My 1st Birth Story
The Unexpected
I've got to make this quick. I've been itching to write down William's birth, but the subsequent events of his life eclipsed that desire. So here's what I can get down now and what I remember.
Saturday night (10/12/13), I was having what I thought were Braxton Hicks contractions, and they kept me from sleeping. I had lots of dreams and the tightness in my stomach kept waking me up. So around 4am, I just got up. I had been on bed rest since the preceding Wednesday, and I felt like a dirty slug and decided to shower and get cleaned up. That felt great! Dave was awake too, so we watched a movie I had rented. Around 5:40 a.m., I felt a familiar strange about-to-have-an-accident feeling from my adolescent years and high-tailed it to the bathroom. I didn't make it.
Let me just say that I now understand why and what it feels like when your water breaks. There is no mistaking the warm rush of liquid running down your legs and soaking everything in its path. Totally gross. Once that happened, I tried to clean myself up as best as I could and called the midwife. She asked me to watch for further leakage, which was present, and when I reported back to her, she told me to go to the hospital to get checked out. Well, I wasn't in a hurry (for lack of contractions), but I figured I ought to take the time to pack a bag. So I did. We didn't actually get to the hospital until around 8:00-something. I was admitted, checked, and they confirmed that it was amniotic fluid (I didn't just urinate on myself), and so they were keeping me. I had some contractions, but they weren't bad. Just mild tightness. For 12 hours. Yep. It's really boring to sit around for 12 hours waiting.
Well, as the exact 12-hour mark approached (5:40 p.m.), the midwife brought up the conversation about giving me Pitocin. My cervix was checked and determined to be the same 3cm it was when I had arrived 12 hours earlier (totally discouraging news), and before I could ask if they'd let me finish the labor at home, I was informed that because I was ruptured 5 weeks early, not having the baby that day was not an option. Dangers and complications of premature births. Great. So, I didn't want Pitocin, but I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
After much internal debate, I decided to go ahead with the Pitocin as a jumpstart. They assured me it would be administered in small increments, so it began. The contractions began getting stronger after about 30 minutes. They got closer together and started stealing all my focus from the conversations around me. By 8:30 p.m., I was starting to sweat, and the midwife wanted to check me. I was 5cm and 80% effaced. I felt slightly discouraged, but that is the last emotion I remember feeling before I was looking for any and every way to ride out the contractions in some kind of way.
Couldn't use the yoga ball b/c they had to monitor the baby's heart rate and the positioning just didn't cooperate with the equipment. Sitting on the bed didn't help. Standing wasn't an option. Kneeling on the bed with arms draped over back of hospital bed worked for awhile until my legs became sore. I remember laying on my side, clutching the hospital bed railing for dear life. Everyone was telling me to relax, and I told them I couldn't. They told me I could. Hah. What did they know? Katie, the midwife, was touching me and massaging my arms and shoulders then my leg and thighs and said to relax the limbs as she touched them. *That* was the most helpful things she could have done. The vague "relax" instruction didn't work because EVERY muscle in my body was trying to cope with simply existing. The specific command to relax was easier to follow because it gave me something to focus on. It was enough distraction to get to the next contraction. And cold. I craved the cold. Cold hands. Blessed COLD hands. COLD wash cloths. It could touch me, if it was cold. I didn't care who or what, but hot hands were just not allowed. I also didn't care if the cold made me shiver or jump. It was relief. Cold = heaven.
(Let me just say that telling a woman in the throes of labor to remember words of advice is utterly useless. She remembers the words, but they have no meaning. None. Direct, easy-to-follow, specific instructions given in the moment are what matters.)
It was at this point, when I was on the bed clutching the railing, that I asked for the epidural. I knew that many more hours of that type of contraction would beat me, and I would still have to wait an hour for the lifeline drugs to arrive. They told me of the delay. So, I went ahead and asked just in case. I don't know what time it was, but it was probably about 8:45 or 9:00. I'm guessing, because I had NO concept of time. Just pain.
I felt like I had to pee, so I relocated to the bathroom between contractions. One of them actually hit while I was propped on the toilet, but thankfully, some genius person decided to install bars next to the toilet seat... perhaps they are there so geriatric folks can hold on to them as they use the restroom. I didn't know, but they were another lifeline. I don't know how many contractions I had after that, but I remember not wanting to leave the bathroom. For whatever reason, sitting on the toilet was my favorite spot. Somehow I felt that if I did pee or poop, it would just fall into water, and no one would have to clean it up. Heh. Stupid random things that go through your consciousness. My nurse offered to run a bath to help with the contractions, and I accepted the suggestion. She started the water, and it hadn't even filled to the height of the jets when I felt like I was going to be ripped in two. Literally down the middle. I screamed. I clutched at Dave, whose leg (I feared) would be strangled with the death-grip I surely had on it.
It was then, in that moment, that I caved. I knew I could NOT continue for hours more of this torture and I begged...pleaded...would have sold my soul for an epidural to relieve the pain. Hours more? I was beaten. I had no concept of time. Just the pain of being ripped in two. I had a minute or two after that to acknowledge the moment. I could catch my breath. Appreciate the peace. But then I felt it. I had to poop. No, I had to push. HAD to. There was something...
After that contraction, the nurse *made* me leave my toilet haven for the bed. Someone yelled for Katie. The horrid bed. NO comfort there. I didn't think I could walk, but she guided me and helped me there (Dave helped too, I think. Those details are fuzzy.) I got back on the bed. Katie was there. She looked to confirm. It was time to push. "Really?" I thought. But didn't I have hours more torture?
There were instructions on positioning my body in preparation to push. People held my legs. They told me not to use my arms or legs. Just to push like I had to poop. I thought, "Really? But I don't have to poop. Not in the slightest." Well, I followed my instructions. It was direct, simple, and specific. Then, they tried to tell me not to scream. That didn't make sense either. Screaming helps me focus. Martial arts training. Yell to focus power. They told me not to yell to conserve the energy and focus it. I think I ended up splitting the difference. I felt The Something move.
The burning ring of fire that I've heard women describe made itself known to me. Although, I don't remember it being a burning ring of fire. It was like being constipated in entirely the wrong place and having it get stuck there. That was my experience. I remember pushing, but not pushing hard enough, so The Something (The Poop That Wasn't Poop) got stuck in the "burning ring" and I had to freaking WAIT until the next contraction. NO PUSHING ALLOWED HERE. Really?!?! But it was stuck.
At this moment, I remember fear. Fear that It would be stuck forever that I would be stuck like this forever. SO I had to do it no matter what. I didn't want to be stuck in this ridiculous predicament. So I pushed...maybe 3 deep breaths, lots of screaming (which was apparently loud, I was told later), and then It was through.
The pain was gone. There was gushing liquid coming out of me, and this little screaming lump was on my chest. I *knew* what was going on, but in that moment, after hearing the baby's screaming, knowing that he was fine, I remember not caring that my son was just born. Not caring that I had just delivered a baby. Not caring about anything other than the fact that the pain was gone. I felt relief. Not tears of joy about new life. Relief that the torture had ended. Just. like. that. People weren't kidding. I felt the "FLTHWUMP!" of baby coming out, and selfishly relished that it was over.
I've got to make this quick. I've been itching to write down William's birth, but the subsequent events of his life eclipsed that desire. So here's what I can get down now and what I remember.
Saturday night (10/12/13), I was having what I thought were Braxton Hicks contractions, and they kept me from sleeping. I had lots of dreams and the tightness in my stomach kept waking me up. So around 4am, I just got up. I had been on bed rest since the preceding Wednesday, and I felt like a dirty slug and decided to shower and get cleaned up. That felt great! Dave was awake too, so we watched a movie I had rented. Around 5:40 a.m., I felt a familiar strange about-to-have-an-accident feeling from my adolescent years and high-tailed it to the bathroom. I didn't make it.
Let me just say that I now understand why and what it feels like when your water breaks. There is no mistaking the warm rush of liquid running down your legs and soaking everything in its path. Totally gross. Once that happened, I tried to clean myself up as best as I could and called the midwife. She asked me to watch for further leakage, which was present, and when I reported back to her, she told me to go to the hospital to get checked out. Well, I wasn't in a hurry (for lack of contractions), but I figured I ought to take the time to pack a bag. So I did. We didn't actually get to the hospital until around 8:00-something. I was admitted, checked, and they confirmed that it was amniotic fluid (I didn't just urinate on myself), and so they were keeping me. I had some contractions, but they weren't bad. Just mild tightness. For 12 hours. Yep. It's really boring to sit around for 12 hours waiting.
Well, as the exact 12-hour mark approached (5:40 p.m.), the midwife brought up the conversation about giving me Pitocin. My cervix was checked and determined to be the same 3cm it was when I had arrived 12 hours earlier (totally discouraging news), and before I could ask if they'd let me finish the labor at home, I was informed that because I was ruptured 5 weeks early, not having the baby that day was not an option. Dangers and complications of premature births. Great. So, I didn't want Pitocin, but I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
After much internal debate, I decided to go ahead with the Pitocin as a jumpstart. They assured me it would be administered in small increments, so it began. The contractions began getting stronger after about 30 minutes. They got closer together and started stealing all my focus from the conversations around me. By 8:30 p.m., I was starting to sweat, and the midwife wanted to check me. I was 5cm and 80% effaced. I felt slightly discouraged, but that is the last emotion I remember feeling before I was looking for any and every way to ride out the contractions in some kind of way.
Couldn't use the yoga ball b/c they had to monitor the baby's heart rate and the positioning just didn't cooperate with the equipment. Sitting on the bed didn't help. Standing wasn't an option. Kneeling on the bed with arms draped over back of hospital bed worked for awhile until my legs became sore. I remember laying on my side, clutching the hospital bed railing for dear life. Everyone was telling me to relax, and I told them I couldn't. They told me I could. Hah. What did they know? Katie, the midwife, was touching me and massaging my arms and shoulders then my leg and thighs and said to relax the limbs as she touched them. *That* was the most helpful things she could have done. The vague "relax" instruction didn't work because EVERY muscle in my body was trying to cope with simply existing. The specific command to relax was easier to follow because it gave me something to focus on. It was enough distraction to get to the next contraction. And cold. I craved the cold. Cold hands. Blessed COLD hands. COLD wash cloths. It could touch me, if it was cold. I didn't care who or what, but hot hands were just not allowed. I also didn't care if the cold made me shiver or jump. It was relief. Cold = heaven.
(Let me just say that telling a woman in the throes of labor to remember words of advice is utterly useless. She remembers the words, but they have no meaning. None. Direct, easy-to-follow, specific instructions given in the moment are what matters.)
It was at this point, when I was on the bed clutching the railing, that I asked for the epidural. I knew that many more hours of that type of contraction would beat me, and I would still have to wait an hour for the lifeline drugs to arrive. They told me of the delay. So, I went ahead and asked just in case. I don't know what time it was, but it was probably about 8:45 or 9:00. I'm guessing, because I had NO concept of time. Just pain.
I felt like I had to pee, so I relocated to the bathroom between contractions. One of them actually hit while I was propped on the toilet, but thankfully, some genius person decided to install bars next to the toilet seat... perhaps they are there so geriatric folks can hold on to them as they use the restroom. I didn't know, but they were another lifeline. I don't know how many contractions I had after that, but I remember not wanting to leave the bathroom. For whatever reason, sitting on the toilet was my favorite spot. Somehow I felt that if I did pee or poop, it would just fall into water, and no one would have to clean it up. Heh. Stupid random things that go through your consciousness. My nurse offered to run a bath to help with the contractions, and I accepted the suggestion. She started the water, and it hadn't even filled to the height of the jets when I felt like I was going to be ripped in two. Literally down the middle. I screamed. I clutched at Dave, whose leg (I feared) would be strangled with the death-grip I surely had on it.
It was then, in that moment, that I caved. I knew I could NOT continue for hours more of this torture and I begged...pleaded...would have sold my soul for an epidural to relieve the pain. Hours more? I was beaten. I had no concept of time. Just the pain of being ripped in two. I had a minute or two after that to acknowledge the moment. I could catch my breath. Appreciate the peace. But then I felt it. I had to poop. No, I had to push. HAD to. There was something...
After that contraction, the nurse *made* me leave my toilet haven for the bed. Someone yelled for Katie. The horrid bed. NO comfort there. I didn't think I could walk, but she guided me and helped me there (Dave helped too, I think. Those details are fuzzy.) I got back on the bed. Katie was there. She looked to confirm. It was time to push. "Really?" I thought. But didn't I have hours more torture?
There were instructions on positioning my body in preparation to push. People held my legs. They told me not to use my arms or legs. Just to push like I had to poop. I thought, "Really? But I don't have to poop. Not in the slightest." Well, I followed my instructions. It was direct, simple, and specific. Then, they tried to tell me not to scream. That didn't make sense either. Screaming helps me focus. Martial arts training. Yell to focus power. They told me not to yell to conserve the energy and focus it. I think I ended up splitting the difference. I felt The Something move.
The burning ring of fire that I've heard women describe made itself known to me. Although, I don't remember it being a burning ring of fire. It was like being constipated in entirely the wrong place and having it get stuck there. That was my experience. I remember pushing, but not pushing hard enough, so The Something (The Poop That Wasn't Poop) got stuck in the "burning ring" and I had to freaking WAIT until the next contraction. NO PUSHING ALLOWED HERE. Really?!?! But it was stuck.
At this moment, I remember fear. Fear that It would be stuck forever that I would be stuck like this forever. SO I had to do it no matter what. I didn't want to be stuck in this ridiculous predicament. So I pushed...maybe 3 deep breaths, lots of screaming (which was apparently loud, I was told later), and then It was through.
The pain was gone. There was gushing liquid coming out of me, and this little screaming lump was on my chest. I *knew* what was going on, but in that moment, after hearing the baby's screaming, knowing that he was fine, I remember not caring that my son was just born. Not caring that I had just delivered a baby. Not caring about anything other than the fact that the pain was gone. I felt relief. Not tears of joy about new life. Relief that the torture had ended. Just. like. that. People weren't kidding. I felt the "FLTHWUMP!" of baby coming out, and selfishly relished that it was over.
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