Yay, right?! And isn’t he just darling? I know, I know; he’s my child, so of course I’m going to say that and make you say that, too, whether you think so or not, but I really, really mean it. HE’S JUST DARLING.
So, this past Wednesday, I went upstairs for a nice, sunny afternoon nap with my darling daughter (who, thankfully, is just as smitten with this little gentleman as my husband and I happen to be), and about twenty-five minutes in, I had this horrible urge to pee. Cursing my inadequate bladder, I rolled over onto my side and pulled myself up out of the bed. I crouched into the hallway and gradually made my way down the (steep) stairs, and when I got to the bottom and ended up in the kitchen, I felt this really, really unpleasant … well, I guess ‘gush’ would be the best word here, though it’s a pretty gross and graphic descriptor. I felt a gush that positively soaked everything I was wearing from the waist down, but I was able to make it into the bathroom before I had a kitchen-floor-mess to clean up, too. I sat down, pondering what just happened, though I already knew. I instantly got excited. I called my husband at work first, and on the first ring he answered with a muted pause: “… Hello?” “My water just broke!” I crowed. He was home in fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, I woke my little girl up and said, “Hey, it’s time for Baby Jack to come on out, so you and Mommy need to hop in the shower quick, OK?” She rubbed her bleary eyes and climbed into the shower with me.
The ride up – yes, the forty minute ride – was pretty uneventful and mostly consisted of phone calls to my parents and my mother-in-law, and when we arrived at the hospital, unscathed, I wanted to do a little jig of happiness right there in the parking lot, or would have, if I wasn’t still kind of leaking like an old sieve. We checked in and I was set up in the birthing suite within 10 minutes of my arrival. Not bad if I say so myself, and things were going rather smoothly and efficiently.
“Were” would be the operative term here.
See, I complained and complained and complained about the stupid practice that I’d been going to who considered themselves top-notch OB-GYNs in the area (not that there are many to choose from in my low-populated area) and wondered why, oh why they were so stingy with the ultrasounds (seriously, I had three in my entire pregnancy. Three). Thing was, I’d been in active labor for about four hours at the point of which I’m speaking, and when the pain finally got to be too much, I rang for the nurse and asked her if I could begin the proceedings for the epidural. She said that she’d call the midwife in, who’d have to examine me to find out if I was still good to go, and then we’d begin. The midwife entered a few minutes later and did an internal exam (my second one of the pregnancy; the first one was done a few weeks ago to ensure that the baby was head-down, which he was). She continued feeling around and poking and prodding, and then furrowed her brow and asked me when my last ultrasound was (which immediately freaked me out). “Uh, like months ago. Your group wasn’t too keen on keeping a good eye on the baby,” I answered, my voice probably enhanced by a note of hysteria. She ignored my insult and said,”Because he’s not head-down. He’s actually breech. He’s tucked up underneath your rib cage, and we’re going to need to do an emergency c-section to get him out. Now.”
Naturally, I had all of five-and-a-half minutes to prepare myself for “What!?” and “God!” and “Oh NO!” and every other emotion in between, and before I knew it, I was being wheeled – briskly – through the hospital’s corridors into the operating room. I made my husband stay with our daughter, because though she didn’t see Mommy freaking out, she seemed to sense that things were not all OK. My husband was apprehensive about sending me into the OR alone, but I reaffirmed that with our little girl was the place I wanted him to be; the place that I thought was most appropriate (it was). Between contractions, I answered the anesthesiologist’s questions (“Do you have any metal implants” “Are you wearing any jewelry that you want to claim” “Do you have any medicinal allergies” “Have you ever had a spinal block before”) through gritted teeth, wishing that we could get on with it already, because I felt like my entire world was in jeopardy, what with being 8 centimeters dilated and unable to push a baby out because he was too busy kicking it with my lungs.
After administering the spinal block (oh my God, have you ever? So bizarre), the doctor asked me if I was ready and I practically gasped “Yes!” He began the incision (which I did not feel, naturally), and it seemed like thirty seconds later – maybe it was, time seemed so skewed at that point – a tiny, bloody, wailing little head popped up over the surgical sheet they’d suspended over my boobs to ensure I didn’t barf or freak out or die when I saw all of that fatty gristle and sinewy muscle being cut away to bring my baby into the world. I went nuts. I bawled. Seriously. Awful, hiccuping, guffawing cries that almost echoed my baby’s own. They took him to the little table and cleaned him off, and brought him over to me so we could press one another’s faces against … well, one another. We both immediately quieted, and I talked to him in a calm, soothing voice that I didn’t even know was possible as God-knows-what went on below my belt (I guess it involved stitches and steri-strips and more poking and prodding). I knew he had to leave to get his shots and draw blood, but it didn’t stop my heard from breaking when they took him away. Or, you know, his. He cried and cried when they separated our faces from each other’s, and that started me up all over again.
The rest of the visit was uneventful, unless you count the fact that I went in as the wife of one of the most wonderful men on earth and the mother to the world’s greatest little girl, because I came out as the
wife of one of the most wonderful men on earth and the mother to the world’s greatest little girl and sweetest little boy in existence.
Can you just believe things sometimes? I, for one, cannot.