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...

 

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 17^th. 

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

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. =)