And now the super-profane conclusion of the harrowing birth tale (to read Part 1, click here).I impatiently waited for the nurses to empty the tub and I remember one of them begging me not to jump out. The next thing I recall is lying on the bed screaming, my skin a bright crimson color and burning up. I screamed bloody hell at asked Babe to get some ice-cold washcloths, which he did immediately, and covered me head to toe. Sweet relief, my god, sweet relief. For a minute. At this point my contractions were invading every fiber of my being like they wanted me to die a violent, painful death. This is when the begging began.
“Please, please, I need an epidural. Get me the fucking anesthesiologist right fucking now so she can put a fucking needle in my fucking back and take away this fucking pain!” The midwife brought up my birth plan. How dare she bring up the bullshit birth plan at a time like this?! Yes, it’s true I planned on attempting to labor and deliver without drugs. I never promised, I never swore, I never signed an affidavit saying I will have a 100% natural birth no matter what. I remember wishing so badly that epidurals didn’t exist or that at least I was completely unaware of the drug’s existence.Unfortunately, since I did know about it, I needed this drug. I was in love with this drug. I was already addicted to it and believed I would not make it through this birth without it.
Unfortunately, I was shit outta luck; I was too far dilated to get an epidural. I have never felt so defeated in my entire life. I told the midwife I was done. I don’t care anymore. Wheel me into the O.R., cut me open, and take this baby out.
“Do you want some Fentanyl? It’ll make you feel like you did a couple shots of tequila,” the midwife asked nonchalantly. I heard the faint voice of my pre-labor self yelling, No, no, remember you told yourself that you would absolutely NOT take narcotics during labor! I quickly turned the volume down so I could no longer hear my clueless, dimwitted former self. “Yes, fuck, yes, gimme tequila.”
“Should I give her 50 [unknown unit of measure] or 100?” the nurse asked the midwife. “100,” she answered without hesitation. I swear I could feel the drug pass through the tube, into my vein, into my bloodstream, and into my brain the moment it was transfused. Yeah, there we go, settle down, settle down…I knew another contraction was coming any second and this time, I’d be ready. But when the contraction hit, it felt like a punch in the face. Like it was saying, You seriously thought a narcotic would help?! Ha! You’re a moron and I want you to die.
I had just done the one thing I felt strongest about not doing. I’m such an assho–Whoa…So sleepy. Feel drunky. Where did that giant bookshelf come from and why is it on top of me?
Another few contractions violently ripped me out of my plastered state, after which my midwife said it was time for another cervix check. “You’re there. You’re finally there. It’s time to push!” By this time, I had technically been in labor for 37 hours. I hadn’t eaten anything during that time. I was severely loaded. And I had absolutely no desire to do anything besides lie there and be swept away by dainty little Tinkerbells, with their tiny wand ends lighting the way out of this hellhole.
I had no idea how I was supposed to magically muster up energy I didn’t have to push this baby out of her warm and safe environment into a fluorescent-lit, square cage. The midwife put the squatting bar in place and told me to try it out. I heaved my heavy body over and rested my armpits on the bar as I squatted on the bed. It seemed like it should’ve been such an easy task to use the bar as a support. It was not. It was the opposite of easy. My body shook with weakness.
Another contraction began. “Push as hard as you can!” I did as I was told while every muscle in my body seemed to convulse. When the contraction finally ended I slumped off the bar with exhaustion.
I told the midwife I didn’t think I was capable of using the bar and asked if she would please remove it from my sight before I yank it off the bed and throw it clear across the room. She told me there was another way to use the bar which involved tying a bed sheet to it that I could pull on while pushing. This sounded much more doable and, in fact, it was.
The next contraction came and, while I liked this technique much better, I was way too weak to push at even close to 100%. With every contraction, I pushed at half-strength. E’s head kept crowning and then receding. Over and over.
Side note: There’s one major fear many pregnant women share besides general fears of laboring and delivering, and that is shitting the bed while pushing. And I, certainly, was not immune to this fear. If you’ve ever given birth, you know that as you’re pushing, you feel like and/or believe you’re crapping. “I shat the bed, I shat the bed!” I kept screaming. Babe would look down at the bed and say, “No you didn’t, there’s nothing there.” Truth was, half the time he was lying. I did shit the bed. And pissed the bed. Several times. Then I puked.Birth. Not a pretty thing.
Babe kept telling me what a good job I was doing and all I wanted to do was punch his face in. Finally I had to tell him to shut his fucking mouth. And then I told everyone to shut their fucking mouths. I was now the proverbial super-mean birth machine. For the next two hours, nobody said a word. I would pass out, wake up for a contraction, scream my f-ing head off while pushing, crash back in lie-down position after the contraction ended, and pass out again dreaming of Tinkerbells. E’s head continued to be visible and then invisible with each contraction. This was the biggest, most vigorous test my body had ever experienced. And I was failing. Miserably.
After more than two hours of unmitigated hell, I decided I’d had enough. I asked the universe to please, please give me the strength to deliver this child. Thankfully, the universe listened and kindly obliged by giving me a burst of “pushiness.” I huffed and I puffed, and I huffed and I puffed, and I pushed Baby E out of my womb and into the room. I had my eyes closed the whole time and when I opened them, there was my daughter. Gooey, bloody, and beautiful.
Complete culmination of consummate conclusion: Birth sucks ass but the end result is pretty f-ing sweet.
I know, I know, it’s been over a month since my last confession post. Blame it on the Cylons. Instead of being a good little blogger and going straight to the computer after putting E to bed, Babe and I have headed straight for the boob tube to watch the 2004 series Battlestar Galactica almost every single night since we started this riveting show. Either you’ve seen it and loved it, or you’re intrigued by the fact that I loved it and you’re thinking you should probably rent it. Needless to say, we finished it *a tear*, so maybe I’ll pour my crazy out onto the keyboard more often from now on. Until we start the next compelling series.
Speaking of Cylons, I can’t help but think that everyone I come into contact with is a potential Cylon. Especially when Cylons look like normal, everyday, working-class people like this:
And this:
Hell, the people closest to me could be Cylons, and it certainly doesn’t give me peace of mind when my sister sends me pictures like this:
I am a Cylon raider *wink wink*.
That faucet really turns me on *wink wink*.
I weawy wuv cupcakes and if you don’t wet me have mow I wiw bwow yow ass stwaight to hew!
Anyway, lots of things have happened since I admitted to the world (again) that my sanity lies precariously in the hands of a 15lb. elfin with an Emmett Brown hairstyle and lungs of a gibbon. Said elfin just turned the big 1.0 and I’m not gonna do the whole I-can’t-believe-a-year’s-gone-by-where-did-the-time-go declaration because that’s just not Zodka’s style. Besides, I know where the time went. It went by and it went by and it went by. And, amazingly enough, it just keeps going by and will forever more. Someday E will be a big girl and live in a big-girl pad and do big-girl things. But for now she is utterly tickled by a fictional bunny named Nicholas who uses toadstools for umbrellas.
Dat cwazy bunny…he my fwiend.
E’s birthday reminded me that one year ago, I gave birth. As obvious as that sounds, it’s a miracle I lived through it. It dawned on me that maybe I should document this miraculous event because, with every passing day, the memories fade little by little. So, if you’re not interested in reading about the birth story, I totally understand, and here is a mesmerizing video of a male seahorse giving birth.
This is the birth story (I am not a seahorse. But if I was, this story would probably be slightly different): One year ago, some people decided it was time for my daughter to be born. They figured she was too immature to make her own decisions…
It was a Thursday. I went in for a routine non-stress test, and I wish the test had lived up to its name. A non-stress is where they place a doohickey on the expectant mother’s stomach that monitors the fetus’ heart rate. Because of my age and gestational diabetes diagnosis, they had me do these tests twice a week for the last couple weeks of my pregnancy.
I actually kind of liked these tests — I got to lie there on a comfortable bed and play Words with Friends on my phone, eat snackies, and listen to my baby’s heart rate go up and down, depending on whether she was building condos or taking lunch breaks.
About 15 minutes into the test on this particular Thursday, the nurse came sprinting over to the side of the bed and began hurriedly fidgeting with the machine. She then gazed hypnotically at the screen for a brief moment. I remember staring at her hair — shoulder length, light brown, wavy. And her hands, dry and cracking, but still feminine-looking with long, slender fingers. And her conservative-style glasses in which I could see the reflection of the blue light of the screen. The screen that seemed to be telling the nurse some secret, some omen of my and my baby’s near future. I desperately wanted her to share this secret with me but she did not seem to want to. “Get up on your hands and knees,” she screamed nervously. I did what I was told. She began fiddling with receiver and the machine. She then told me to lie back down and promptly placed an oxygen mask on my face with her cold, shaky hands. She had me hold the mask in place, which I quickly removed and pleaded, “Please tell me what’s going on! Is my baby okay?!” My face instantly soaked with sweat and tears and I could feel my tongue trying to choke me. “There was a significant deceleration in your baby’s heart rate so I have to take you over to the hospital…and you’re probably not going to leave there without a baby.”
While Nurse Nervous went and fetched a wheelchair, I attempted to swallow the words she had just nonchalantly uttered. Oh, cool! Hey, have you ever thought of going into another field like pet grooming?
After I called Babe and told him to get his ass to the hospital toot-sweet, I was whisked away on a wild wheelchair ride through hospital hallways, waiting areas, and elevators with Nurse Nervous breathing heavily over my head. When we reached the maternity ward, she told the nurse what had happened between each panting breath. Nurse Nervous left and I was wheeled into a room with a bed, a couch, and lots of techi-gadgets, screens, and wires that I would soon learn to despise.
The nurse immediately hooked up to the same gadgety-wiry thingy that they used for my non-stressed tests so they could monitor the baby’s heart rate. Once I was attached to it, I was not allowed to be unattached from it. I named it Shadow. Shadow was a real pain in the ass. Shadow followed me everywhere like that annoying younger sibling who tugs at your pant leg and wants to do everything you do. When I wanted to go to the bathroom, Shadow would be like, Can I come? And I’d be like, No. And he’d be like, Too bad, haha, I’m coming anyway!
I also had to get a saline lock inserted into my wrist. This very much sucked and I’d rather not think or write about it because it makes my spine hurt and makes me nauseous.
A midwife came in about an hour after I arrived, introduced herself, and said it was time to talk induction. She asked me if I’d ever heard of miso. Well, duh, it’s only, like, one of my favorite soups — a delicious bowl of warm, salty goodness. Oh my god, are you telling me that miso soup helps bring on contractions?! Awesome. Not quite. It’s actually a wee-little pill (full name: misoprostol) they insert into your vagina, which contains a synthetic form of prostaglandin. This is when I learned why they always tell you to, among other things, have sex if you want to kick-start labor. Semen contains prostaglandin, which causes the uterus to ripen and contract. I felt like an idiot for not knowing that. I always just assumed sex movements would eventually bother the baby enough to finally decide it was time to get the ef outta dodge.
The miso did bring on contractions but they didn’t progress over time. The midwife came into my room hours after the miso had been inserted and informed me that we should try something else. She asked me if I had heard of the Foley Bulb. At this point, I realized that I came into the hospital thinking I was at least somewhat armed with knowledge about labor and delivery when, in reality, I was a total ignoramus. The Foamy Ball? Sounds nice. Nope, never heard of it. Here is how it works, courtesy of about.com: The [deflated] balloon portion of the Foley…is inserted into the uterus by having your practitioner [insert] with the fingers, feeling that the balloon is between the amniotic sac and the lower uterine segment (bottom of the uterus). The balloon is then inflated with saline solution and left in place. Sure, stick a balloon in me and, while you’re there, why don’t you shove some party hats and Chinese yo-yo’s up in there, too. We’s gonna have ourselves a big ol’ bash in Zodka’s utey. The balloon is designed to fall out on its own after the cervix reaches 3cm in dilation to signal that that party is over and another even bigger one is about to begin.
The damn party balloon didn’t initiate the bash we were hoping for. I continued to have minor to moderate contractions that did not progress. Hours and hours went by. Nurses came and went. We played lots of cribbage. We listened to lots of CD’s. Babe and my good friend took turns massaging my back. Shadow towered over me, watching my every move. Every time I got out of bed, the Foley Bulb showed off its artistic abilities, using the floor as its canvas and my blood as paint.
Finally, the inevitable conversation was to be had. Pitocin. The dreaded Pitocin. The last resort. The drug they ostensibly grossly overuse in America. The drug that makes contractions all the more intense. The drug I wanted absolutely nothing to do with.
I felt like I didn’t have a choice. The nurses and midwife sort of insinuated that there was some semblance of choice because there had been no subsequent decelerations, but I knew I didn’t really have a choice. I could go home, where I would fret and worry about the baby, or I could stay at the hospital where they would pump me full of this god-awful drug to try to force this baby to come out despite the fact that she wasn’t ready. I stayed. They pumped. And pumped. And pumped some more. The contractions got more severe but my cervix was being clear that it was closed for business.
On Friday night, the Uterus-friendly-sized Jackson Pollock formerly known as the Foley Bulb had finally decided he’d seen enough of my insides and kindly plopped himself out of my vagina. After all this shit, I was only 3 f-ing cm dilated. By this time, I’d seen several midwives start and finish their shifts. Someone knocked on the door. It was the same midwife who was working when I arrived on Thursday. I shot her a forlorn look. She pretend-scolded me for still being there. I was glad to see her. I liked her. She was edgy and sarcastic and had a potty mouth. She was exactly who I needed. She asked me if I wanted her to break my water and I said if it didn’t break in a couple hours on its own then, yes, I would like her to break it. I just wanted something natural to happen in this process. Do you think the damn water broke on its own? I called the midwife and told her it was time to open the floodgates. As the waters were freed and the hot river flowed out of me, my contractions came on with a vengeance and I was immediately thrust into active labor. So this is what they were talking about. Pain like I’d never known. Pain that should be illegal. Pain that might kill me.
When you’re pregnant, you are well aware of the hell that awaits you. But you have to think positively, even if you are the most cynical, defensively-pessimistic person in the universe. You can’t let yourself go to the bad places because you’re pregnant, and the last thing you want to do is put stress on your baby (and, frankly, waste time worrying about something over which you have no control). Hmm, maybe I should be pregnant all the time *shiver*.
I hobbled off the bed, begrudgingly dragging Shadow alongside of me, the clingy bastard. I tried getting on the birthing ball but the monitors connected to Shadow kept slipping, thereby prohibiting the nurses from tracking the baby’s heartbeat. I then proceeded to try several more laboring positions but they either, a, didn’t feel at all comfortable or, b, f-ed with Shadow’s monitors. This is when I began to realize that all women are insane for even toying with the idea of trying to make a baby. Why aren’t I doing an epidural? Oh, right, the birth plan. Why did I make a birth plan? Because that’s what you do. Right, must stick to goal of no epidural…
The nurses kept checking my dilation, which continued to be way slower than anyone wanted. But despite my 3.5cm dilation, my body was telling me to push. I told the nurses but they said it was strange because women don’t usually feel that sensation until they are way further dilated. I don’t give a flying fuck what’s normal, this is what I feel and what the hell do I do?! Basically, they told me not to push because that could do some serious damage. Right, don’t push. Um, I’m going to die. Most def going to die. It was at this time when I truly began to understand the proverbial woman-in-labor-despises-everyone-in-the-room affliction. Why couldn’t they just shut the hell up? Why were they so calm? Why does their hair look so clean and brushed?
Then it hit me — the laboring hot tub! Yes, this would mitigate the pain for sure. I told the nurses of my wish, and soon my entourage and I made our way down the hall to the tub room. I was so excited I could barely wait for them to fill it up. This was the one time I was able to be free from the shackles of Shadow. I stepped in and slowly lowered my body down, feeling the piping hot water inundate my thighs, belly, and chest. It was the first time I had been in a hot tub since I was pregnant, and I remember briefly thinking how strange it was that I couldn’t see the stars and didn’t have a glass of wine to leisurely sip off of in between my contributions to the soft and slow conversation. No, no, this was quite the opposite.
At this point, my contractions were about a minute or less apart and they were killers. I was still having to concentrate really hard on not pushing. The water being so hot was a distraction, but after about 3 minutes I began to feel like I was literally boiling in a giant pot. I looked at the little thermometer bobbing around in the water, which read 109 degrees. I swear that’s what it read. In case you’re not a regular tubber, 104 is considered the upper range of normal. It was as though I was bathing in lava, and it didn’t take but a few seconds for me to aptly erupt with paroxysmal rage and demand an immediate exit from this veritable hell…