Weston's birth story

Originally I had been putting off recanting Weston's birth story because to think about it upset me and made me cry, but honestly...not good tears. Then it was a matter of not having any length of time that would allow me to truly get in the groove of writing it down. And I don't think that is happening until Weston is in day care or he moves out, so I guess I am going to try to do it in bits and pieces.

Ok, so a few posts ago, I shared what my biggest fears were about the labor. I regret to say that a couple of them were well-founded. I write this as honestly as I can .... though I may be descriptive and quite vulgar in some parts, I will try not to be graphic because I know male family members read this. :)

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Neil and I went to dinner with my parents on the eve of Sunday, Jan. 29. I was nervous, but managed to get down one of the blander meals on the menu at the chain brewery where we went. I could tell my parents, mostly my mom, was on a high of anticipation. I guess I was too, but I was scared deep down. We headed to the hospital and Neil and I voiced how it was so unlike what we'd pictured. It was dark and we were calm and I wasn't in the throes of contractions.

We got checked in and I did the whole "get undressed" thing, then awaited the placement of Cervadil. Once that was in (it's like a tampon that is supposed to help soften the cervix), I had to stay lying down for 2 hours. At 10:30 p.m., I was allowed a snack--cherry jello, cheddar cheese and saltine crackers. They gave me Ambien to help me sleep. I was getting contractions (from here on out, the plural form will be written as Cxs and the singular is CX...k?) but they were of the Braxton kind. I think I dozed for a bit, but hardly slept. I couldn't get comfy and I was apprehensive.

The next morning, the nurses came in bright and early to check my cervix. Big surprise, there had been no change. This meant that Pitocin was needed to get the CXs going. So the IV was put in (not a fan of this, might I add...) and Dr. C showed up to break my water.

What I wish.... I wish I'd have had some sort of pain meds before the water was broken. It was horrible. I don't do well with pelvic exams of any kind, but this...this is beyond all that. I likened it to being gang raped with broomstick-wielding monsters. No joke. I think I screamed the entire time....several minutes. Poor Neil. He was probably scared crapless thinking that if I were that loud during just the water breaking, then labor was going to be a beast. Dr. C actually decided to stop before she could break the water because she realized how badly she was hurting me. Luckily, the bag o' aqua was punctured on her way out. And the water just kept coming. And coming. And coming. And I was quivering from having been so tense.

After that, Dr. C urged me to get the epidural because she said the anesthesiologists weren't busy right that moment, and if I'm going to get one eventually, I should do it now. Since the pitocin was in, that was going to limit my mobility anyway, so no sense in waiting. (I think this was her actually thinking that if I'm that big of a wuss with the water breaking, I should do everyone a favor and get doped up ASAP. haha)

I acquiesced. I mean...I've never claimed to be a hero or martyr. I will gladly go as pain free as possible.

The epi-man came and did his thing. The placement was not as bad as I thought it would be. I mean, it didn't feel good, but after the broomstick violation, it was a piece of cake.

My parents came shortly after. Originally I had said they could wait in the lobby, go shopping or something. But when the time came, and with Neil's permission, I asked if they'd hang out for a bit. I am so glad they were there to help distract me. Or to vent to. Or cry with. Or get hugs and encouragement from. Neil was a wonderful teammate, but even he needed a break.

Time ticked by slowly. Our lovely photographer and my dear friend (Leigh Miller) showed up around this time to catch the action. Except..there really wasn't any action. By lunch time, when they checked my cervix it was at maybe a 2. I found out later that at this point, Neil updated his facebook status with: We're halfway there!

 Um. Hi, dear husband who has a college degree...2 is NOT half of 10. WTF? And this only fueled the influx of texts I was getting from nearly every friend of mine. I didn't respond to anyone because quite frankly, as much as I loved that everyone was out there cheering us on, getting actual "checking in" texts from 20 people put a lot of pressure on me and I knew if I updated one person, I would have to update everyone. And I didn't want to do a play-by-play for everyone. I just wanted to share the news when he was here.

My CXs were indeed increasing in strength, (the monitor that was on my belly measured WHEN I was getting a CX, but it couldn't measure how strong they were because it was externally placed.) So they told me at this point, they'd like to put in an internal monitor that would be able to measure how strong the CX were. If they were ranking at a 70 or above, then that would reveal they were plenty strong enough to get the cervix moving. But if after 2 hours, the cervix hadn't made much change, that would indicate that something else was hindering the progress. (and I got the hint that if this is the case, then alternative delivery methods...ahem, c-sec...would be discussed.)

The monitor went in. And it was quite interesting to see that the hella strong CXs I was feeling were indeed above 70. Most were coming in at 80 or 90. And they were definitely getting more frequent...even coupling (coming in twos...). I was able to activate the release of additional epidural myself. And I didn't let it go to waste. But during this time, the CXs were becoming stronger and stronger, and I could feel them fully on my right side. They called the anesthesiologist to come back in and redo my epidural placement. I hugged the nurse as it went in this time. For some reason, the 2nd placement was worst than the first.

Neil tried to keep me distracted and started hollering out animal names....and during the CX, I was supposed to moan and groan like the animal would. So a wolf? I howled. A chicken? I clucked. A monkey? I oooh-ooh-ahh-ahhed. But then it wasn't funny anymore as the pain surged...intense, raw, cramping crescendoing to the point that I would cry and wince and my mom would come over and hug me through it, sharing in the tears. I kept telling myself that if she, this small woman of 5 ft 2 in, could pop out three kids naturally--two of us were over 10 lbs 5 oz, then by golly, I could do this.

When the 2 hours was up, they did a cervical check and I was at a 4! So that was great news...that meant my cervix was working. And by golly, it better have been for the agony it was putting me through. Progress effing hurts.

But what also was revealed is that the epidural was losing its effect. So they called in the anesthetist and the CRNA to reassess. I honestly was in and out of focusing on what they were saying due to the extreme pain, but when the nurses told me that the actual labor contractions wouldn't get much stronger than what I was at, I stupidly told them to not try to do a third epidural. They said they could try a few other pain meds through the IV. The CRNA, though very nice, was using a mother-like tone to basically convince me to stop it all now and go for a C-section. (My friend, who is now a CRNA, thinks that she was perhaps nervous that I would end up needing one and they'd have to rush a spinal, which would be risky due to my scoliosis. But either way, I felt her 2 cents on THAT part was out of line...and it strengthened my resolve to deliver this bugger vaginally.)

Unfortunately, none of the new painkillers worked...and the epidural continued to fade. (It is believed my scar tissue was preventing it to be effective on my right side and center...)

Another cervical check took place at about 5:30 p.m. and I was at a 6. And my pain was at a 14 on a scale of 1-10. My parents decided to head out and get something to eat and give me some time to flip out without an audience. Neil stayed at my side, talking sweetly and delivering spoonfuls of ice chips into my mouth in between my cussing. When I thought it couldn't get any uglier, it did. I won't waste time trying to wax poetic on the absurdity of the pain that we women have to go through...but suffice it to say, I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. It got so bad, that honestly, a c-section to end it all was starting to look like a beacon of light at the end of the dark, painful tunnel.

At a bit before 7 p.m., the nurse that had left at 7 a.m. that day walked in. She joked with me about me losing the bet because when her shift ended that morning, she had said she'd be back that night to help deliver the baby and I told her "no way!" as I thought he'd be here by then. I was so wrong.

She said she had just run into Dr. C and they wanted to do another cervical check before we decided which path to take. (I think the nurses etc were all whispering in the hallway how I was about to crack and opt for delivery through the abdomen instead...)

So once again, I was checked and even though I was as miserable as I could imagine, I was thrilled to hear the nurse say, "Uh, your cervix is gone. It's time to start pushing."

Dr. C was called and the flurry of activity that ensued was hardly noticed as I returned to my world of stabbing anguish. I didn't think the pain could get worse, but wow, did it ever. It was shredding up not only my pelvic area, but sending blades of hot pain up and down my back, all the way to my neck. I really don't remember all that much in terms of specifics, but I do recall thinking that I would just pass out. When that didn't happen, I started talking to myself in my head, thinking that eventually it WOULD be over. I just had to ride it out. Supposedly, I made a lot of jokes (it's my way of coping, I guess) and Neil made a few of his own, though one was jaw-dropping and debatably not funny. I won't share it here as it might come off wrong. But I do remember hearing that my parents were out in the hallway (I learned later that Neil texted them a cryptic message of "she's pushing!" and they flipped out and hurried back, unsure if that meant that they should be there or stay away.) I yelled for a nurse to tell them to go wait in the lobby. I didn't want my parents to see me go through this. My mama bear instincts were in full effect, and I knew that no parent should witness their kid look like they were in the remake of THE EXORCIST.

My legs were in the stirrups before I knew it. I'll save everyone from a lengthy description of labor because it really is indescribable. But I do wish someone would have told me to do a lot of stretching beforehand. Like...putting legs in the birthing position for long periods of time, type of stretching. Because that in and of itself was exhausting. I luckily was completely numb "down there" so I did skirt having to feel the "oh-eff-no!" burning sensation on the outside as Weston entered this world. But that was the only thing I didn't feel. The doc and nurses would try encouraging me by telling me I had a good push and I remember yelling at them that I think they were just saying that so I didn't give up. Because you know how everyone always says "bearing down" is like taking a No. 2? Well, they are wrong. What they really want you to do is push with your abdomen muscles down and out. Like if you were flexing your stomach muscles only concentrate on the cervix and pelvic floor muscles. Once I "got it" I was finally able to shoot that kid out. Ok "shoot" isn't the right word as shooting actually took nearly an hour. (Pushing does indeed bring some relief in terms of pain, though really, that just means bringing you from an 18 to a 12.)

As Weston crowned, my doc kept saying, "oh, darbi. I'm so sorry. His head is so big. That's a big baby!" All along she'd told me he'd be mid 7s at most. But she knew after seeing him come out that was not the case. I thought something was wrong with him because she seemed so shocked.

And we'll skip ahead to the part where Weston was out.... he was slimy and had a coned-shaped head and he was wailing a cry that has become all-too familiar. I was sobbing by this point. In disbelief. In shock. In relief that the worst was over. And with emotions so high because holy balls...I just delivered a baby!

Now, here is where many women will go off and yammer on and on about how they instantly fell in love and the feeling was like no other, you know...how the maternal connection was immediate and bla bla bla.

That is not the case for me. In fact, one of my first thoughts was...all those people who told me that once he was in my arms, all the pain and the long journey would be worth it were dead wrong.

I hate admitting it, but I don't like lying or pretending to be someone I'm not. But I didn't experience feeling oh-so-complete when I looked at the kicking, screaming being who had torn up my insides and brought such pain to my back for the past 3 months. Now sure, I innately loved him... I was in awe and I was happy and I was so glad to finally be meeting him. But I didn't feel the flooding of warm & fuzzy emotions that matched what so many say you should expect once the baby is here.

I was excited, no doubt. I wanted to hold him and explore his tiny parts. And I couldn't wait to show my parents. And I couldn't wait to tell my friends that he was a whopping 8 lbs 11 oz, which was way bigger than most thought.

But they had to do their cleaning/measuring while I delivered my placenta.

(Funny story...Neil didn't dare peek down there while the kid was en route...but he HEARD the placenta come out and happened to look because he didn't know what that sound was from. And as he describes it (yes, this is gross, but too guy-like funny to not share) as a bloody steak that came squishing out of me. YUCK! I think he is forever haunted and his hatred for red meat has only augmented.)

And oh.my.gosh. I was exhausted beyond all words, in the most god-awful ways. EVery bone in my body felt like it had been chopped up and then put into a blender. And when they push on your uterus from the outside to ensure it's shrinking up properly? Yeah, that I wish I could do without. SUCH a horrible feeling. And they do it every couple of hours.

Neil went to the lobby with Leigh to tell my parents the news and show them a photo on the back of Leigh's camera....and I waited, totally and completely spent, unsure what was supposed to happen next.

We were able to have some skin-to-skin time for 2 hours after the delivery. My parents met him and then headed out, leaving our new family of three (no, I didn't forget Kramer, but you know what I mean...) to be.

I kept cramping...severe cramps. Ones that no period could ever take credit for. And I found out early on what my new restroom procedure was going to be for the next several weeks. Let's just say that if you haven't had a baby yet, but you will eventually, know that you will come to appreciate the simplest of inventions like you never thought you would... and I'm talking about the squirt bottle. ;)

And then suddenly it seemed we were being whisked to the "mommy and me" rooms or whatever they call it. And what a downgrade. Such a tiny excuse for a room...not at all chipper or modern like the room we delivered in. Somehow, I feel like it only worsened my state of being for the next few days.

I entered a dark place following the labor. I had been coming off of a week of not having slept more than 2-3 hours a night due to being so uncomfy when pregnant. And then the night before the induction, I was wired, despite the Ambien. Then the 12 hours of labor...I would liken it to running 3 marathons, though I've never run one. And because it requires adrenaline and emotions of a never-before-felt caliber, that only wiped me out more. I think if I'd have been able to have a good 6 hours of sleep...ah, screw that, I think a mere 4 would have done the trick, things might have been a lot different. But no, that night, because I had to be monitored for vitals, I got .... ZERO. No joke, even though we had the nursery take Weston for a bit, I was unable to sleep. I was in so much pain, even with painkillers. You know how after a long car ride, your bum is part throbbing and part numb? Yeah, multiply that by 1000 because after laboring in a half-sit/half lie position, following 3 months of being in that position much of the day, I couldn't bare it anymore. But lying back felt odd, as if my insides were colliding too strongly with my spine. I cried on and off...I threw myself so many pity parties in the dim light as Neil slept on the creaky, bare-bones mattress a few feet away. . And between my legs, let's not even go there other than noting that I suffered a 2nd degree tear, which combined with the overall trauma of shooting out an odd-shaped human from an otherwise narrow canal, left me feeling as though someone had taken a hammer to my Netherlands. Getting up was a necessary evil--but good gosh, it was as if I were caving in on myself. Without the "bump," I literally felt like I was missing something. Organs that once were propped up and squished were now flailing around in there willy-nilly. And of course, my legs were like string cheese.

Without sleep, I don't think a person can start to heal. Sure, I felt a tad bit better two days later...enough to finally get up and hobble to the restroom without crying out with EVERY step. But every other one I was still biting my lip and trying not to whimper more than the newborn lying there in the hard plastic cradle.

I was very self-centered those first days in the hospital. I felt hollow, physically, and even though I truly loved the moments when Weston would curl up on my chest, needing me and only me, I hated everything else. I hated that to experience the best thing in the world, I had to experience the worst. I hated how I couldn't fully love Weston beyond the surface because I hated myself so much. I was in so much pain, and so mad that the epidural didn't work and left my entire memory cloaked in bitterness, regret and torture. I hated that if I wanted a second child, I now wouldn't just fear bedrest for back probs, I would also fear the labor itself 10x more than I did this one. I hated that I was already planning to get a c-section to avoid the entire ring of hell that I just had to jump through.

I didn't want to see anyone or talk to anyone or do anything but sleep; yet that was so far off.

The damn hospital process sucks and the 2nd day, I don't think I was ever allowed to close my eyes longer than 10 minutes before some new hospital staff or affiliate showed up to take my vitals, talk to us about finances, force us to feed our baby, offer prayers, run hearing tests, take photos, ask us to be part of a research project and so on.

I was so mad most of the day. And when I wasn't mad, I was sad at how crappy of a mom I was being because I couldn't see beyond how horrible I was feeling. I wanted to scream at every woman before me who never warned me how shitty recovery was. I knew I'd be sore. I knew I'd be tired. But the level of both of those feelings was so far off the scale, it should be a crime. And one of the nurses didn't help. She was a bit too firm, and bit too candid. I didn't want someone to chide me for crying out of self-loathing and self-pity. I wanted someone to nurture me, to help me, to make me feel that even if this pain is normal, it still deserves to be acknowledged for its intensity. But instead, she made me feel like a little girl who was crying over not getting a pony for her birthday. She was nice enough. But You need more than nice enough when you feel your worst.

My doctor came by to check on me. I think later, when I was able to replay what she said a few times in my head, her words became a turning point for me. Of course, WHILE she was saying them, I didn't process them; I only cried. She told me she was proud of me and that in her 20 years of delivering babies, I had impressed her...something she doesn't say often. She said that because I went in expecting an epidural, and wasn't able to have one relieve me, the pain I felt was made worse by that fact. She said when people go into natural vaginal deliveries, they have a mental plan of attack to get them through, and that natural endorphins are released that will help you ride out the pain and actually make you feel a high on and off. But the epidural killed those endorphins, so in some ways, I got the worst of both. Granted, I had been numb for the most part on my lower left side as well as my actual lady parts, but the pain that WAS felt more than made up for it. She made me feel like someday...I might actually look back and be proud of what I "accomplished."

For weeks after, I couldn't talk about the experience to anyone without crying my eyes out, without returning to the place where I felt helpless, out of control, and as if I were going through something far from natural.

As I said in my last post, the exhaustion continued that week as Neil and I tried our hands at parenting at home. (Read the previous post if you want a low-down on that).

But having my parents come back that first weekend...that was what helped me get back on my feet. My mom went above and beyond, and I only hope I too can be that sort of mom someday.

It is now 6 weeks later...things are better, though I'm not all better, if you know what I mean. I still don't feel like myself. I am still in pain. I don't think my organs have found their home of nearly 30 years, but are somewhere between that and the temporary one they had these past several months.

My back still hurts by the afternoon and my hu-hot's domain doesn't feel remotely close to all healed. My breasts have their own issues, the normal ones that come with breast-feeding. And a few other bodily systems are still trying to get back to the way they once were.

Emotionally, I've come far though. Lying low for two weeks, not talking to my friends though they were amazing and reaching out to hear about the experience, was a wise move for me. I needed time to process it in my own way.

I think I shed most of my negativity one night in the bathtub. 'Twas the first bath I took post-partum (aka the first time I could take a HOT BATH!!!)

 I looked down at my naked self and I hardly recognized what I saw. I didn't look like the me from last spring. And I didn't look like the me I had become over the past 10 months. I was a totally different version. I truly looked like I was missing something. I was overcome with the feeling of neglect, despair, abandonment and self-pity. I started trembling and shivering, though the water was pretty damn hot. And I cried. Because it hit me that for so long, we mothers spend time growing another human being. We loan our bodies out to this creature that we create, but have yet to meet, while everyone else watches but doesn't feel it firsthand. We witness and feel all our body parts, regardless how much we hate or love them, change and grown and stretch and feel like they are dying in some ways and coming alive in others. It's a gradual process and the excitement of the baby's arrival gleams at the end of the path. But then it's over. And the baby is out. In a matter of 24 hours or so, we have a huge chunk of who we've been for nearly a year taken out of us...literally. And we then "look" normal when fully clothed. We go about our lives, no longer getting special treatment for being pregnant. We're expected to act normal, too.  And we're expected to give our all to the baby and step into the shoes of a mother without really breaking them in. We're expected to love, cherish and protect our sons and daughters. But we forget that we should also love, cherish and protect our own bodies and others should too....we go through a physical, emotional and mental obstacle course of epic proportions that no man will ever experience. And we deserve to be held and shushed and coddled. But we don't get that. We have to suck it up and do the holding, the shushing and the coddling. And the feeding. And the changing. And the rocking. We have to be mothers immediately, no matter what pain lingers or what mental or emotional strife we're trying to deal with. When really...we all just need time to heal.

Processing all of the above, helped me feel better...especially after I vocalized it to Neil (though I think he came out of the discussion thinking I just wanted to be hugged more. haha)  I felt clear-minded and more self-aware. I cut some slack on my body, physically and emotionally. And I think that was very necessary to truly begin the healing process.

So yes, about a month and a half later, I am doing as best as I can. I have no shame in the slowness with which the indescribable, unconditional, heart-fulfilling love for my son grew. I know that I am now head-over-heels obsessed with him, from his little big toes that upturn like my mom's, to his belly that bulges and feels so soft to the touch; from his shoestring french fry fingers to his tufts of wispy blonde hair; from the way he bobbles his head back and forth while lying on his back to the way he falls asleep with eyes rolling and that lil' innocent smile going strong.

He is mine. And Neil's. He is part of each of us. The road we took to get here wasn't easy. And thinking about the events of January 30 does still make me tear up. But now I do feel one emotion that until the last two weeks had been absent. I feel pride. I am proud of myself. Being a mom isn't easy, as everyone knows. But becoming one isn't either.


(The next post will show the slideshow of Weston's birth)

xo
D