Childbirth, Take One
So a while back, I mentioned that Hurricane Miah had been present at the birth of all three of my short people. (Gonna have to stop calling them that soon, as fast as Big Girl is growing!) I also promised a somewhat sanitized version of at least one childbirth story, so here goes. I promise to keep it as gore-free as possible.
Big Girl/Nic/Coco/The Clone is my oldest daughter, my firstborn. Hard to believe that she will be 10 this September, but time marches on. Anywho, as I said, she was my first, and so going in I had no clue what any of this would be like. Primarily on the advice of my mother (who had given birth to my sister in 1968 with whatever kind of childbirth drugs they had back then, and to me in 1973 with nothing), I decided on “natural childbirth.” Her reasoning, which actually is quite sound, is that when you are numb giving birth, as feeling gradually returns to your body, you are quite taken aback by the pain. Whereas natural childbirth is, and I quote, “like hitting yourself in the head over and over with a ballpeen hammer… it hurts like hell, but when you stop, you feel sooooooooo much better!” Yes, I fell for it…
So throughout the pregnancy I plan natural childbirth. For reasons of my own, my sister-in-law is my Lamaze coach, and we really throw a monkey-wrench into all our plans when, four days before my due date, my husband and I decide to move to the hill country, 60 miles outside of Austin… a good 3-4 hour drive away from my in-laws, and Miah. On my birthday. Massively pregnant. The day before the move, I visit my doctor to be sure it’s safe, and she confirms that, while I’ve begun to dilate, that is perfectly normal, and first babies tend to come late anyway. As long as I do no heavy lifting, bring my medical records with me, and find a new doctor in Austin on Monday (the move took place on a Wednesday), everything should be fine. So with much wringing of hands, the in-laws help us move, then head back to Houston to wait what we were sure would be a few weeks for the much-awaited first grandchild.
Saturday comes, and it is house-cleaning day for the friends-that-were-practically-family that we had moved in with. All day I am a little tired, a little sore, and having the same Braxton-Hicks contractions (“false contractions”) that I’d had for the last several weeks. But around 7 p.m., I noticed that they just weren’t fading like they usually did. Not too strong yet, but certainly more regular than they are supposed to be. I asked the mother of the family if she thought I was in labor, and she felt my stomach and agreed that I could be, but that it was too soon to tell, or to worry. So we all went back to Scattergories and ignored it. Until about 10, when I knew for sure I was in labor, and we called the hospital. They told us that as soon as the contractions were so bad I couldn’t walk or talk through one, I should come on in. Here was the first of our errors… I failed to inform them that we lived about an hour away. An hour later, we made the second big error. Deciding it was time to leave for the hospital, we didn’t call to let them know we were coming. For future reference, many hospitals do not have an OB/GYN on the premises after midnight on a Saturday. So. 11 p.m.we decide it’s time to head out. It is midnight before we are all loaded up, with my husband flinging things into the as-yet-unpacked suitcase, and the entire family rousted from their beds for the event… both parents, all three kids, and the weekend guest. We load up into the van and head for the hospital. An hour drive. Over bumpy country roads. By this time, the contractions aren’t actually beginning and ending, they are overlapping one another (a physical impossibility, I’m sure, but that’s what I was feeling).
Going to skip over a few fun details now, and get us into the hospital. So. We pull into the emergency room driveway and unload me into a wheelchair. At this point I have decided that natural childbirth is NOT for me, and am begging for drugs. They tell me no, first they have to admit me. My husband stays downstairs to start the paperwork while they rush me up to a room and page the OB on call. When we get to the room, I again request drugs. Nope, they need to “check me” first. Now, that wasn’t a pleasant procedure when I was NOT in labor, much less so now that my body is frantically trying to expel what it has finally noticed is a foreign body. After that, I once again requested drugs. At this point I was told they needed to draw my blood. Foregtting that I had never been to this hospital and all my prior bloodwork had been done halfway across the state, I asked if they didn’t already have enough of my blood, “you f***ing vampires!!!!” The nurse smiled and patiently took my blood. She swore we could get my drugs soon, but I had to sign something first. I blew up. “I can’t BREATHE, much less WRITE, can’t my husband sign it?” Well, no, he couldn’t. I signed and once again asked for drugs, once again denied. “As soon as the doctor gets here!” she tells me, WAY too cheerily. Meanwhile, hubby has arrived upstairs, and mom-of-the-household is also with us. Shortly thereafter comes the arrival of my mom-in-law and sister-in-law, for while we had forgotten to call the hospital, we HAD called the in-laws and Miah. She showed up, video camera in hand, a few minutes after the others. So aside from medical staff, we had five, count ‘em, FIVE people in the room with me. And then the nurse tells me “Don’t push.”
Several thousand years of human evolution tell me to push, she tells me not to. So after some degree of argument she agrees that I can push, but “not too hard.” Hubby to one side of me and sis-in-law/labor coach to the other, they each grab a hand and I begin to push through counts of ten. The easiest way to push, now, is to hold one’s breath and bear down. After a few pushes, as everyone counting was still on “five,” I gritted my teeth and spat out, in my best Linda-Blair-in-The-Exorcist voice, “You’re counting too SLOW!” Bless their hearts, they all kept a straight face and sped up the count. Every few minutes I would ask if I could have my drugs now, and every few minutes was told that I couldn’t until the doctor got there. Finally, the door swung open and the nurse cooed brightly, “Oh good, the doctor is here!” Just as brightly, I said, “Good! Now I get my drugs!” At which point the sadistic witch took great joy in telling me, “Oh, no, honey, it’s MUCH too late for that now!” Two ticked-off pushes later, I became the proud mommy of a beautiful baby girl.
Suffice it to say, it was my last experience with natural childbirth!
Big Girl/Nic/Coco/The Clone is my oldest daughter, my firstborn. Hard to believe that she will be 10 this September, but time marches on. Anywho, as I said, she was my first, and so going in I had no clue what any of this would be like. Primarily on the advice of my mother (who had given birth to my sister in 1968 with whatever kind of childbirth drugs they had back then, and to me in 1973 with nothing), I decided on “natural childbirth.” Her reasoning, which actually is quite sound, is that when you are numb giving birth, as feeling gradually returns to your body, you are quite taken aback by the pain. Whereas natural childbirth is, and I quote, “like hitting yourself in the head over and over with a ballpeen hammer… it hurts like hell, but when you stop, you feel sooooooooo much better!” Yes, I fell for it…
So throughout the pregnancy I plan natural childbirth. For reasons of my own, my sister-in-law is my Lamaze coach, and we really throw a monkey-wrench into all our plans when, four days before my due date, my husband and I decide to move to the hill country, 60 miles outside of Austin… a good 3-4 hour drive away from my in-laws, and Miah. On my birthday. Massively pregnant. The day before the move, I visit my doctor to be sure it’s safe, and she confirms that, while I’ve begun to dilate, that is perfectly normal, and first babies tend to come late anyway. As long as I do no heavy lifting, bring my medical records with me, and find a new doctor in Austin on Monday (the move took place on a Wednesday), everything should be fine. So with much wringing of hands, the in-laws help us move, then head back to Houston to wait what we were sure would be a few weeks for the much-awaited first grandchild.
Saturday comes, and it is house-cleaning day for the friends-that-were-practically-family that we had moved in with. All day I am a little tired, a little sore, and having the same Braxton-Hicks contractions (“false contractions”) that I’d had for the last several weeks. But around 7 p.m., I noticed that they just weren’t fading like they usually did. Not too strong yet, but certainly more regular than they are supposed to be. I asked the mother of the family if she thought I was in labor, and she felt my stomach and agreed that I could be, but that it was too soon to tell, or to worry. So we all went back to Scattergories and ignored it. Until about 10, when I knew for sure I was in labor, and we called the hospital. They told us that as soon as the contractions were so bad I couldn’t walk or talk through one, I should come on in. Here was the first of our errors… I failed to inform them that we lived about an hour away. An hour later, we made the second big error. Deciding it was time to leave for the hospital, we didn’t call to let them know we were coming. For future reference, many hospitals do not have an OB/GYN on the premises after midnight on a Saturday. So. 11 p.m.we decide it’s time to head out. It is midnight before we are all loaded up, with my husband flinging things into the as-yet-unpacked suitcase, and the entire family rousted from their beds for the event… both parents, all three kids, and the weekend guest. We load up into the van and head for the hospital. An hour drive. Over bumpy country roads. By this time, the contractions aren’t actually beginning and ending, they are overlapping one another (a physical impossibility, I’m sure, but that’s what I was feeling).
Going to skip over a few fun details now, and get us into the hospital. So. We pull into the emergency room driveway and unload me into a wheelchair. At this point I have decided that natural childbirth is NOT for me, and am begging for drugs. They tell me no, first they have to admit me. My husband stays downstairs to start the paperwork while they rush me up to a room and page the OB on call. When we get to the room, I again request drugs. Nope, they need to “check me” first. Now, that wasn’t a pleasant procedure when I was NOT in labor, much less so now that my body is frantically trying to expel what it has finally noticed is a foreign body. After that, I once again requested drugs. At this point I was told they needed to draw my blood. Foregtting that I had never been to this hospital and all my prior bloodwork had been done halfway across the state, I asked if they didn’t already have enough of my blood, “you f***ing vampires!!!!” The nurse smiled and patiently took my blood. She swore we could get my drugs soon, but I had to sign something first. I blew up. “I can’t BREATHE, much less WRITE, can’t my husband sign it?” Well, no, he couldn’t. I signed and once again asked for drugs, once again denied. “As soon as the doctor gets here!” she tells me, WAY too cheerily. Meanwhile, hubby has arrived upstairs, and mom-of-the-household is also with us. Shortly thereafter comes the arrival of my mom-in-law and sister-in-law, for while we had forgotten to call the hospital, we HAD called the in-laws and Miah. She showed up, video camera in hand, a few minutes after the others. So aside from medical staff, we had five, count ‘em, FIVE people in the room with me. And then the nurse tells me “Don’t push.”
Several thousand years of human evolution tell me to push, she tells me not to. So after some degree of argument she agrees that I can push, but “not too hard.” Hubby to one side of me and sis-in-law/labor coach to the other, they each grab a hand and I begin to push through counts of ten. The easiest way to push, now, is to hold one’s breath and bear down. After a few pushes, as everyone counting was still on “five,” I gritted my teeth and spat out, in my best Linda-Blair-in-The-Exorcist voice, “You’re counting too SLOW!” Bless their hearts, they all kept a straight face and sped up the count. Every few minutes I would ask if I could have my drugs now, and every few minutes was told that I couldn’t until the doctor got there. Finally, the door swung open and the nurse cooed brightly, “Oh good, the doctor is here!” Just as brightly, I said, “Good! Now I get my drugs!” At which point the sadistic witch took great joy in telling me, “Oh, no, honey, it’s MUCH too late for that now!” Two ticked-off pushes later, I became the proud mommy of a beautiful baby girl.
Suffice it to say, it was my last experience with natural childbirth!
posted by SaraSmile | 10:00 AM
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