There is no better way to get back on track with the blog than to just jump right in!
We are having so much fun with the girls lately. It has been almost 8 months now that we have lived with Grandpa. They have had a blast with him at dinner each night and have learned some crazy things. In two weeks we will be moving into our new home. We are packing and getting excited, but we will definitely miss the big guy who makes us giggle every day.
Natalie has been walking since about her 1st birthday. She is ALL OVER THE PLACE and so interested in everything. She is up the stairs, in the bathroom, trying to walk out the back door, etc. She doesn't want to be held. She wants to RUN! She says so many words and has the biggest smile, full of teeth. The words I can remember off the top of my head are: mama, dada, ball, Gen (Gwen), baby, boon (balloon), Mou (Micky Mouse), dog, rawr, wuhwuh (lovey), water, this, no, on, off, car, down, teese (please), cheers, and more.
Gwen just started T-ball and soccer. She loves running the bases and, of course, talks non stop to the coaches. She will be going to Sci Tech for preschool in the fall and I am so excited! Her drawings have come a long way recently and she is drawing more details on people and more animals, houses, etc.
She has decided to have a Fairy birthday party since she is into Tinkerbell. We are excited about having her party at the new house.
Today was Father's Day. We went to Mike's for a cookout and had ice cream with daddy as a special treat. Gwen was helping Billy vacuum the floor and would run to dirt on the floor and yell, "crumb alert." Quite funny. She also is obsessed with watching the Hawks with us as they are in the Stanley Cup final. She loves to sing the National Anthem and emphasize the words "that our flag was still there," complete with arm raised.
We are enjoying these little ladies so much. I can't wait to see them in their new rooms and home. =)
Crafting a Life ... Smiling Again
Memoirs of a Mommy in love...
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Early Morning Random Poem
Someday I "used to"
Someday I will lie awake,
Which will be unusual for me.
For every night I will sleep right through,
Waking as rested as I hope to be
Sleeping, though I will cherish it well,
Will not begin to compare or relate
To the nights I used to be on call
To my children for whom I prayed.
Midnight Feeding, accident cleaning, medicine dosing...
In-the-dark diaper changing and video monitor staring...
These are the things I will "used to do"
That I would trade in a heartbeat for bagless-eye wearing.
Someday I will eat my meals
In silence and at a pace that I choose.
I will dine in stylish restaurants. Finish with dessert?
Of course! I will have nothing to lose.
Eating, though I will cherish it well,
Will not begin to compare or relate
To the meals I missed whilst instead
Feeding my children for whom I prayed.
Spill wiping, veggie battling, goldfish everywhere finding...
Bib washing, cold lunch chowing and wiping food from hair...
These are the things I will "used to do"
That I would humbly trade for the missing booster chair.
Someday I will chat with family and friends
And enjoy intellectual conversation.
I will actively listen to the stories of others
and will thrive on this active participation.
Adult interaction, though I will cherish it well
Will not begin to compare or relate
To the animated toddler language and talk
of the children for whom I prayed.
Silly song singing, outdoor voice using...
Fixing mixed up words, handling tantrums and riots...
These are the things I will "used to do"
That I would instantly trade for the quiet.
Someday I will look my best,
Having time to shower, primp and style.
I will makeup my face and shave my legs,
Dry my hair and dress up MORE than once in a while.
Beauty, though I will cherish it well
Will not begin to compare or relate
to the slovenly days of early motherhood
with the children for whom I prayed.
Spitup stain wiping, like a diaper smelling...
Quick showering with an audience, throwing hair in a bun...
These are the things I will "used to do"
that I would trade for no need to be on the run.
Someday I will be all caught up
On my errands and laundry and chores.
My house will be spotless and table will be set.
I'll find time to read alone and be outdoors.
Time, though I will cherish it well,
Will not begin to compare or relate
To the chaotic mess and endless list of to-dos
Despite raising the children for whom I prayed.
Public outburst hushing, nightly toy cleaning, onesie folding...
stepping on legos and trying not to scream...
These are the things I will "used to do"
That I would trade for the empty house, now clean.
Someday I will drive in peace
and easily get where I need to be.
I will be hip to new music and pack a small purse.
I will be in and out, wherever I go, with ease.
New car, though I will cherish it well,
Will not begin to compare or relate
To the chauffeur service I provide
to the children for whom I prayed.
Nursery rhyme blasting, Carseat buckling...
stroller pushing, cheerio brushing and mini van driving...
These are the things I will "used to do"
That I would trade for the chance to go under-the-seat snack diving.
Someday I will be light and free.
I will do as I want on a daily basis.
I will reward myself with pats on the back
And enjoy recognition and appreciative faces.
Thanks, though I will cherish it well,
Will not begin to compare or relate
To the unpaid hours of absolute bliss
with the children for whom I prayed.
Hand holding, story reading, tear drying, giggling all day long...
Footstep hearing, tickle giving, ouchie kissing galore
These are the things I will "used to do"
That I would trade for the chance to relive it once more.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
A child is born
DISCLAIMER: This is my gorgeous Natalie's adventurous birth story. Many aspects of it are TMI, because childbirth is not pretty! Some of these events I do not remember happening, but was told happened later on. Also, there is a Part III coming, and probably more details that my husband will be adding on!
DO NOT READ if you are pregnant! Or if you do, remember that this never happens!
Warning: Do not try this at home...
DO NOT READ if you are pregnant! Or if you do, remember that this never happens!
Warning: Do not try this at home...
Part I
Oooooooouuuuuchhh.
Son of a biscuit, that hurt! I
went through my well-rehearsed mental checklist before deciding if I should
bother to get up. Was this the worst
contraction I’d ever had? Nope. Did my water break? Nope. Did I just “know” this was it? Nope. I continued to doze on and off between
contractions, trying to get some long lost sleep. I had selfishly decided I would go in on
the morning of St. Patrick's day whether I was miserable or not. And even though I had said multiple times prior that I was never even going back to L&D, this time I would stay, even if it
meant sleeping in a supply closet.
I was
in labor on that Saturday morning. I was
in labor the day before and the six long weeks before that! Prodromal
labor, I would later learn, is the fancy term for my third trimester
fiasco. I spent my days and nights in
pain, timing contractions, drinking 5 liters of water and peeing out 10. I would sit up in my bed and hold my belly, grounding
my unborn baby for lack of cooperation. I
would lay on my side, and then the other side, and finagle every pillow we
owned into position, including the God-sent Snoogle, trying to get comfortable. It wouldn’t work.
On
occasions when the pain was particularly immense, I would head to the
hospital. The first contraction episode (around
32 weeks) was taken seriously, and all of the doctors and nurses showed true
concern. I was given glorious pain meds
and able to relax for a short time. “Did
you know that you are having contractions?” a nurse asked as she checked the
feed on my monitor. “Um, I am very
aware, Captain Obvious,” I thought. I
answered with a, “yes” and enjoyed my short lived stupor of comfort. We got the contractions to stop, and I was
sent home. Now that I think about it, I
should have just demanded my own room and stayed there for the next couple
months. I could have cut down on my
anxiety meds!
At the next trip to L&D (I hate to use the word “trip”
because these were so not vacations), I received steroids to help Natalie’s
lungs develop as we were all concerned about preterm labor. I got some meds and was sent home. Another time I went in for bleeding and
stronger contractions. Everything
checked out, and I was, again, sent home with the legendary Labor Signs
Checklist. “It says to head to the hospital
when you notice bleeding,” I addressed the nurse, “I’m bleeding, so when do I
come back?” She told me to come back
when I was bleeding “more.” Okaaay. Looking forward to it.
Over the course of our almost weekly L&D adventures, we
got used to the whole scene. Hubby went
from calling and frantically finding babysitters for Gwen to just bringing her
with us, not confident I would stay and have the baby. I got used to studying the monitors and was
fascinated by the pretty mountains that appeared when I contracted. I would say, “Here it comes,” and then hubby
and I would watch while the machine picked it all up. Usually, for added excitement, we spent time
worrying about Natalie’s heartbeat which would fluctuate, sometimes too much
for comfort and sometimes too little.
Each time my cervix was invaded checked it seemed to be closed up
and long. I would collect my checkout
sheets on our way out the door, and eventually stopped even reading them. They stated… “Come back to the hospital when
your contractions are less than five minutes apart.” Check.
They were showing up on the monitors and the staff watched it all happen. “Come back when you have bleeding.”
Check. I came in for bleeding and was
now instructed to gauge the amount of bleeding and come back when it reached
the decisive amount of “more.” “Come back if you have passed your mucus
plug.” Check. My MFM told me at a
routine appointment that I was passing the plug. Such the gentleman, he even pulled some of it
onto his fingers and stretched it to show me.
Gag.
My favorite L&D trip visit was when I had a
particularly sweet nurse. She tried to
keep me comfortable and knew I was in pain as all of my big contractions were
showing up on the monitors, as usual, and my face contorted appropriately. She seemed shocked when her phone call to my
doctor led to the “send her home” advice.
She blushed and couldn’t even come out and say the words as I writhed in
pain on the hospital bed. “Normally when
patients are having contractions like this we do not send them home,” she said
in confusion. She told me I was welcome
to stay a little longer because she wouldn't kick me out. I was already putting my shoes back on as she
spoke, like it was some kind of game.
She apologized profusely and said, “it may be that you get home and come
right back. I am here all night.” Nah. I
almost thought it was cute that she thought I was having the baby that
night. I learned long before that to not
trust any of the signs. I was not a
textbook case of pregnancy and never had been.
My least favorite visit was with a much more obnoxious
nurse. Upon looking at my chart, she must
have thought I was some sort of hypochondriac.
She practically rolled her eyes as I complained about the pain and was
rude when asking me the routine questions.
Once we were kicked out discharged again, I lost it. “Look,” I said to her, “I don’t want to be
here either. This is not fun for me. The paper you just handed me says to come in
when contractions are 5 minutes apart.
You just charted them at 3 minutes apart. WHEN am I supposed to be here?” Her reply was, “come back when they are the
worst contractions you ever felt.” I
wished I could transfer my next contraction via osmosis with a slap to her
face. Instead I got wheeled out to the
car and cried. It was my post-visit
ritual. I would cry about being
embarrassed and frustrated. And I would
vow that I was never coming back. I
would demand that Bill learn to check dilatation on the cervix and eat
chocolate while pitying myself. Good
times.
The most embarrassing trip to L&D was a night that I was
supposed to be teaching. I cancelled my
classes and was trying to fib about the reason.
One of the studio moms happen to be in labor that night, so Bill and one
of my dance moms (a different one) met in the hallway. The other studio mom ended up having her baby
shortly after arriving, so yay for her. However,
my gig was up. I enjoyed a visit from my
dancer and her mom while I was wincing in pain and was then sent home, again empty handed. I would continue to teach and attended one especially fun competition where I used the restroom every 10 minutes because I thought my water was leaking and could barely walk as I was sure I would birth my child in public in front of an unsuspecting audience of adolescent girls.
One particular night of pain I called the doctor to discuss my issues and see
if I should come in. I was frustrated
and told her, “I just don’t want to have this baby on my kitchen floor.” She laughed at the hilarity of that statement
and said, “We won’t let that happen.” I
wonder how those words tasted when she later was forced to eat them.
Weekly, I would head to my doctors’
appointments and she would comment on being in L&D again. I told her I was losing my mind. I was having painful contractions and had no
idea when I was supposed to go to the hospital or stay home. It felt like every ultrasound tech, doctor,
nurse, and maintenance worker thought I was crazy, that I was some kind of wimp
who could not handle pain. Dr. Simmons
reminded me that I had an irritable uterus and, as usual, minimized everything
by saying Braxton hicks contractions were normal. Now, I am not a violent person at all, but I
wanted to pass out Braxton kicks to the shins every time this was
mentioned. These were not BH. I had BH periodically. They were cute and fun. A little tightening
of the belly that reminded me there was a sweet little girl inside. They lasted for a short time and did not get
stronger or closer together. They didn’t
hurt. They were so NOT what I was
having. I even started to question my
own pain threshold, because everyone brushed it off like I was being dramatic. But the pain brought me to tears almost
nightly toward the end.
Bill and I had finally had enough of the stress. We decided we would ask the doctor at 37
weeks for an elective induction. We
didn’t even have to ask. She saw how
much the anxiety was affecting me and said we would schedule an induction at 39
weeks. She then checked my cervix, which
was at a 3, and sent me on my way, but not before joking, “Maybe you will have
a St. Patrick’s Day baby.” That would
have been 2 days later, so she laughed and looked me in the eye as she said,
“that isn’t going to happen.”
I dealt with painful contractions, one bleeding episode, one
low fluid scare, several ultrasounds and NSTs, multiple Fetal Fibronectin tests,
dizzy spells, 2 24 hour urine collection tests, regular appointments with the
maternal fetal medicine specialists, loss of mucous plug early on, additional
Braxton Hicks, a 3 hour glucose test, one 2 night hospital stay and probably
lots of things my mind has chosen to forget about. There were times I couldn’t
walk any faster than a lazy turtle, because it felt like the baby would fall
out if my legs opened in any normal stride.
At times I thought I belonged in
a mental institution, because the stress was unreal. The anxiety was the worst portion of it
all. I could absolutely deal with the
pain if I knew that everything would be okay.
But I didn’t. There were times I
stayed at home when any normal patient would have been in L&D, but I
worried about the impression I was making on doctors, the cost of appointments,
and the disappointment of getting sent home again. I tried to keep the drama to myself and not
open up about the craziness that was my life.
My poor hubby, however, dealt with more tears and complaints than he
deserved to and supported me through thick and thin. Haha.
Literally thick and
thin, 0-10!
Part II
I used a lot of descriptive words in the previous paragraphs
to basically point out that I had been in labor with crazy contractions long
before March 17th.
It was in the wee hours of the morning on that St. Patrick’s
Day. As I mentioned, I had thought
through the checklist of “labor signs” and eventually decided to roll over and open my
contraction counting application on my phone.
I had used it many times before, so I barely opened my eyes as I pushed start
and stop. I recorded three (yes, 3)
contractions on the phone each about 3 minutes apart. They hurt, but I had had a few episodes
already with contractions at 3 minutes apart.
I gave up trying to sleep and lovingly nudged my husband. I asked him to get up and get ready so we
could head to the hospital. He mumbled something
unintelligible through his sexy snoring mask and went back to sleep. (He admitted later that he rolled his eyes as
the words “here we go again” crept into his thoughts.) I walked to the bathroom, peed again and
started the water for my shower. We keep
it classy in this house, so the bathroom door was open. From the bed, Bill could see my face grow
irritated as I had contraction #4 (since timing them). He decided to get up. The pain was terrible, and I yelled for him
to get Gwen ready so we could leave soon.
I decided to skip the shower and turned the water off. I went back into my room (just outside of the
master bathroom) and dialed my mom’s phone number to have her meet us at the
hospital to pick up Gwen. As I was on
the phone, and simultaneously trying to put some pants on, another contraction
hit. This was THE contraction. It hurt so bad that I was unable to talk on
the phone and thought it was a better idea to throw the beloved device across
the room. Bill looked at me like I was
crazy (not all that uncommon) and picked it up to talk to my mom.
I remember thinking several things. First, I realized I would NOT make it to the
hospital, but I still continued with the motions of getting ready, because part
of me refused to accept this fact. I was
stopped in my tracks, with pants half on, and unable to speak. I remember thinking that, “yes,” this WAS the
worst pain I had ever felt. I had always
heard that if you couldn’t talk through the contractions, they were real. This was real! So real that I decided a labor of pain like
this confirmed the absence of a loving God.
Bill was quickly getting Gwen dressed.
I remember my inner dialog swearing to “leave her in her damn pajamas
and throw her in the car.” I made my way
back to the bathroom, not knowing what I should do next. On the toilet I felt so much pressure and
pain that I realized I WAS the huge wimp the doctors thought I was, and I would
not survive the day. I was yelling out
and Gwen, who appeared in the doorway, began to cry. I sent her to her room and tried to bite my
tongue while my vagina felt like it was ripping apart. I yelled for Bill and told him to call
911. (As a note, I totally expected him
to argue with me and accuse me of overreacting)
He didn’t, however, but instead dialed and put the phone on
speaker. He quickly spit out our address
and said, “My wife is in labor.”
Understatement of the century.
The operator started to slowly ask questions like, how far along is she?
How far apart are they? When did they start? Blah blah blah. I was furious, as these details did NOT
matter at that very second. I was standing
up in my bathroom, wanting to scream, but trying not to scare my 2 year old and
also because we were on the call. That
just isn’t proper phone etiquette!
At this
point, my body completely took over. I
had no control over anything and did not make any conscious decisions. My brain was out for coffee while my body
said, “I got this.” I involuntarily
reached my hand between my legs, probably to try and put out the flames of fire
I felt. I am exaggerating. There were obviously not any flames. Instead there was a soft round
head. I told Bill that I felt her
head. His eyes grew wide and the
operator finally shut up as he yelled, “she feels the head.” The operator was instructing him to get me to
the bed to lie down. I just stood there
with my hand on my baby’s soft head, not moving.
I know this is going
to sound strange, but I felt so much love.
Sure, it was just the top of her head, but it was my baby. It was so soft and mushy, and I was surprisingly
calm at that point. Bill was trying to
lead me into the bedroom and was asking me so nicely. I probably laughed in his
face. That was NOT happening. First of all, lying down was the last thing
that made sense to me. Also, I was
absolutely not in any position to be walking.
And I also remember thinking about how the sheets were just washed and I
didn’t want to get them dirty.
With my body in charge, I knew I had to squat down. Bill thought I was trying to lie on the floor
in the bathroom, but I was getting ready for what I knew what was coming. I pushed, because I HAD to, and it happened. Bill put his hands by mine and literally
caught her as she was slowly delivered.
He said, “She’s here, she’s here,” and wrapped her into his shirt (a red
polo). We both knelt there holding her
and talking to the operator. She asked
if the baby was crying. She wasn’t. At first she wasn’t moving at all, and then I
saw her turn her head a little bit. For
some reason I just knew that she was okay.
Bill however, kept telling the operator she wasn’t crying. We were told to turn her head to the
side. Bill swiped his fingers through
her mouth to get out any junk that was in there. The operator told him to go get a towel so we
stood up and I held her. I don’t know if
I was in shock or what I was doing, but I do remember him asking me to hold
her. Then the operator kept saying, “sir,
sir, are you there sir,” and I yelled, “he went to get a towel.” He came back and we wrapped her up in it, a hooded brown monkey towel. I
held her close to my belly, the one she was just inside of 2 minutes earlier.
Bill went to unlock the doors for the paramedics. I was standing there, in my bathroom, alone
and holding my baby (who was freaking beautiful, by the way), pants at my
ankles, and still connected via umbilical cord.
Right at the moment my brain returned from its coffee break and reality
started to set in, the operator reminded us the ambulance would be there
soon. And JUST before I started to
freak, I heard the sirens.
Part III
While paramedics were arriving, Bill walked into the
bathroom with a pair of scissors. I
thought he wanted to cut the cord and so I mentioned it. The operator yelled, “Do not cut the cord,”
and before I thought about anything else, we heard the paramedics come in. Apparently Bill used the scissors to cut my
pants off, which I have absolutely no recollection of. The head paramedic took the baby in his hands
and helped me waddle to the bed and lay down.
For a brief second I remember thinking that since I had the baby already
I wouldn’t have to go to the hospital.
Then I immediately realized the insanity of that. Natalie was lying next to me while the
paramedic got her checked out and cord clamped and cut. As I was sprawled there, about 12 paramedics
from the Aurora Fire Department walked into my room. If I ever envisioned a firefighter in my bedroom,
this was NOT how I pictured it! So the
paramedics filled the room with their energy in high gear and eyes on the
lovely scene. Later I found out that one
went into Gwen’s bedroom to keep her company.
She was so brave and didn’t cry when all these people were in our house
and everything was chaotic. Some people
were checking my blood pressure and others my crotch (the joy) while others
worked on Natalie. I was told she was
doing great. The head paramedic thought he
was a comedian and announced that she was a boy. I definitely didn’t laugh. Not because I would have been disappointed if
she was, but because I was in no position, literally, to make small talk. I was still having a lot of contractions,
though less intense, and thought I would deliver the placenta. My body felt eager to dispel it, but they made
me wait until I got to the hospital.
I remember thinking
about how these paramedics were so hyped up and how they had such a great story
to tell over green beers that evening. I
remember being pissed that I didn’t get to experience the epidural, because it
was so wonderful when I had Gwen. They
told me they were taking Natalie to the hospital first in one ambulance. I was upset and asked them to take us
together. We were now considered two
different patients, so we had to go separately.
She was wrapped up in a blue blanket and on her way. Bill was running around trying to get a
diaper bag ready for Gwen and get things situated. The stretcher was brought in and some poor
fellows had the job of loading me onto it.
It was such a hassle that I almost asked if I could just walk down the
stairs myself, but I also didn’t want to bleed all over the steps. This was a rental home, after all. Once loaded, they were having a heck of a
time trying to squeeze through doorways and hallways to get me down the
stairs. I was holding onto the walls as
we were going by, because I didn’t want them putting nicks or dents in the
paint. I realize now how ridiculous that
is. They put a sheet over me when we
were downstairs, and I asked, “Am I covered?”
One of the guys answered that I was.
When we got outside, I felt quite the draft down my sides, so I guess we
had learned different definitions of the word “covered.”
We had only lived in our new house for about 3 months and
did not have a chance to meet most of the neighbors because it was winter. Today, however, happened to be a beautiful, sunshiny
day. Everyone was outside enjoying the
spectacle of 2 Ambulances, 3 squad cars and several men in uniform. I stared straight up to the sky as they
wheeled me out, absolutely mortified and increasingly worried about my baby. On my way out the door, Bill yelled that they
(he and Gwen) were right behind me and that he would see me soon.
I previously had a terrifying experience in
an ambulance. Three years earlier I
spent an agonizingly bumpy ride transferring hospitals as my placenta was literally
abrupting with my son. A few of those
flashbacks and a continued barrage of contractions inside the ambulance made
for a great mood. I heard one guy
radio the station and say that we were on route to Mercy Hospital. I perked up and said, “No, we go to Copley.” He responded that he had to take me to Mercy
because it was the closest. I responded,
“I hope someone told my husband that.”
He assured me that they did. When
we got to the hospital and they were pulling me out of the ambulance, the guy
confirmed with another paramedic who confirmed that yes, “the husband was told.” Ha.
Inside the corridors, we passed the NICU as I was being
wheeled to L&D. Some sweet nurses
ran into the hallway to yell to me as I passed that the baby was doing fine. I was so grateful for that.
I got put into a room and a doctor came in to see me. This is where things start to get funny. Keep
in mind this was a different hospital and a completely new (to me) doctor. She asked me, “What time did the contractions
start?” and I answered, “Sometime around 8:30.”
And she snottily said (get this), “and what, you didn’t think to come
in?” “Whoa, bitch, I screamed in my
head, “You do NOT know what you are asking me!”
She gave me Pitocin to increase the contractions so I could deliver the
placenta and to shrink my uterus. I was
furious about that, because I was so freaking exhausted from contractions and
pain, and I just wanted it to be over. I
knew the Pitocin would bring more pain with it.
They got me all set up, and she finally delivered the placenta. She stuck it in one of those pink puke tubs
and set it on the counter near the sink.
Eew. After this and I was cleaned
up, my hubby was still not there and it had been a long enough time for me to worry. My phone was left at home, so I asked for the
hospital phone. Just as I was about to
dial, he walked in.
Apparently, nobody told him we were going to Mercy and he
headed to our regular, chosen hospital.
He made some frantic calls to his mom on the way and said he was
speeding like crazy. When he got to the
hospital, my mom was there waiting to take Gwen. The baby was obviously born already, so they
went in to check on me. They actually
had to stand in line at the front desk and then when they got to the
receptionist, were told that they had no patient by my name. Back in the car and speeding to the hospital
I was really at, Bill called his mom and told her to head to Mercy
instead. She had already called the rest
of the family who did not believe her that he just delivered his own baby.
When he finally got there, the staff would not allow him
into the nursery to see the baby because we weren’t completely registered. All they needed to finish the registration
was the official time of birth. Nobody handling
this seemed to know what to do in this situation, as they always have the exact
time of birth. They refused to accept my
estimate of 9:00am. I mentioned that we
could check the time of the 911 call on the phone and pick a minute after
that. Great idea, except my phone was at
home. My hubby tried calling my mom who
was now at my house packing things for Gwen and asked her to look at my
phone. She said there was no 911 call
showing up. We assumed she was just
being technologically unsavy. (We later saw that the call really did not show
up on outgoing records.) That didn’t
work, so Bill called his brother who is a firefighter in the neighboring town
(thank goodness it was not the same town) and he was able to contact dispatch
and see what their records were for the call time. It was then decided that she was born at
8:59am. Pretty close to 9:00, if you ask
me. Bill went to go see her in the
nursery and took pictures to bring to me.
She was having trouble regulating her temperature and they wanted to
monitor it, so she couldn’t come in my room, and I couldn’t get up yet to go in
to see her. So I marveled at pictures of
my girl on the tiny phone screen.
Our mothers arrived, and I got my phone and some things from
home that I needed. Upon checking my
phone, I saw that I had already received a text message from my landlord,
congratulating me. Some of the neighbors
called him right away and told him all about it! Bill and I ended up sending a quick email to
let him know that the mess was maintained and the carpets were not ruined! He didn’t ask, but we were sure it had
crossed his mind! At one point the
doctor came in and “examined” the placenta.
I say “examined” in quotes because it looked like she just made sure it
was still in the bucket before getting rid of it. Whatever, I was still having
crazy contractions, but I assumed it was due to my being on Pitocin and tried not to worry. As soon as the Pitocin was all gone, I could
get up and move around.
I finally got to go into the nursery and see my beautiful
girl. She was redder than a tomato and
all scratched up. She was still mushy
and gushy because she didn’t have a bath yet, but she was beautiful. Sweet little face and big round cheeks. Incredibly long fingers and an uncanny
resemblance to her big sister. I could
not believe that she was so beautiful and healthy, and that there were people
at my house (moms) scrubbing floors and washing my bedding due to her
appearance!
We had visitors in and out that day. I think most people didn’t believe the birth
really happened this way until they heard it from us in person. We wished it could have been a big joke. Natalie finally got to come in my room and
people got to hold her little red body and love on her. Some visitors were adorned in their green
attire with shot glass necklaces and shamrock glasses. I instructed everyone to drink one for the
new little girl in our family and ignored their advice to name her something
more Irish. We took pictures and told
the story and it was all good.
Well, it was mostly good.
I was still having insane contractions.
I knew that they continued after birth, so I assumed it was normal. We also had some interesting conversations
with hospital staff. Each time there was
a shift change, we would have to explain to the new nurse our situation. One of the nurses, she seemed nice enough,
said after hearing about the surprise home birth, “wow, maybe next time you
will come in after the first contraction.”
My eyes were huge and it took all of my willpower not to snap at
her. The first of a million contractions
happened so long before that day. While
Natalie was sleeping, as newborns tend to do, Bill and I were on the
laptops. We were checking emails and
posting on FB and all that jazz. An
older nurse came in and asked if we were doing homework. ??? We
said no, that we were just on the computers because we were bored with the baby
sleeping. “You won’t be bored for long,”
she commented. We mentioned that we knew,
as we do have another daughter. She
seemed shocked to learn that we were already parents.
When Bill first came in to the hospital, he registered and
gave the staff our insurance card. Not
long after, someone else came into the room with her little rolling computer cart to discuss
payment options as we had no insurance.
We told her that we already turned in the insurance information. She asked what insurance the baby would
have. It was obviously a family policy. She would naturally be covered on our
insurance. Even more insulting, we later
had someone come in to discuss paternal rights.
She had papers for us to fill out.
I asked what this paternal rights thing was all about and she responded
that all people who are unmarried have to fill them out. Um, what?
We told her we were married. She
seemed surprised and then changed her tone, saying we didn’t need to have that
meeting than.
My favorite was when one of
the nurses came in and was filling out a chart on the computer and asked, “No
prenatal care?” “I saw my doctor on
Thursday,” I replied, “I have had more prenatal care than you could imagine.” So we laugh about it now, but we were both
quite insulted at how we were treated just based on the fact that I had the
baby at home. Apparently any baby
delivered at home comes from an unmarried couple, who attend school and do
homework, can’t possibly have other children, have no insurance, seek no
prenatal care, and just choose to
ignore contractions until it is too late.
Grrrr.
In the midst of that chaos, two amazing things
happened. One, I got to nurse my
daughter. Now, Gwen was born at 34 weeks
and had zero interest in feeding. She would
never latch and even NICU nurses had a tough time getting her to eat. Even while at home and using the nipple
shield she was NOT interested in eating.
This was different. This was amazing.
I couldn’t believe the difference that 4 weeks of maturity made in our
ability to nurse. My sweet new baby
latched on! She was hungry. She wanted to eat. And it was awesome. We nursed every hour, it felt like. The first 5 minutes I had the typical excruciating
pain where I would be biting my lip and almost screaming, but then it was
magic. For many reasons it didn’t last
past the first couple months, but I enjoyed it soooo much! I still get all warm and fuzzy when I think
of that first time that she latched on like she knew what I was trying to do
for her.
The second amazing thing was
that Gwen got to meet her baby sister.
She was so fascinated with her and just stared at her and touched her
little toes and fingers. It was so
special for me to see both of them together.
How on earth did I get so lucky to have two living, breathing, beautiful
girls in my life? Surely I don’t deserve
this.
And to be honest, I was shocked at HOW MUCH I loved
Natalie. I wasn’t sure how in the world
I could EVER love anyone like I love Gwen.
It wasn’t possible. I bonded with
Gwen so much more during pregnancy, but my pregnancy with Natalie; I was
focused on Gwen…and the stress and anxiety of keeping the baby safe. With Gwen it was not love at first
sight. I already loved her so much and
it developed each day after she was born.
With Natalie, I loved her before she was born, of course. But it was L.O.V.E at first sight. That sight was her in my arms in my
bathroom. But she was so gorgeous and
sweet and my heart grew a billion times when I first laid eyes and arms on her, when I first reached down and felt her soft little hairy head.
Our pediatrician came to check on Natalie, and we were given
some answers on her skin condition.
Because her umbilical cord was not clamped right away, she had an excess
of blood flow back into her body. So
basically she had extra thick blood.
This made for super red skin and terrible circulation. Her blood levels were tested periodically and
she was monitored. If things had not
evened out, she would have had a reverse transfusion, where they would draw out
blood and replace it with saline.
Luckily we did not have to do that.
She was just our little tomato baby for a while.
Part IV
Part IV
On Monday we were released to go home and things were wonderful. I had a message on my phone from my doctor
trying to schedule my induction for the following week. We laughed about it. Bill wanted me to just show up for the
induction and have them freak when they realized there was no baby. I wanted to just show up for my next weekly
appointment with the baby. We didn’t do
either of those silly things, because I was still having contractions days
later. I knew that cramps continued
after birth, especially while breastfeeding, but it seemed like they were
picking up. One day I went to the
bathroom and, as was my habit for so long, I checked the toilet paper after I
wiped. There was a long stringy, gooey
thing that did NOT look normal. I called
Bill and he came home from work, and I called my doctor. I
told the nurse I had the baby over the weekend and the issue I was still
having. We went in right away and I had the
yucky, gooey thing saved in a plastic bag to show the doctor.
As my hilarious doctor walks in she said, “If you didn’t want to be
induced, you could have just told me.
You didn’t have to have the baby at home!” Did she think she was funny? “I would have much preferred an induction,” I
replied. I told her the story and she
acted like it was no big deal, like people have babies at home all the
time. She mentioned that with me, maybe once I hit a 4 (dilated to
4cm) I get to ten instantly. “Maybe that
is just how pregnancies work with you,” she said casually. My daughter was born 12 hours after Cervadil
was placed and no Pitocin was needed. I
went from 0-10 in 12 hours. With my son,
it was even less time than that. As a result, she seemed to think this was some special quirk to my pregnancies. I was furious at how lighthearted she was
acting about the whole thing.
Anyway, she looked at the alien specimen in the baggy I
brought in and confirmed it looked like placenta or sac. She sent me for an ultrasound to see if there
were large pieces of retained birth material.
If so, I would be sent straight for a D&C. Luckily this was not the case. Upon speculum
insertion and cervix digging, it was clear there were still pieces of the sac
inside. The solution was to give me a
drug to INDUCE MORE CONRACTIONS to help get it out. I continued with my post visit ritual of
crying in the car to my husband. He
reminded me that the doctor had to
make light of the situation. Legally,
there is no way she could let on for a second that they did anything wrong on
their part or they would have law suits to deal with. True, but what I wanted to hear from her was,
“I’m sorry you were in so much pain for so long. Sorry I didn’t take you as seriously as I
should have. You are my favorite patient ever.” Was that too much to ask?
I was on the meds for
10 days and had to follow up to see that everything had made its way out. So I got to play the role of archaeologist
each time I wiped in the bathroom and take care of my two kids while still
having contractions. This had to be the
longest labor in the history of the world!
Finally, the follow up appointment went well and the only hiccup was
that she asked me, “Are you planning to have another one soon?” I thought my eyes would spill onto the floor
they were open so wide. I responded, “Sure,
if you come live with me so that I can have a doctor around to deliver my baby.” I had to pat myself on the back for that
one. =)
Since then I have begged my brother in law to get a copy
of the 911 call recording. I am so
interested to hear what was said that I didn’t even realize or remember. He got a copy of the dispatch notes right
away, but is still working on the recording.
I think a CD of that call needs to go in Natalie’s baby book for
sure.
Thank goodness we live in a big
city, because the story did not make it into the papers. I did gain quite a bit of popularity. Just last week while picking up Gwen from
preschool, someone I have never met said she heard the birth story and that I
am amazing. At a garage sale on our
block, the ladies asked me all about it, “So YOU’RE the one…”. I don’t enjoy being known as “that person,”
but I will always be the friend or cousin of a mother of a coworker of an uncle
who had a baby at home. I should
probably come to terms with it! I also
know that my mother in law told someone who was pregnant and she freaked and
asked her doctor about it who said, “That never happens.”
Besides the tiny girl snoozing in her crib with her butt up
in the air, the best thing that came from this situation is that the OBs in the practice
I go to learned some lessons. NOT everyone
is a textbook case. And sometimes when
patients have a history of birthing craziness and are in pain, standards can be
overlooked. My hospital doesn’t keep
patients until they are dilated to 4 cm.
If she had sent me to L&D when I was a 3, I could have had the baby
in the hospital. It is true that I didn’t
have to pay delivery charges. But I had
to be in a hospital I was uncomfortable with and pay for 2 ambulance rides
among other things like being too traumatized to go into my bedroom or bathroom
after that experience.
And this story had a
happy ending and a healthy baby. But
what if it didn’t? This was a Saturday
morning. If it was ONE day before, my
hubby would have been at work. What if I
couldn’t get to my phone to call 911? What
if I had passed out? I think about those
things still, and am so grateful to have my healthy girl. I just know that every doctor who dealt with
me at some point will think twice before dismissing someone else’s special
situation.
It is several months later, but I still sometimes ask, “Did that
really happen?” Because it definitely feels like a scene in a movie. And then I look at the commemorative hospital
birth certificate I was given. The nurse
crossed off the hospital name and chicken scratched the word “home” over
it. It did happen. And rather than
be upset anymore about the circumstances, I just spend my time kissing the
sweetest cheeks I’ve ever laid lips on. =)
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