him and count the seconds and say "breathe, Rhys, breathe..." and the eventual inward gasp would be such a relief...
For three weeks, this went on. I could write about how I was doing - the slow healing of all the birth trauma, my discovery that the Boppy really worked better as a haemorrhoid and torn vajayjay pillow than as a breastfeeding assistant, (true story ladies - write that down for when it's your turn. Very comfy to sit on, the Boppy, under certain circumstances), the weirdness of trying desperately to use the bathroom and then complete the VERY long and involved post-partum toilet ritual on oneself with a squirt bottle etc etc within the 5 minutes one's baby is able to sleep in a swing or in his father's arms.* I could go on. The bitch of the thing is, at a time when you really need all of your faculties and body parts working in perfect order, you're uncomfortable and exhausted even BEFORE you add in a screaming infant. But compared to what I was feeling and experiencing with Rhys, none of that mattered. I was obsessed with him, and his misery. I would use up precious minutes in which he slept reading websites and parenting help books and trying to find some piece of advice that would let me help him. People would say, "nap when the baby naps!" all cheerfully and I would try, of course, but a lot of that time I spent trying to figure out what on earth I could do to make him feel better. I read the Happiest Baby on the Block. We tried swaddling - he hated it and would wriggle his arms free in seconds, howling.
Sandy and I became two ships passing in the night. We'd trade off baby duty - one attempting to soothe the baby while the other caught some rest. One night, a few days after bringing Rhys home, Sandy was soothing him while I took a nap. He came into the bedroom with Rhys asleep in his arms and when I wistfully remarked that he was much better at putting the baby to sleep than I was, he showed me how hard he had been swinging him from side to side to get him to sleep. (He was cradling him in his arms and then doing a very fast upper body twist from side to side.) I freaked out, thinking he'd given Rhys Shaken Baby Syndrome. He pointed out that Rhys' head and neck were held totally still, but I reminded him that his wee brain was loose and boinking around in his skull. The evening went by fairly normally but the next morning, Rhys wouldn't wake up. Even when I put a wet washcloth on his neck. Even when I stripped him and took his temperature rectally. I FREAKED out. We brought him to the doctor's where they checked his eyeballs and of course as soon as we got there he woke up just fine. And promptly began "fussing," which is a really cute and polite way of describing what Rhys would do.
There were nights when I just sat on the nursery floor, alone in the dark, and held him while he screamed, because I had run out of ideas for things to try, and I just held him and sobbed and repeated "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." And I thought to myself that if he were someone else's baby, someone who had had a few before, he'd be happier, or healthier, or better taken care of. I felt like a failure.
We asked our pediatrician about his screaming at each visit, and she'd say, "we consider colic to be three hours of inconsolable screaming, three nights in a row..." and then she'd say, "is he consolable?" and we'd say, "well, sort of..." because we'd discovered through trial and error and many, many long days and nights, a few things that would help - (primarily sitting on a large exercise ball and bouncing quite hard while holding him in arms, although you could occasionally distract him by walking around in our living room, that has dark beams on a white ceiling - he would stare up at it and be quiet - and sometimes holding him and shhhhhhhing would work), and she'd say "call us when he's inconsolable" and we'd leave feeling like giant assholes. Giant assholes with a less-than-optimal baby. One of those babies that everyone tells you will "get better" with "time."**
I would hold him, and bounce on the exercise ball, and tell him all of the things he would someday do.
"Someday, you'll wake up and smile at me, instead of screaming and crying."
"Someday, you'll look AT me, instead of away."
"Someday, you'll nurse calmly and peacefully, instead of pulling off, and arching your back, and screaming, and then attacking the breast again, and then pulling off..."
"Someday, you'll hug me."
"Someday, you'll relax in my arms."
It helped, a little.
Then one day he vomited a few times. Not a passive spit up, but an actual vomit - he cleared my shoulder and launched a fair sized amount of milk onto the floor. The next day, he did it even more. Then, the next morning, he vomited 8 times in a 20 minute period. He vomited up so much milk I couldn't figure out where he'd been KEEPING it. We called the doctor and said we were coming in. She evaluated him and then sent us to the hospital. She wanted him to get an ultrasound to test for Pyloric Stenosis. We were at the exact window where symptoms for that disease would traditionally kick in, and she was concerned.
Sandy and I brought him to the hospital, where we met the very nice chief pediatric surgeon, who looked at him and said he didn't see any signs of pyloric stenosis just on examination, (he said normally babies would be much further along in terms of dehydration and general unhealthiness and that Rhys looked quite healthy), but he sent us up to get an ultrasound just in case his pyloris was just starting to harden/narrow.
We waited a long time for the ultrasound machine to be available, and Rhys screamed for all of it.
Finally the tech came and got us, and brought us into the room, and had us lay Rhys down on the adult sized examination table, and put the goo on his belly, and said "okay now I want you to feed him so I can see how his muscles work..." and I said, "oh. Okay..." and I went to let down the side of my tank top. And the tech said, "Oh - you're just breastfeeding?!" and I said "yes." And unspoken behind that "yes" was "are you kidding? This hospital pushed breastfeeding on me so hardcore I'd feel like a monster if I wasn't..." She said, "let me raise up the table then..." but in a somewhat miffed tone of voice. I don't know why she was pissed, I was the one who had to stand and dangle my breasts over the table and into Rhys' face, for all the world like a huge moo-cow, and let him nurse while she wanded his tummy.
She didn't find any evidence of stenosis. We went back to meet with the pediatric surgeon again, who told us that she hadn't found any evidence of stenosis, but that we were to keep watching him, especially any vomiting, because he could be JUST starting with the issue. And if the vomiting didn't improve we were to bring him back for another ultrasound. Then the doctor said, "to me, he's presenting more like a reflux baby." I stared at him. Reflux had come up again and again in my frantic internet searching. I'd actually mentioned it to our pediatrician, and she'd told us if he was, he would grow out of it eventually. I said, "I think so too." Then he said, "I assume you aren't against medication?" and I said, "Yes I am. Very strongly. But I don't give a damn - give it to me anyway. We will try ANYTHING." He prescribed Zantac for Rhys. We filled that prescription at light speed, and we drove home, and we prayed to any god that would listen that it would help our baby.
And thank all that is holy - it did. You would not believe the difference a week of being on Zantac worked on Rhys. He slowly...slowly...slooooowly improved. I think it took a week or two for his esophagus to heal, because we still had some screaming for a bit, and some arching, etc, but by the end of the first week it was like we had a brand new baby. There were actually times when he was awake, and NOT screaming.
He was still a difficult baby - he still wouldn't tolerate being put down - he still slept poorly - he still wouldn't look at me - he still got fussy and gassy and miserable and would have crying jags but...but he no longer woke up from a sound sleep screaming like he'd been stabbed. He no longer fought my breast at every feeding. He was no longer this impossible cipher that nothing I did would please. Sandy and I could start to find humor in our previous, desperate attempts to soothe our baby.
And we started to get to know Rhys.
*and in retrospect the wild way in which I would slather a few witch hazel pads with the haemorrhoid cream the hospital sent me home with, and stuff them into places I won't enumerate here, while hopping towards the bathroom door hauling up my pants with the other hand because the baby had started screaming in the swing, is very funny. In retrospect. At the time, it was all of one piece with the rest of the pathos.
**When I was working on this post, I asked Sandy for his memories of that time, because I was sure that I was remembering it wrong - and that there had to be times when he was awake and content. But Sandy said, "all I remember is screaming. I remember that one night when you needed to sleep so badly I took him into the TV room and turned the volume up on the tv as high as it would go because I couldn't hear it otherwise over his screaming. For three hours he and I sat there, and all three hours, he screamed."
So I guess my memories aren't that far off.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
During Labor...
so I'm trying to process and get through all the little bits and pieces of labor & delivery stuff left on my phone before I start talking about the past four months and/or laying the groundwork for my eventual insanity plea. And I came across this little gem and knew I couldn't live a moment more without sharing it with all of you. Which was, naturally, my intention when taking the video in the first place. I thought to myself - dammit. My readers MUST KNOW THIS! And so here you are...
At Monmouth Medical Center, the staff encourages you to walk in this hallway that they refer to as Labor Row or similar. Walking is supposed to help the baby drop, and your cervix open, and possibly keep you out of the nursing staff's hair for a few hours.
And despite being very uncomfortable, etc - one cannot help laughing hysterically when walking in this hallway.
I will show you why.
Yeah. Yeah...that happens. It's like all their artwork was designed (by Georgia O'Keefe) to make you think about your vagina. Like you can be in labor and marching up and down that hallway for hours WITHOUT thinking about your vagina.
Amazing...
(p.s. I had a strong aversion to that scary red one that makes you think of your vagina as the gates of hell. Especially since I was giving birth to the antichrist...)
At Monmouth Medical Center, the staff encourages you to walk in this hallway that they refer to as Labor Row or similar. Walking is supposed to help the baby drop, and your cervix open, and possibly keep you out of the nursing staff's hair for a few hours.
And despite being very uncomfortable, etc - one cannot help laughing hysterically when walking in this hallway.
I will show you why.
Yeah. Yeah...that happens. It's like all their artwork was designed (by Georgia O'Keefe) to make you think about your vagina. Like you can be in labor and marching up and down that hallway for hours WITHOUT thinking about your vagina.
Amazing...
(p.s. I had a strong aversion to that scary red one that makes you think of your vagina as the gates of hell. Especially since I was giving birth to the antichrist...)
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
I'm Going Home...
Please excuse the football block Sandy was forced to employ in order to keep Nanook from climbing into the carseat with Rhys...
Friday, August 26, 2011
When Last We Met...
I'd just given birth to a baby that is *probably* not the Antichrist, (although with an earthquake on the east coast this past week, and a once-in-a-lifetime Hurricane of Doom headed towards us this weekend, I'd say the jury is still out on that one), and had been wheeled past the L&D nurses' station (to a round of applause from all the nurses) and up to the postpartum ward on the fifth floor.
But before we move on completely from the whole birthing experience - here are some things that anyone who intends to have a baby naturally should know.
1. It will very likely not be fun.
2. It will very likely hurt. A LOT.
3. Don't let the damned doctors check your dilation frequently. Because that stresses you out more than anything, hearing, "oh - still 4 cm!" after you've been walking for an hour and a half and praying to god that you've made some sort of progress, cervix-wise. Likewise, do not look at the clock.
4. Cry. Seriously, cry. Weep like a little girl. And while you're crying, have your husband/doula/birthing partner tell you that everything is going to be okay, and that they are not going to leave you, and that they won't let anything happen to you. Because as soon as you internalize that shit, your cervix will open like the Gates of Heaven and your baby will come hurtling into the world.
5. GET A DAMNED ENEMA AS SOON AS YOU GET TO THE HOSPITAL!
Pictures! (Photo Credits to Mother to Mother Services, LLC)
Longest ten seconds of my life, until he started screaming...
And then he pretty much never stopped screaming - for the next two months.
Here's what I have to say about postpartum.
It's FUCKING uncomfortable. This is not, necessarily, the hospital's fault...I mean thanks to the delivery of the terrible poop I had given myself hemorrhoids of epic proportions (they are, thank god, gone now) and the "minor" tear that Dr. G had told me about right after delivery turned out to be not so very minor at all, and possibly not even a tear. (The nurse during my final postpartum visit to Dr. G's office at 6 weeks after birth said, "okay and did you have any tearing besides the episiotomy?" and I said, "what episiotomy?" and she said, "uhhh..." Hah!) Anyway, when I was finally brave enough to hop into the shower and wash that area, I discovered a developing scar at least two inches long. Minor tear my FOOT!
So sitting down is bloody uncomfortable. The nurses make you an ice pack out of a newborn diaper ripped open and stuffed with ice cubes, which although an incredibly huge load to put into one's pants actually does feel way better than the cooling gel packs they also provide. And of course you're wearing the Pad Sandwich which also contrives to make you walk (if you are brave enough to try and walk) like you just rode a mule down into, and back out of, the Grand Canyon. (I know what I'm talking about).
The bed is highly adjustable but all it allows you to do is choose which part of yourself is going to hurt most. The nurses bring you a small square egg crate to sit on, but trust me - it doesn't really help either.
Your baby, luckily, is practically comatose the entire time you're there. The nurses joke that they don't put the batteries in until you bring the baby home. And this is true. So apart from trying to figure out breast feeding, issues with the baby were non-existent. He slept, and ate, and slept while eating which stressed me out, and I had to learn how to make a sandwich out of my nipple, (true story), and how to wake him up while he was eating so that he'd actually eat instead of sinking back into a coma as soon as the nipple was in his face.
So the baby isn't what wakes you up every hour. It's the damned nurses. Nurses come to check on the baby if the baby stays in your room. Nurses come to take your freaking blood pressure constantly. People clean the room. People bring you food. People bring you menus so you can choose the food they will bring you later. If you happen to be married to a guy who knows some people on the board, people from the hospital's Foundation bring you free parking vouchers for your guests, and a baby gift. Because I am clueless, I assumed that they brought teddy bears to every new baby. Like some kind of neonatal candystripers. Sandy thinks my naivete is endearing. *shrug*
Anyway, the point is, there is a never ending procession in and out of your room, day and night. If you thought you had a hard time sleeping while in early labor, you discover very quickly that sleeping AFTER labor is even more impossible. And on top of everything else, you feel compelled to check that the baby is still breathing every 1/2 hour.
Then Sandy decided that we should send the baby to the nursery, so we could get some sleep. Evidently the adorable little pterodactyl squeakings that Rhys made in his sleep were keeping Sandy up. So he sent him to the nursery, and I lay awake for two hours worrying about him and finally made Sandy go and get him back again. Pity Sandy you guys. My bed sucked, but HE was sleeping on this thing.
Anyway. I gave birth Monday night - by Wednesday morning we were ready to check out. I'd showered, put on a little makeup, put in earrings...I was looking forward to a free post-partum massage that the nurses had nominated me for, (they really, REALLY, loved my birth plan), and a photo session for Rhys that morning before check out. And then I realized that, since I was walking around a fair bit for the first time since I delivered, suddenly I was feeling heinously dizzy and my heart was beating a million miles a minute. As it happened, the nurse who checked my blood pressure every time I sneezed appeared, and I asked her to take my heart rate. Her eyebrows shot up after she had done so, and she muttered something to the other nurse in the room and then left to go call the attending physician. My heartrate was through the roof.
After an EKG and bolusing a bag of saline into me*, (dammit! I'd gone the entire birth without a single needle stuck in me and here I was getting IV fluids!), the doctor on call (guess who it was...Enrique. Son of a...) announced that he believed it was all just hormonal and that I should go home. But whatever I did, not to pick up or carry the baby while I was feeling dizzy and having tachycardic episodes.
Awesome.
Once again, Dr. Enrique made me feel like an hysterical female. Seriously, I dislike that guy. DISLIKE.
And so we went home.
*Funny story - as the IV bag drained into me, my left breast inflated. No lie. INFLATED. I watched my shirt pulling to the left as it swelled. It was twice the size of the right one in a matter of minutes. I told the nurse, who turned down the IV drip, and then went to tell the doctor. He said there was no way that could happen. But you guys - it did. He refused to believe me. However, the nurse, who actually looked at it, agreed with me. It inflated. Freaky.
But before we move on completely from the whole birthing experience - here are some things that anyone who intends to have a baby naturally should know.
1. It will very likely not be fun.
2. It will very likely hurt. A LOT.
3. Don't let the damned doctors check your dilation frequently. Because that stresses you out more than anything, hearing, "oh - still 4 cm!" after you've been walking for an hour and a half and praying to god that you've made some sort of progress, cervix-wise. Likewise, do not look at the clock.
4. Cry. Seriously, cry. Weep like a little girl. And while you're crying, have your husband/doula/birthing partner tell you that everything is going to be okay, and that they are not going to leave you, and that they won't let anything happen to you. Because as soon as you internalize that shit, your cervix will open like the Gates of Heaven and your baby will come hurtling into the world.
5. GET A DAMNED ENEMA AS SOON AS YOU GET TO THE HOSPITAL!
Pictures! (Photo Credits to Mother to Mother Services, LLC)
(Note, pregnant women - that shit works. Teach your husbands to press that pressure point as hard as they possibly can during contractions. WORKS. And that's my doula doing the pinching. My husband does not have a french manicure.)
Longest ten seconds of my life, until he started screaming...
And then he pretty much never stopped screaming - for the next two months.
Here's what I have to say about postpartum.
It's FUCKING uncomfortable. This is not, necessarily, the hospital's fault...I mean thanks to the delivery of the terrible poop I had given myself hemorrhoids of epic proportions (they are, thank god, gone now) and the "minor" tear that Dr. G had told me about right after delivery turned out to be not so very minor at all, and possibly not even a tear. (The nurse during my final postpartum visit to Dr. G's office at 6 weeks after birth said, "okay and did you have any tearing besides the episiotomy?" and I said, "what episiotomy?" and she said, "uhhh..." Hah!) Anyway, when I was finally brave enough to hop into the shower and wash that area, I discovered a developing scar at least two inches long. Minor tear my FOOT!
So sitting down is bloody uncomfortable. The nurses make you an ice pack out of a newborn diaper ripped open and stuffed with ice cubes, which although an incredibly huge load to put into one's pants actually does feel way better than the cooling gel packs they also provide. And of course you're wearing the Pad Sandwich which also contrives to make you walk (if you are brave enough to try and walk) like you just rode a mule down into, and back out of, the Grand Canyon. (I know what I'm talking about).
The bed is highly adjustable but all it allows you to do is choose which part of yourself is going to hurt most. The nurses bring you a small square egg crate to sit on, but trust me - it doesn't really help either.
Your baby, luckily, is practically comatose the entire time you're there. The nurses joke that they don't put the batteries in until you bring the baby home. And this is true. So apart from trying to figure out breast feeding, issues with the baby were non-existent. He slept, and ate, and slept while eating which stressed me out, and I had to learn how to make a sandwich out of my nipple, (true story), and how to wake him up while he was eating so that he'd actually eat instead of sinking back into a coma as soon as the nipple was in his face.
So the baby isn't what wakes you up every hour. It's the damned nurses. Nurses come to check on the baby if the baby stays in your room. Nurses come to take your freaking blood pressure constantly. People clean the room. People bring you food. People bring you menus so you can choose the food they will bring you later. If you happen to be married to a guy who knows some people on the board, people from the hospital's Foundation bring you free parking vouchers for your guests, and a baby gift. Because I am clueless, I assumed that they brought teddy bears to every new baby. Like some kind of neonatal candystripers. Sandy thinks my naivete is endearing. *shrug*
Anyway, the point is, there is a never ending procession in and out of your room, day and night. If you thought you had a hard time sleeping while in early labor, you discover very quickly that sleeping AFTER labor is even more impossible. And on top of everything else, you feel compelled to check that the baby is still breathing every 1/2 hour.
Then Sandy decided that we should send the baby to the nursery, so we could get some sleep. Evidently the adorable little pterodactyl squeakings that Rhys made in his sleep were keeping Sandy up. So he sent him to the nursery, and I lay awake for two hours worrying about him and finally made Sandy go and get him back again. Pity Sandy you guys. My bed sucked, but HE was sleeping on this thing.
Anyway. I gave birth Monday night - by Wednesday morning we were ready to check out. I'd showered, put on a little makeup, put in earrings...I was looking forward to a free post-partum massage that the nurses had nominated me for, (they really, REALLY, loved my birth plan), and a photo session for Rhys that morning before check out. And then I realized that, since I was walking around a fair bit for the first time since I delivered, suddenly I was feeling heinously dizzy and my heart was beating a million miles a minute. As it happened, the nurse who checked my blood pressure every time I sneezed appeared, and I asked her to take my heart rate. Her eyebrows shot up after she had done so, and she muttered something to the other nurse in the room and then left to go call the attending physician. My heartrate was through the roof.
After an EKG and bolusing a bag of saline into me*, (dammit! I'd gone the entire birth without a single needle stuck in me and here I was getting IV fluids!), the doctor on call (guess who it was...Enrique. Son of a...) announced that he believed it was all just hormonal and that I should go home. But whatever I did, not to pick up or carry the baby while I was feeling dizzy and having tachycardic episodes.
Awesome.
Once again, Dr. Enrique made me feel like an hysterical female. Seriously, I dislike that guy. DISLIKE.
And so we went home.
*Funny story - as the IV bag drained into me, my left breast inflated. No lie. INFLATED. I watched my shirt pulling to the left as it swelled. It was twice the size of the right one in a matter of minutes. I told the nurse, who turned down the IV drip, and then went to tell the doctor. He said there was no way that could happen. But you guys - it did. He refused to believe me. However, the nurse, who actually looked at it, agreed with me. It inflated. Freaky.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Baby, Baby - I'm taken with the notion...
Just when you thought I'd tapped out the market on hideous ear worms...
When last we were discussing the process, I'd just lost a certain something that begins with M and ends with Plug - around 3 or 4 in the morning of the 19th. That's usually a good indicator of some amount of dilation beginning in the cervix, but a woman can walk around for days or weeks after losing her plug. So I was trying not to get excited. And although I did have some stronger Braxton Hicks' contractions that morning, they didn't seem like anything to write home to mom about.
By the late afternoon of the 19th, I'd changed my tune. These suckers HURT. They were starting in my lower back, wrapping around to the front and radiating down into my thighs. Clearly, something was going on. But I could tell they weren't close enough together - nowadays the hospital doesn't want to see you until your contractions are five minutes apart, last a minute each, and have been at that frequency for 1 hour.
I also knew that someone could go into labor, and then stall or have labor stop, only to have it start up again a day later. So - I was still telling myself that it could be a while.
But I ran around getting everything ready, just in case this WAS it. Sandy got home from work, and I told him I was having contractions. We timed them for a bit - they weren't regular enough to be encouraging. But I had a feeling...so I had Sandy call our dog sitter and ask her to keep her cell phone on her overnight - just in case. Around 9 o'clock he suggested we watch some TV but I was exhausted and a little stressed out about the whole thing, and I decided I just wanted to go to bed.
Here's the thing. I was petrified to give birth to this baby. And for a horribly shallow reason - I was afraid I was giving birth to a very ugly antichrist.
Hear me out.
At our 34 week ultrasound, the ultrasound tech sneakily switched paddles on us, and the next thing Sandy and I knew, we were looking at a 3D ultrasound of what appeared to be a squashed, demonic Chris Farley.
I'm not kidding. I vowed never to show this to a living soul, but in light of Rhys' obvious physical perfection I no longer feel insecure about sharing this photograph with you guys. THIS is what I thought I was giving birth to.
Note the terrifying devil horn.
So yeah - while I was anxious as anything to NOT be pregnant any longer, I can't deny that I was terrified of the damage that devil horn would do on the way out. And also that my baby would be born looking like a deformed John Belushi, and I wouldn't be able to love him. Yes. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to love my demonic obese baby. I admit it.
Anyway, all of those things were going through my mind, and I just couldn't stand to be awake and thinking about it anymore. So I said, "let's go to bed," and we did. But unfortunately sleeping proved impossible. I couldn't lie on either side - the contractions that were wrapping around from my back into my thighs made my hips hurt so badly in the prone position that I scrambled upright immediately, shrieking. I propped myself up on pillows in the seated position, but worried that semi-reclining as I was the baby might roll into a bad (posterior) position for delivery. So then I piled the pillows up in FRONT of myself, in a big stack, folded my arms on top, and rested my head on my arms - so I was leaning forward. It felt more comfortable than anything else, but it was still almost impossible to sleep. I'd nod off like the recalcitrant student in class, and then another contraction would come along and wake me. I was breathing through the contractions very deeply, and on the exhale I'd whisper, "ooooo-open" and try and visualize parts of my body that needed to cooperate doing so.
I timed my contractions for four hours. They were getting much closer together, and lasting a good long time. And they were DEFINITELY getting stronger and more painful.
Meanwhile, my beloved husband was lying next to me in bed, snoring. I considered killing him, (as I had at so very many points in this pregnancy...), But I figured if this WAS labor, better for him to get the sleeping out of the way so at least one of us was well rested for the event. Around 4 a.m. I couldn't take it any more. I got up and went down to the kitchen and started baking scones for the labor and delivery nurses at the hospital. At that point, I knew we were going in - my contractions had been steadily worsening all night.
At five a.m., with baked goods stowed in a basket along with a bunch of chocolate bars from Norway, I called our pet sitter, Amy. I told her I thought we'd be leaving in about a half hour, and asked if she could be at the house by then. She said sure. Then I went upstairs and woke Sandy. "We're going," I said. "I can't take waiting any more." He got out of bed and started packing up the car while I called my OB's office to let them know. I changed my clothes and let the dogs out. The phone rang - it was the hospital checking to see that I was really in labor. I gave them the latest stats from my timing, and they told me they'd see us soon. Amy arrived while we were still packing up the car. She wished us luck and told us not to worry about the bears, and then we were in the car and driving toward the hospital. The sun was just rising. Sandy asked if I wanted to stop on the bridge into Sea Bright and take a picture - but at that moment I was contracting and I declined. I took a photo as we drove instead.
It was a very pretty morning - a perfect day to deliver the antichrist.
Arrived at the hospital around 5:30. The parking garage had just reopened, (at our hospital if you arrive between 12 and 5 you have to go through the ER), and we got an excellent spot right by the doors. Sandy was pleased about that. We walked in, told the guy at the front desk we were headed to L&D, and made our way there. When we walked in, the nurses at the nurses' station all looked at us. They looked tired and cranky. One of them said, "Can we HELP you?" I moved forward so that my belly was visible around the desk, and said, "well. I'm in labor. I think. Also," and I hefted the basket, "I made you breakfast."
The nurses stared. "Of COURSE you're in labor!" one cried, enthusiastically. They crowded around the basket. "They're scones," I said, modestly. "I baked them this morning." "You baked them? While in LABOR?" One of the nurses asked. "Well they're REALLY easy to make," I mumbled, while holding onto the edge of the desk through a contraction. "Let's get you into triage and get some monitors on you," said the nurse who evidently was on shift to take the next customer. I did the usual things one does when one is admitted to a hospital. I peed in a cup. I had my clothes stolen, and was given two hospital gowns to wear. They took my blood. They hooked me up to a heart rate monitor, (for the baby), and the toco, (to measure my contractions). I watched it, fascinated, while another contraction hit me and the little print out showed sudden spikes, one long big spike, and then receding spikes. "Look honey," I said to Sandy, "I made you a pretty mountain range..."
My OB was there. He checked me. "Two centimeters," he announced. Crap. Usually they don't admit you until three or so. He suggested I go walk the hallways to try and intensify things and he'd check me again in a half hour. So Sandy and I went walkies. After a half hour, Dr. G came to find us and brought us back to the triage area to check me again. He said, "well...I'll call it a three. I don't think you'll be any more comfortable at home so let's get you admitted." That process taken care of, we were brought to our room in Labor and Delivery - a HUGE room at the very end of the hallway - because we were using a birthing tub and needed the elbow space for my own little slice of Sea World.
And Sandy went to the car to grab our birthing paraphernalia, snacks, drinks, birthing ball, massage oils, etc etc. I sat in the room and felt bewildered and scared. This was happening. Nothing I could do would stop it. And although it's uncommon, women still die in childbirth - even in this country. Oh god. Oh god. And for some ridiculous reason here I was insisting I was going to do this thing naturally, like I had something to prove. Oh god. And those thoughts explain the expression on my face, below.
You'd have freaked out too.
Shamu is unhappy in her exhibit...
When last we were discussing the process, I'd just lost a certain something that begins with M and ends with Plug - around 3 or 4 in the morning of the 19th. That's usually a good indicator of some amount of dilation beginning in the cervix, but a woman can walk around for days or weeks after losing her plug. So I was trying not to get excited. And although I did have some stronger Braxton Hicks' contractions that morning, they didn't seem like anything to write home to mom about.
By the late afternoon of the 19th, I'd changed my tune. These suckers HURT. They were starting in my lower back, wrapping around to the front and radiating down into my thighs. Clearly, something was going on. But I could tell they weren't close enough together - nowadays the hospital doesn't want to see you until your contractions are five minutes apart, last a minute each, and have been at that frequency for 1 hour.
I also knew that someone could go into labor, and then stall or have labor stop, only to have it start up again a day later. So - I was still telling myself that it could be a while.
But I ran around getting everything ready, just in case this WAS it. Sandy got home from work, and I told him I was having contractions. We timed them for a bit - they weren't regular enough to be encouraging. But I had a feeling...so I had Sandy call our dog sitter and ask her to keep her cell phone on her overnight - just in case. Around 9 o'clock he suggested we watch some TV but I was exhausted and a little stressed out about the whole thing, and I decided I just wanted to go to bed.
Here's the thing. I was petrified to give birth to this baby. And for a horribly shallow reason - I was afraid I was giving birth to a very ugly antichrist.
Hear me out.
At our 34 week ultrasound, the ultrasound tech sneakily switched paddles on us, and the next thing Sandy and I knew, we were looking at a 3D ultrasound of what appeared to be a squashed, demonic Chris Farley.
I'm not kidding. I vowed never to show this to a living soul, but in light of Rhys' obvious physical perfection I no longer feel insecure about sharing this photograph with you guys. THIS is what I thought I was giving birth to.
Note the terrifying devil horn.
So yeah - while I was anxious as anything to NOT be pregnant any longer, I can't deny that I was terrified of the damage that devil horn would do on the way out. And also that my baby would be born looking like a deformed John Belushi, and I wouldn't be able to love him. Yes. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to love my demonic obese baby. I admit it.
Anyway, all of those things were going through my mind, and I just couldn't stand to be awake and thinking about it anymore. So I said, "let's go to bed," and we did. But unfortunately sleeping proved impossible. I couldn't lie on either side - the contractions that were wrapping around from my back into my thighs made my hips hurt so badly in the prone position that I scrambled upright immediately, shrieking. I propped myself up on pillows in the seated position, but worried that semi-reclining as I was the baby might roll into a bad (posterior) position for delivery. So then I piled the pillows up in FRONT of myself, in a big stack, folded my arms on top, and rested my head on my arms - so I was leaning forward. It felt more comfortable than anything else, but it was still almost impossible to sleep. I'd nod off like the recalcitrant student in class, and then another contraction would come along and wake me. I was breathing through the contractions very deeply, and on the exhale I'd whisper, "ooooo-open" and try and visualize parts of my body that needed to cooperate doing so.
I timed my contractions for four hours. They were getting much closer together, and lasting a good long time. And they were DEFINITELY getting stronger and more painful.
Meanwhile, my beloved husband was lying next to me in bed, snoring. I considered killing him, (as I had at so very many points in this pregnancy...), But I figured if this WAS labor, better for him to get the sleeping out of the way so at least one of us was well rested for the event. Around 4 a.m. I couldn't take it any more. I got up and went down to the kitchen and started baking scones for the labor and delivery nurses at the hospital. At that point, I knew we were going in - my contractions had been steadily worsening all night.
At five a.m., with baked goods stowed in a basket along with a bunch of chocolate bars from Norway, I called our pet sitter, Amy. I told her I thought we'd be leaving in about a half hour, and asked if she could be at the house by then. She said sure. Then I went upstairs and woke Sandy. "We're going," I said. "I can't take waiting any more." He got out of bed and started packing up the car while I called my OB's office to let them know. I changed my clothes and let the dogs out. The phone rang - it was the hospital checking to see that I was really in labor. I gave them the latest stats from my timing, and they told me they'd see us soon. Amy arrived while we were still packing up the car. She wished us luck and told us not to worry about the bears, and then we were in the car and driving toward the hospital. The sun was just rising. Sandy asked if I wanted to stop on the bridge into Sea Bright and take a picture - but at that moment I was contracting and I declined. I took a photo as we drove instead.
It was a very pretty morning - a perfect day to deliver the antichrist.
Arrived at the hospital around 5:30. The parking garage had just reopened, (at our hospital if you arrive between 12 and 5 you have to go through the ER), and we got an excellent spot right by the doors. Sandy was pleased about that. We walked in, told the guy at the front desk we were headed to L&D, and made our way there. When we walked in, the nurses at the nurses' station all looked at us. They looked tired and cranky. One of them said, "Can we HELP you?" I moved forward so that my belly was visible around the desk, and said, "well. I'm in labor. I think. Also," and I hefted the basket, "I made you breakfast."
The nurses stared. "Of COURSE you're in labor!" one cried, enthusiastically. They crowded around the basket. "They're scones," I said, modestly. "I baked them this morning." "You baked them? While in LABOR?" One of the nurses asked. "Well they're REALLY easy to make," I mumbled, while holding onto the edge of the desk through a contraction. "Let's get you into triage and get some monitors on you," said the nurse who evidently was on shift to take the next customer. I did the usual things one does when one is admitted to a hospital. I peed in a cup. I had my clothes stolen, and was given two hospital gowns to wear. They took my blood. They hooked me up to a heart rate monitor, (for the baby), and the toco, (to measure my contractions). I watched it, fascinated, while another contraction hit me and the little print out showed sudden spikes, one long big spike, and then receding spikes. "Look honey," I said to Sandy, "I made you a pretty mountain range..."
My OB was there. He checked me. "Two centimeters," he announced. Crap. Usually they don't admit you until three or so. He suggested I go walk the hallways to try and intensify things and he'd check me again in a half hour. So Sandy and I went walkies. After a half hour, Dr. G came to find us and brought us back to the triage area to check me again. He said, "well...I'll call it a three. I don't think you'll be any more comfortable at home so let's get you admitted." That process taken care of, we were brought to our room in Labor and Delivery - a HUGE room at the very end of the hallway - because we were using a birthing tub and needed the elbow space for my own little slice of Sea World.
And Sandy went to the car to grab our birthing paraphernalia, snacks, drinks, birthing ball, massage oils, etc etc. I sat in the room and felt bewildered and scared. This was happening. Nothing I could do would stop it. And although it's uncommon, women still die in childbirth - even in this country. Oh god. Oh god. And for some ridiculous reason here I was insisting I was going to do this thing naturally, like I had something to prove. Oh god. And those thoughts explain the expression on my face, below.
By 8 a.m. I was bouncing on my birthing ball, and on the phone with my doula. She'd be along a little later - urged me to drink water, and keep moving.
(Note the lack of cankles. Pregnancy - I defeat you!)
By 10 o'clock, the smile was starting to fray a bit. I was sitting on the bed draped over the birthing ball because my back was killing me. My nurse for the morning hooked me up to the monitors to check on the baby and my contractions.
Yay! Roe!
(Note the lack of cankles. Pregnancy - I defeat you!)
By 9 o'clock, I'd traded my flip flops for a pair of incredibly sexy hospital socks...but the "oh god I'm giving birth to a soul-sucking demon who will eventually bring about Armageddon" expression is pretty much the same.
I may have beat the cankles, but there was no keeping the double-chin away.
And then, thank all that is holy, my doula Roe arrived. I immediately felt less tense and worried. There was now one person in the room who knew what the heck she was doing, and I was more than happy to turn the birth over to her and take orders.
Yay! Roe!
Feeling much more confident with Roe in the room, the smile came back. She tried to get me to rest a little bit, since I hadn't slept the night before. But that just wasn't happening.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the room...
My own private otter sanctuary was being constructed and filled.
And soon I was in it.
My own private otter sanctuary was being constructed and filled.
And soon I was in it.
It did help, to sit in the hot water and try and relax a bit. Whenever a contraction hit I would have to bolt up onto my hands and knees, though - so about every 3 to 4 minutes I'd suddenly yell "pillow!" and then dive forward, and Sandy would have to grab the pillow to keep it from plopping into the pool with me. At the time, I wasn't able to appreciate the humor of this little ballet, but now it strikes me as unspeakably funny.
It was 1 o'clock, and I wasn't progressing as quickly as any of us would have liked. The midwife from Dr. G's practice who was on duty came and checked me, and I was dilated to about a 5, I think. So since I was already in the bed, Roe said, "why don't you stay there, and I'll give you a foot rub?"
This seemed like a wonderful idea. What I didn't know was that Roe knew all about the pressure points in the bottoms of feet that can stimulate contractions. Evil woman. She gave me a soothing foot rub and then I realized she was just sitting there, holding onto my pinky toes in a disturbingly meaningful way. I looked at her, and then my next contraction hit and it practically ripped me apart.
Holy cow you guys, pressure points are insane.
I should add at this point, that my nurse had left for the day and I'd gotten another one - this one younger and considerably more hip. I gave her my birth plan. Exactly as I had originally written it. I had meant to rewrite it as Roe suggested but never got around to it. I told the nurse, "I process stress through humor so...anyway - enjoy." She took it out to the nurses' station. She came back 10 minutes later. "That was the funniest thing I've ever read," she said. Then she added, "by the way, all the other nurses want to meet you - they may be popping in to say hello."
Sure enough, soon I had a procession of nurses coming by to tell me that in 25 years of nursing, they'd never read a better birth plan...or that they were thinking of blacking out my name and handing it out to every pregnant woman to come into L&D, telling them "THIS is how you should be thinking!"
Two o'clock. I'm pretty sure Roe had me squatting on the toilet during this photo. She sent me in there and said, "why don't you labor on the toilet for a bit - it's a supported squat and it will help speed your contractions. Spread your cheeks before you sit down, it'll help things relax."
Birth. Not for the squeamish or missish.
It was 1 o'clock, and I wasn't progressing as quickly as any of us would have liked. The midwife from Dr. G's practice who was on duty came and checked me, and I was dilated to about a 5, I think. So since I was already in the bed, Roe said, "why don't you stay there, and I'll give you a foot rub?"
This seemed like a wonderful idea. What I didn't know was that Roe knew all about the pressure points in the bottoms of feet that can stimulate contractions. Evil woman. She gave me a soothing foot rub and then I realized she was just sitting there, holding onto my pinky toes in a disturbingly meaningful way. I looked at her, and then my next contraction hit and it practically ripped me apart.
Holy cow you guys, pressure points are insane.
I should add at this point, that my nurse had left for the day and I'd gotten another one - this one younger and considerably more hip. I gave her my birth plan. Exactly as I had originally written it. I had meant to rewrite it as Roe suggested but never got around to it. I told the nurse, "I process stress through humor so...anyway - enjoy." She took it out to the nurses' station. She came back 10 minutes later. "That was the funniest thing I've ever read," she said. Then she added, "by the way, all the other nurses want to meet you - they may be popping in to say hello."
Sure enough, soon I had a procession of nurses coming by to tell me that in 25 years of nursing, they'd never read a better birth plan...or that they were thinking of blacking out my name and handing it out to every pregnant woman to come into L&D, telling them "THIS is how you should be thinking!"
Two o'clock. I'm pretty sure Roe had me squatting on the toilet during this photo. She sent me in there and said, "why don't you labor on the toilet for a bit - it's a supported squat and it will help speed your contractions. Spread your cheeks before you sit down, it'll help things relax."
Birth. Not for the squeamish or missish.
We did a bunch of walking, up and down a hallway. Lots of high-stepping walking, where I lifted my legs up and to the sides as high as I could, and squatting during contractions, and leaning forward so Roe or Sandy could push on my lower back, which helped a bit during the peak. Then back to the room, and back into the tub.
Please excuse the graphic nature of this next photo. At some point, I looked down into the tub, and recoiled in horror. "OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT?!" I said. Roe looked. "That's you, dear," she said. Meaning that it was a clot or similar that I had passed, and it was perfectly normal. But you guys, it wasn't. It wasn't perfectly normal. I stared at it.
"It...it looks just like a baby attached to a placenta by an umbilical cord!" I said, totally freaking out. Sandy popped up to take a picture, (why?! So I could share it with you guys, that's why), and Roe rolled her eyes and went to get her little fishy-straining net, to remove it.
Tell me I'm wrong you guys. Tell me I'm wrong.
Please excuse the graphic nature of this next photo. At some point, I looked down into the tub, and recoiled in horror. "OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT?!" I said. Roe looked. "That's you, dear," she said. Meaning that it was a clot or similar that I had passed, and it was perfectly normal. But you guys, it wasn't. It wasn't perfectly normal. I stared at it.
"It...it looks just like a baby attached to a placenta by an umbilical cord!" I said, totally freaking out. Sandy popped up to take a picture, (why?! So I could share it with you guys, that's why), and Roe rolled her eyes and went to get her little fishy-straining net, to remove it.
Tell me I'm wrong you guys. Tell me I'm wrong.
You'd have freaked out too.
Around 3:30, shit got real.
Shamu is unhappy in her exhibit...
(perhaps she needs enrichment toys)
And you can tell that things intensified very quickly after that point, because that's the last picture Sandy took. Ho ho hoooooly transition. What can I say about transition? I would have done anything, given ANYTHING, to not be in my body any longer. When a contraction hit I practically climbed the side of my tank trying to find some way to get away from my body. Sandy lovingly leaned down to say, "do whatever makes it feel better, sweetheart" and I, on my hands and knees in a tub of water, and convinced I was dying, replied, "NOTHING makes it feel better, you FUCK HEAD."
I heard my nurse, over by the bed, quickly suppress a bray of laughter.
Nothing brings a couple together, and closer, than the miracle of birth you guys. Romance.
Transition lasted for a while. Roe had me get out of the tub and go sit on the toilet again, where I proceeded to give birth to the most horrifying bowel movement of my 31 year experience. Evidently as the baby moves down the birth canal the head scrapes along anything in its path. So he was pushing this BM ahead of him. It was indescribably awful. I was SCREAMING. I was convinced, in fact, that I was giving birth to the baby. When I realized that I was actually just delivering a poop, I started losing it. Sandy said, "you can do this! you can do this!" and I said, "I CAN'T do this. I just went through all that to give birth to a CRAP!" Again. Romance.
And then I started to feel the urge to push. They set me up with the squat bar on the bed so I could be upright, and I tried my hand at pushing for the first time - and immediately broke my water. That was exciting. One minute - fledgling pushing - next minute, giant puddle around ankles. No one else could see that it had happened though, because I had a sheet over my hips and thighs because I was cold. (Still damp from being in tub). So when it happened I must have looked totally shocked, and then I said, "Um. You guys, I think my water just broke..." and they were all, "oh good...good..." and I said, "Yeah. Uh - aren't we supposed to check it for meconium?" Roe moved the sheet aside, and we all looked at the water around my feet. Clear. Good news.
The midwife who had been pinch-hitting for Dr. G all day came in to say goodbye to me as she was going off duty, and found me pushing. A quick pelvic exam and she realized if Dr. G didn't hurry up he was going to miss this birth - so she opted to stay on just in case. I had progressed a lot faster than anyone had expected me to.
I heard my nurse, over by the bed, quickly suppress a bray of laughter.
Nothing brings a couple together, and closer, than the miracle of birth you guys. Romance.
Transition lasted for a while. Roe had me get out of the tub and go sit on the toilet again, where I proceeded to give birth to the most horrifying bowel movement of my 31 year experience. Evidently as the baby moves down the birth canal the head scrapes along anything in its path. So he was pushing this BM ahead of him. It was indescribably awful. I was SCREAMING. I was convinced, in fact, that I was giving birth to the baby. When I realized that I was actually just delivering a poop, I started losing it. Sandy said, "you can do this! you can do this!" and I said, "I CAN'T do this. I just went through all that to give birth to a CRAP!" Again. Romance.
And then I started to feel the urge to push. They set me up with the squat bar on the bed so I could be upright, and I tried my hand at pushing for the first time - and immediately broke my water. That was exciting. One minute - fledgling pushing - next minute, giant puddle around ankles. No one else could see that it had happened though, because I had a sheet over my hips and thighs because I was cold. (Still damp from being in tub). So when it happened I must have looked totally shocked, and then I said, "Um. You guys, I think my water just broke..." and they were all, "oh good...good..." and I said, "Yeah. Uh - aren't we supposed to check it for meconium?" Roe moved the sheet aside, and we all looked at the water around my feet. Clear. Good news.
The midwife who had been pinch-hitting for Dr. G all day came in to say goodbye to me as she was going off duty, and found me pushing. A quick pelvic exam and she realized if Dr. G didn't hurry up he was going to miss this birth - so she opted to stay on just in case. I had progressed a lot faster than anyone had expected me to.
(Dr. G later told me that he hadn't wanted to say anything but Rhys had still been at zero station the last time they checked my cervix, and he figured we had a good long time of labor ahead of us, and three hours of pushing, easy. But Rhys had other plans...)
They had me breathe through a bunch of contractions to try and buy Dr. G time, but I had had enough of that after a bit and said I needed to push. The midwife set up the foot stirrups to give me traction. Then I looked up and said, "I don't know what to do..." and she said, "I'll show you what to do. Take my hands." I took them. She said, "the next time you feel a contraction, you're going to take a deep breath in, you're going to tuck your chin into your chest, you're going to HOLD your breath, and you're going to do the world's biggest ab crunch. Pull on my hands..."
I did what she said, though I kept forgetting to tuck my chin into my chest and they had to remind me. I did a push or two that way, but it didn't feel like anything much was happening. Then someone female, (not sure who - might have been the midwife, might have been Roe, might have been the nurse), said: "come on Vanessa. I know you can spread your legs wider than that..." Which in retrospect is maybe not the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. But it was true. For what else had I being doing yoga for the past nine months, and sitting for large stretches of time in the Tailor pose? I spread 'em as wide as I possibly could, and suddenly I felt Rhys just shoot downward. The group of people gathered around my pelvis cheered. "LIKE THAT! Exactly like that! Keep it up!" But as the contraction eased I could feel him sliding back. I tried to hold him in place, and they told me to relax and let go. "But he's moving back up! I don't want him to move back up!" I yelled. "He's not moving as far as you think he is. It's okay. Relax. Wait for the next one."
Things went on like that for about 6 pushes. Then he was crowning, which is a whole other order of unpleasantness...it burns, y'all, and you're lying there thinking he's never going to make it out, that he's going to get stuck there, and in spite of all your vows to the contrary, you will do anything, including begging for an episiotomy, in order to get him out into the world where he belongs. But as it happened it wasn't necessary. Dr. G suddenly started barking orders. "Vanessa when I say push I want you to push as hard as you can. When I say stop, I want you to stop pushing, and when I say half strength I want you to only push half as hard as you can." I tried to internalize this through all the pain. The next contraction came, and I pushed. The nurse was yelling, "add to it! add to it!" and Sandy came back up to my shoulder with tears in his eyes, "he's almost here. You're doing it. You can do it." And one more push and I could feel his head clear. The rest of his body followed very very easily. If the head is painful, the body is not - it feels like...um...the physical approximation of "flblblbflblblfblblbflblbflblflb..."
And then you have a baby. They put him on your tummy to dry him off, and you're shaking and in shock and staring down at this creature that you absolutely cannot believe you created.
And if you're me, you have a double chin while you're doing that.
I did what she said, though I kept forgetting to tuck my chin into my chest and they had to remind me. I did a push or two that way, but it didn't feel like anything much was happening. Then someone female, (not sure who - might have been the midwife, might have been Roe, might have been the nurse), said: "come on Vanessa. I know you can spread your legs wider than that..." Which in retrospect is maybe not the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. But it was true. For what else had I being doing yoga for the past nine months, and sitting for large stretches of time in the Tailor pose? I spread 'em as wide as I possibly could, and suddenly I felt Rhys just shoot downward. The group of people gathered around my pelvis cheered. "LIKE THAT! Exactly like that! Keep it up!" But as the contraction eased I could feel him sliding back. I tried to hold him in place, and they told me to relax and let go. "But he's moving back up! I don't want him to move back up!" I yelled. "He's not moving as far as you think he is. It's okay. Relax. Wait for the next one."
Things went on like that for about 6 pushes. Then he was crowning, which is a whole other order of unpleasantness...it burns, y'all, and you're lying there thinking he's never going to make it out, that he's going to get stuck there, and in spite of all your vows to the contrary, you will do anything, including begging for an episiotomy, in order to get him out into the world where he belongs. But as it happened it wasn't necessary. Dr. G suddenly started barking orders. "Vanessa when I say push I want you to push as hard as you can. When I say stop, I want you to stop pushing, and when I say half strength I want you to only push half as hard as you can." I tried to internalize this through all the pain. The next contraction came, and I pushed. The nurse was yelling, "add to it! add to it!" and Sandy came back up to my shoulder with tears in his eyes, "he's almost here. You're doing it. You can do it." And one more push and I could feel his head clear. The rest of his body followed very very easily. If the head is painful, the body is not - it feels like...um...the physical approximation of "flblblbflblblfblblbflblbflblflb..."
And then you have a baby. They put him on your tummy to dry him off, and you're shaking and in shock and staring down at this creature that you absolutely cannot believe you created.
And if you're me, you have a double chin while you're doing that.
Dr. G was collecting the cord blood from the umbilical cord so we could have it stored in case Rhys, Sandy or I ever need stem cells. He also, unfortunately, hauled my placenta out instead of letting it come down on its own. That hurt. But we were donating that to science so he needed it for the collection kit.
Then he had to stitch me. I'd torn a little bit. He said, "it's just a first-degree tear. I'll put a stitch in." He did so. Then he said, "it only needed one stitch but I looped it a few times." I thought to myself, "doesn't that mean it needed more than one stitch?" but I decided ignorance was bliss and I really didn't want to know if I had a more serious tear than he was telling me.
He also said, "you have a very superficial tear up top here, but it's hardly anything, I'm not going to stitch it it will heal just fine on its own." And I, completely loopy with everything I'd just been through, said, "oh sure. I've probably done worse to myself shaving."
I shouldn't be allowed out in public, you guys.
The nurse took Rhys off to the side to evaluate him - he scored a 9/9 on his Apgar.
And after a time spent together in the room staring in total shock, a nurse arrived to wheelchair Rhys and I up to the nursery, and then to our new room in post-partum. As she wheeled me by the nurses' station, the nurses spotted me coming. Even the ones I hadn't met knew who I was. And you guys...one of them yelled, "I loved your birth plan!" and then...they stood up and applauded. I got a standing ovation from the nurses.
Then he had to stitch me. I'd torn a little bit. He said, "it's just a first-degree tear. I'll put a stitch in." He did so. Then he said, "it only needed one stitch but I looped it a few times." I thought to myself, "doesn't that mean it needed more than one stitch?" but I decided ignorance was bliss and I really didn't want to know if I had a more serious tear than he was telling me.
He also said, "you have a very superficial tear up top here, but it's hardly anything, I'm not going to stitch it it will heal just fine on its own." And I, completely loopy with everything I'd just been through, said, "oh sure. I've probably done worse to myself shaving."
I shouldn't be allowed out in public, you guys.
The nurse took Rhys off to the side to evaluate him - he scored a 9/9 on his Apgar.
And after a time spent together in the room staring in total shock, a nurse arrived to wheelchair Rhys and I up to the nursery, and then to our new room in post-partum. As she wheeled me by the nurses' station, the nurses spotted me coming. Even the ones I hadn't met knew who I was. And you guys...one of them yelled, "I loved your birth plan!" and then...they stood up and applauded. I got a standing ovation from the nurses.
**Update: When Roe came to the house to show us the slideshow she'd made of the pictures she'd taken during the birth, and to check on Rhys and Sandy and I, I asked her about the standing ovation. Because I thought, you know, maybe they applaud every new mom, (which would be so nice, right?) Or maybe they applaud everyone who rocks a natural birth. But Roe stared at me incredulously and then said, "No." Evidently the nurses don't applaud everyone. I'm special, you guys.**
And that is how we wound up with Rhys.
And thank god...he was WAY cuter than his ultrasound had led us to believe. Also - there were no devil horns to be seen.
Possibly, but probably not, the Antichrist
But a very very CUTE Antichrist, anyway.
By the time we reached the post-partum floor, all the nurses THERE had read my birth plan, also. Even the ones in the nursery. The nursery nurse who evaluated Rhys and measured him etc told me they'd already shown it to their floor supervisor. I couldn't figure out how it had traveled through the hospital so quickly. L&D is on the third floor. The nursery and Post Partum is on the 5th!! It was a great mystery. In point of fact, for the duration of my stay in the hospital, every service provider that I interacted with mentioned it. Including the pediatricians who came to inspect the babies each morning. I couldn't figure out how they were all seeing it! Then someone finally told me, the nurses had stapled it to my chart with the words, "BEST BIRTH PLAN EVER!" written across the top.
And I could tell you about recovery and two days of sleeping on a horrible hospital bed while someone came in every hour to either take my blood pressure or steal my blood or peek at the baby etc - but as it happens, Rhys is screaming bloody murder and I should probably go take care of that.
It's been real...
And that is how we wound up with Rhys.
And thank god...he was WAY cuter than his ultrasound had led us to believe. Also - there were no devil horns to be seen.
Possibly, but probably not, the Antichrist
But a very very CUTE Antichrist, anyway.
By the time we reached the post-partum floor, all the nurses THERE had read my birth plan, also. Even the ones in the nursery. The nursery nurse who evaluated Rhys and measured him etc told me they'd already shown it to their floor supervisor. I couldn't figure out how it had traveled through the hospital so quickly. L&D is on the third floor. The nursery and Post Partum is on the 5th!! It was a great mystery. In point of fact, for the duration of my stay in the hospital, every service provider that I interacted with mentioned it. Including the pediatricians who came to inspect the babies each morning. I couldn't figure out how they were all seeing it! Then someone finally told me, the nurses had stapled it to my chart with the words, "BEST BIRTH PLAN EVER!" written across the top.
And I could tell you about recovery and two days of sleeping on a horrible hospital bed while someone came in every hour to either take my blood pressure or steal my blood or peek at the baby etc - but as it happens, Rhys is screaming bloody murder and I should probably go take care of that.
It's been real...
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