Hello World

We tried everything. Literally.

I think I was 35 or 36 weeks when I officially hit a wall and decided all I wanted was for my sweet baby to be laying across my tummy instead of inside it. I went for long walks. I got a pedicure and let them rub my feet wherever they pleased (apparently this can initiate contractions). I ate spicy food. I did a million squats. Okay, maybe not a million but it sure did feel like it the bigger I got. I drank red raspberry tea like I was dying of dehydration. The boys made me smoothies for breakfast with dates. And I forget what else we tried— but nothing really progressed her along. For three weeks I remained at a 1.5-2cm dilation. This really should have been a sign of what labor would be like. But I tried to be patient and remind myself that she’d come when she was ready. Although, this was especially hard because everyone in my family had arrived early- me, my sister, my neice, my nephew… you get the point— 3-6 weeks early was not uncommon for my family.

At each ultrasound my little nugget passed all the required criteria with flying colors. Her heart rate was perfect, and most all of her scores were near perfect— with the exception of movement. Baby girl was as lazy in the womb as I was. My mom had told me once that she could never do kick counts with me. She’d get a handful here or there but I was never consistent enough and I definitely didn’t keep her awake from kicking her all night long. When I was born, I apparently slept well too. My parents had to frequently wake me up for feedings and to meet new people. I was content to sleep and rest (hmm… not so much different than present-day me). I was kind of hoping this would be a sign our sweet girl would be the same as me in that regard. A sure indicator that maybe if she was sleepy in the womb that she’d be a happy little sleeper when she was finally here. A new momma can dream, right? But as I mentioned, for three weeks I never actually progressed past 2cm dilated. So two weeks before my due date I went in for one of my final weekly check-ups and we found my amniotic fluid was a tad low. Even so, our sweet girl still passed all the other criteria. There was a little bit of concern, though. Basically, the way I understood it, we were safer to go ahead and schedule an induction a week before her due date just to be safe. Now I know I’m not going to do the next part justice in trying to explain, so I’m not going to try too hard. But essentially, as baby B continued to grow, if the amniotic fluid levels continued to lower and if I couldn’t accurately monitor her movement through kick counts, we could end up putting her at risk. IF all those areas were to perfectly align, there’d be the potential of the placenta deteriorating/dying before she would actually be born and we wouldn’t really know until it was too late. Stillborn was the word my doctor used. I was surprised that the word didn’t actually scare me. I fully trusted my doctor to lead us in the right direction. And her reasoning seemed sound. I liked that she was advocating for the best interest of our sweet girl so that she could arrive safe and sound and avoid any potential risks and worries. So there we had it. We left that appointment with the plan that if our little one didn’t arrive in the next 7 days on her own, then we’d be induced (5 days prior to her official due date).

I made a last ditch effort over those final 5 days, praying that she’d come on her own. We went to the chiropractor and used their advice. On the night of the induction (scheduled for a 10pm check-in), we took our last set of maternity photos, dressed in our comfiest of clothes, walked a few laps around the mall (it was a bit too icy out for me to feel comfortable walking the sidewalks), and ate dinner at Jazz (the spicier the better). 10pm we were all settled and checked-in. And no, she did not come on her own. Two cervical ripening tries (I say tries because my night nurse was not exactly gentle and really did not set my labor off to a great start) and 8 hours later— nothing. Well, to be fair, I had in fact dilated a bit more (I’d already been almost completely effaced for a couple weeks already), but no real progression otherwise. We started Pitocin just after (or maybe it was just before) 6am (don’t worry, my day shift nurse was amazing, gentle, and kind). And y’all, let me tell you. The stories are not exaggerating about the punch packed in that powerful little drug. Within thirty minutes my contractions not only picked up, but I also began vomiting. I felt my first glimmer of excitement at the progression, but that was pretty quickly muted by a new wave of fear. “Can I really do this?”

I walked laps around our room and attempted to fill out some of the paperwork the nurses had brought us the night before. Casey frequently catered to my every need— everything from getting my brush and the dry shampoo to fetching me something to eat—two cups of chicken broth (which tasted amazing for whatever reason) and a bomb pop that he finished off for me when I started feeling queasy again. I’d drank so much water (woohoo) that I was peeing even more than typical. During one of my many trips to the bathroom I discovered my labor had progressed even more. While my water had not broken yet, there was a bloody show (sorry y’all, just being transparent here). I’ll save you the details on that one— but I’m so glad I read up on it prior to getting to this point. Somewhere around that time my doctor stopped in and I was completely effaced and had dilated even more. My contractions were right where they needed to be, but my water still had not broken. My OB broke my water and left the room with the hope that we’d have a baby by lunch! I was so anxious at the thought of meeting our sweet girl sooner rather than later. It wasn’t long after that moment that my contractions went through the roof and the pain was unbearable. Our sweet girl was handling it well, but momma was not. Not only were the contractions intense but they were very close together. I’d no sooner get past one peak that the next contraction would start. Each contraction was less than 30 seconds apart during the oh-so-not-pleasant back labor. I tried bouncing on the ball, doing squats, walking, and even had Casey rub my back. While I wasn’t against an epidural, I wanted to last as long as possible on my own. Somewhere around 11am (I think?) my nurse checked-in on me and commented on how well I was doing. And then she asked me how I was feeling. My voice wavered as I told her how much pain I was in. She didn’t push my decision or say I had to go one way or another. She was supportive and validated my feelings. Casey held my hand. She neither pushed me to an epidural or against it, but merely said something along the lines of, “I’ve read your birth plan and I see you’re open to interventions. I will tell you that we have several births happening right now and there are three other women that have already requested epidurals this morning. If you don’t want one right now, that’s okay. If you don’t want one later, that’s okay, too. But if you decide you do want one later and the order isn’t in yet, it could delay your relief and if your labor progresses any more, we may miss our window.” I decided to go ahead and get my name in the system. I’m really glad I did. It was an hour to an hour-and-a-half later (but who’s counting) that the anesthesiologist finally walked in. While I was still breathing through my contractions, my back pain became so severe that I couldn’t bounce on the ball or walk. I could barely stand, but sitting didn’t seem like much of an option either. I must have been holding in a lot of emotion because once I saw him, I felt relief. That feeling of relief coupled with the intense pain that had seemed to ramp up yet again brought tears to my eyes. I signed all the papers and sat on the edge of the bed. My nurse steadied my body while Casey held my hand. Did I say my anesthesiologist was amazing? He was. My contractions were so close together that he told me to let him know as soon as the peak of one contraction was ending so that he could place the needle during that exact moment. This would give me the short period before the next one to make sure it was all placed correctly and less likely to feel any pressure associated with the needle. I don’t remember feeling it at all. Not even the slightest pinch. But I do remember that the contraction prior to the needle insertion and the two following the placement were so incredibly painful that silent tears began to fall from my face. I kept breathing the way I’d learned how to do during my frequent asthma attacks as a child. All three of my little support team were amazing. Casey was incredibly calm and encouraging. He held my hands while the nurse helped me remain in the correct position for the anethesiologist during each contraction. The anesthesiologist (I wish I could remember his name) kept saying “you’re doing so good, your breathing is perfect.” I’m not sure why I remember that detail, but I can still hear it clear as day. I really appreciated it, whether he said that to everyone or not, concentrating on breathing really did help. For all you soon-to-be mommas, don’t forget to breathe. That deep, measured, diaphragmatic breathing really does make a difference in calming your body and handling pain.

And then— it happened. I felt dramatic relief within the next 15 minutes. I even remember smiling a bit. And then falling asleep. I took many naps through lunch and the rest of the afternoon. When my doctor came to check on me at lunch, I’d dilated but still not enough to push. My contractions were still incredibly strong, but unfortunately were becoming more sporadic. Our sweet girl continued to handle it well, such a strong baby. We continued to bump up the Pitocin. I asked why I felt so tired when I couldn’t feel any pain anymore and my doctor explained to me how incredibly hard my body was still laboring. I couldn’t feel it (hm… I probably pushed the little blue light that sent shivers down my spine with each burst of meds a little too often). She encouraged me to keep resting and requested the nurse to continue updating her as I progressed. If she didn’t get the page that I was at the point of pushing before the end of her work day, then her plan was to come back to our room and check on us. And back to waiting we went.

From the very start of the administration of Pitocin, I was getting measured increases every 20ish-40ish minutes. I’d made it to (nearly) the max amount allowed by lunch, but still no progression. And at this point, my body was not only tired and I wasn’t dilating, but my contractions became even more sporadic shortly after my Dr.’s lunchtime visit. Our new game plan was to take me completely off Pitocin and allow my body to take a break and basically reset the whole process. After almost 30 minutes of no Pitocin, we jumped back on the bandwagon. We got near the max amount again. My contractions became more consistent, and during the next nursing rounds, my nurse was convinced I’d made it to an 8! A sure sign I could begin pushing. She called another nurse in to double check. This nurse felt I was closer to a 7. False alarm. My nurse checked again a short while later. Again, she felt I was at an 8. Apparently we’d made it to the evening, because there was my doctor in the doorway. My nurse informed her she thought I was really close to being able to push. My doctor checked. I was only a 7.5—- and only during the middle of a contraction. By this point, I’d been laboring for 10+ hours without progression. We began discussing options.

Like my nurse, my doctor never pushed me one way or the other. She laid out all our options and listened to my husband and I’s thoughts and feelings. She validated our concerns and guided us based on her experience. She was beginning to think (based on the fact that I’d been effaced for weeks, that she’d been able to feel our sweet girl’s head for the past month, that she was far enough in the birth canal that she could feel her hair, that my contractions were very strong and consistent, and that I still hadn’t progressed) that I really had one of two options to consider: 1. Move forward with a C-section or 2. Continue to labor for an unknown amount of time and likely still have to have a C-section. Casey looked at me and said “I’ll support whatever you want to do.” I told her I was ready to be done and have her out. From there everything happened quickly. Two different anesthesiologists came in and administered the morphine. Within seconds I was sick (sigh- I wasn’t surprised). The horrible part was that I hadn’t had actual food since the night before. So my vomiting consisted of a bunch of dry heaving and tears. Somewhere in this process I began to not feel anything. From my neck down. I felt like I was choking and began crying more. They added more meds into my line for nausea. Then the coughing attacks started (I’d fought off a winter cold just the week prior but still had a lingering little cough). They administered meds for these new symptoms (albuterol, I think). The silent tears continued. Honestly, I don’t really know if I was actually crying or just dry heaving so hard my eyes were watering. Who knows. My new anethesiologist was, again, amazing. He talked gently to me and placed a cold rag on my neck. Then he placed a fresh one on my eyes. He asked me questions and adjusted everything as needed. He talked me through the whole process. And as they wheeled me out of the door toward the OR, he was the one to turn back to Casey and say “if you have a camera, grab it, you’re going to want it!”

As they wheeled me into the delivery room, I began to have difficulty breathing. I could tell I needed to clear my throat and/or cough, but I couldn’t. I tried to force a cough and nothing happened. I felt like I was drowning. The anesthesiologist tried to suction me but that sensation made it worse. I did all I could think of to remain calm, and the best thing for that was, of course, to continue focusing on breathing. I kept thinking “breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.” I kept my eyes closed and the wet cloth across them for added darkness. I tried to relax as best I could. Somewhere along the way my body began reacting to all the medicines in my system. I was told that I had started shaking uncontrollably. I really don’t know what that looked like, I couldn’t even feel it. But the anethesiologist had a hand on each of my arms, I could see him stretched across me (he sat at my head), but I couldn’t feel it. It didn’t matter though, he didn’t try to hide it, he kept me informed the whole time. I really appreciated how he didn’t sugar coat what was happening, but he wasn’t harsh either. His calm, quiet, and controlled voice described what the doctor was doing, what he was administering to help (i.e., adjusting meds as needed), and took deep breaths with me. I think he even stroked my hair once, or maybe that was Casey. Ha. This whole part was a bit of a blur for me. I do know that both the anesthesiologist and Casey kept telling me repeatedly how great I was doing. I heard tools clinking together and the nurses talking to each other.

Next thing I know, I heard my girl’s first cry and Casey exclaim, “oh honey, she’s so beautiful. She has my skin color.” He was mesmerized by her. He held his camera as high over the drape as he could and took as many pictures as possible. All I could hear was the click of his shutter and the murmur of happy tones among the staff. The anesthesiologist remained steady and continued to walk me through the process as Casey headed over to meet our girl. I remember feeling mixed emotions. I felt glad it was over, but intense sadness. I felt selfish for wanting it to be done and wanting to feel better. I think I even said that aloud once, “I just want to feel better.” Silent tears continued to fall. Between the shaking and the way I felt emotionally, I didn’t want to see Charlee. I remember that Casey brought her to me and I honestly don’t know how I responded in that moment. I do remember him asking if I wanted to hold her. I know I was thinking “no,” but I didn’t get my words out. Instead the anethesiologist advocated for me and said “no.” He made it sound more like a doctor’s orders vs. a mom not ready to meet her little girl. Again, my gratitude toward him grew. I felt guilty and ashamed for not wanting to hold my baby. Silent tears continued to fall. The anethesiologist leaned down and said, “it’s okay, we’re going to get you feeling better first.” Before they wheeled me to recovery, my OB held my girl and brought her to me. She said, “you have to at least kiss her before we go anywhere else.” I kissed my girl on her cheek, and one last crocodile tear fell onto mine. Casey took a picture of this moment. I’m so glad Dr. Bernard created that moment for us. I’m sure with her experience, she knew I’d look back and wish I’d held her or kissed her little cheek. Because of her, I have that moment.

From there, everything continued to progress quickly. They sewed me up and got me back to the room. I no longer felt sad, I felt angry. Very angry. My body still shook as if I’d been out in the freezing cold. I felt like I’d been out in the cold. The nurses kept bringing blankets and piling them on. Nothing helped. I felt an insatiable thirst. No one would give me water. I was rude to the nurse about it (I later attempted to apologize). I barked orders and felt helpless. I don’t remember where my baby was during any of this or how long I’d been away from her. At one point I know I began to feed her, skin-to-skin. Casey took pictures, I don’t remember these moments with clarity, but I’m so thankful that he captured our first bonding moments together. Our girl latched like a champ. The insatiable thirst returned. I tried to feed her on the other side and it didn’t happen as easily. I became frustrated, and angry, again. I barked orders for Casey to take her. As time went by, the medications continued to wear off. As they did I began to feel better. I began feeling less angry.

The nurse helped me put a robe on so that our family could come in and meet Charlee. The boys came in first with their Mimi. I remember she asked how I was doing. I told her “not okay.” I teared up and she hugged me. They kept their visit short. My parents came next. The visited us all and held their sweet grandbaby girl. Casey took pictures, at 8 months later, I’m seeing these for the first time. I’m really glad he thought to take pictures of everyone meeting her. I must have still been coming off my medicine high, because I really don’t remember much of any of it. After everyone left we were finally able to go to our new room that we’d be in for the next couple days. It was in this room I began to feel more like myself. I watched my girl sleeping and all I wanted was to hold her. But I couldn’t yet. The nurse came in and helped clean me up. I asked to get up and walk. She got another nurse and I passed the test. I was allowed to walk to the bathroom. She helped me and taught me what to do. I don’t remember saying the words “sorry” but through our conversation in the bathroom (and trust me, nothing about these moments were pretty), I must have apologized in some fashion because I remember her response: “honey, you were on more medicines than I can name in a short period of time, I didn’t take anything you said personally, let’s get you cleaned up.” My heart still hurts a little when I think back on the moment in recovery and my rudeness toward her. Nurses don’t get enough credit for what they do. I was rude and yet she still came back and showed me grace while she helped tend to my needs during a very vulnerable time (she still didn’t give me water though, ha). I walked back into the room feeling (somewhat) less gross and overall closer to feeling like myself.

And then.

It happened.

I fell in love.

I snuggled my daughter for what felt like the first time—and in a way, it was. It was the first time I didn’t have what felt like thousands of medicines being pumped through my body. I held her as me, and she was perfect. She was more than I expected. She was the snuggliest perfect little nugget there ever was.