The Unimagined Life

Sam and I have always mocked the childbirth scenes played out on TV and in the movies: woman's water breaks in a frenzy, she starts screaming wildly, and then dramatically pushes baby out. We know things don't happen that way, and that labor is a long and drawn out process.

Man are we eating crow now.

A few weeks ago I was dilated 1cm, and showing all of the tell-tale signs that baby was on his way. At my next prenatal appointment on 9/4/12, I had the midwife check again to see what progress I had made, certain I was at least 3cm at this point. Nope. Maybe 1 1/2 cm. I left a tad deflated, assuring Sam that I was not disappointed, but really was. I prepared myself that baby would not arrive until around his due date of 9/17/12, not the early arrival I had predicted, especially given the contractions I felt every night the previous 2-3 weeks. 

The Braxton-Hicks contractions had kicked into gear all of my nesting instincts. Laundry had been washed, folded, put away, kitchen cabinets cleaned out, a list typed to give to our neighbors/friends who agreed to help with Ada and Q while we were off laboring, rooms rearranged a couple million times, and list(s) bursting with last minute "to-do" items. I'd been prepping Sam for an early labor, encouraging him to get his stuff done.

I had determined on Tuesday the 4th that things would not be happening as quickly as I thought, slacked off, and let things go. 

Then Thursday morning rolled around.

I woke up at 6:30am and wondered to myself, "what the heck did you eat?" My stomach was in such knots, that I was sure I was suffering from some kind of intestinal distress - I didn't realize that I had about 3 good contractions. I told Sam after the 3rd one, "I don't feel so well. I'm going to hop in the shower."  Enter contraction 4, in the shower, me doubled over in pain, screaming at the top of my lungs.

30 minutes later, I am on all fours, on our bed, unable to move, talk, or cope with whatever the heck was wrong with me. It had not yet occurred to me that I was in labor, because "it doesn't happen this fast." I had fleeting thoughts that something might actually be wrong. Nothing was wrong, I just went from sleeping to transition labor in a matter of 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, I am looking at the basket of clean clothes that needed folding, thinking about the load in the dryer, wondering how I was going to get to the grocery store to pick up some food for the kids because we were kind of low, and learning that Ada peed her bed the night before and the sheets needed changing. Oh, and we hadn't even pulled the infant car seat from the attic yet.

I text our friend Kristy, a newly certified birth doula who planned to help us during labor and delivery, "I need you. In a lot of pain and not coping well with it. Please come now." 

It has not occurred to me yet that I should probably call the midwife, I am not convinced I am in labor, and besides, I have too much to get done that day!

Sam is running around the house in his boxers, trying to change Quentin's diaper, brush his teeth (forget taking a shower), trying to decide who we should call, wondering what is wrong with me, certain that if we go into the hospital they are just going to send me home. He suggests calling the midwife. She tries to talk with me, realizes I can't talk and tells Sam to get me in --  we are having a baby. Me, "really, this fast?!?!"

At this point, the contractions are maybe 1 minute apart, and I am getting NO relief between them -- the back labor is atrocious, and the pain won't go away between the serious contractions. It's like one long, hellish contraction that won't end.

I say, "Call Betty!" She is at work. "Call Ashley!!" We drag our poor neighbor who is a night owl out of bed (it is about 8:15am at this point, I think). I strain to give her basic info on who her back-up is, that Ada peed the bed and she will have to change the sheets, that Q needs milk in about 1/2 an hour. Sam gives her "the list" I typed up. 

She tells me to go to the hospital.

I crawl into the 3rd row seating in our van, again on all fours, wailing, cussing (and not the pansy-four-letter-words...only the one's that really count), screaming, telling Sam, "they had better give me an epidural, because I can't do this! I know I said I didn't want one, but this is horrible!" I am wailing, crying, and all out making a big scene, mad as hell that the drivers in front of us are not moving fast enough, and that it takes all of 6 floors in the parking garage to FINALLY find a parking space. At one point, I really think the best thing for me to do is to get out on Broad street in urban Richmond, and walk myself to the hospital. This is rational thinking, right?

We then have to travel through the maze that is the Medical College of Virginia. The first elevator is taking too stinkin' long. The men and women who travel with us on the elevator are talking in nervous chatter about me being in labor, giving the obligatory Southern, "Oh, bless her heart!" I want to punch someone in the face as I am doubled over, using the elevator rail and my hospital suitcase as support. 

Quit talking to me. Just everyone be quiet.

The elevator doors open, and I am off, like I've trained all of my life for the Olympics. 

Just. Get. Me. To. The. Delivery. Room. NOW!!!!

I arrive, inform the midwife that she is giving me an epidural. She is calm. Our doula is calm. I am not. Sam is wondering what the heck just happened. I just ripped him out of bed, wailing at the top of my lungs.

I learn that I am 10cm. I also learn that as soon as she breaks my water, I am going to have this baby, and that there is no time for an epidural. I start shouting, "I am so pissed!! I am so pissed off right now!!!!"  Over, and over, and over. I really wanted that epidural.

At some point Sam informs me, "this is the last time you will ever have to do this!" I look at him as though I'm going to gouge his eyeballs out. He is trying not to laugh, knowing full well that I will likely gouge his eyeballs out.

The midwife breaks my water. We all wait for me to start pushing.

The baby refuses to come out. He wants to come out sunny-side up, just like his brother. 

We wait. We wait more. All of this time I am cussing, shouting, mad at everyone in the room that they won't do anything. I want an epidural NOW. The pain is intolerable, and the back labor won't end. They are all patient and inform me that the epidural is on its way, but they are not moving fast enough for my taste. Sam is thinking how unreasonable I am being (he tells me later, of course, when I am more reasonable). 

I then move to begging, "Please help me. This was so fast!! I am not capable of doing this!" I am bawling like a baby. I want someone to have mercy on me.

They finally give me an epidural, and I turn into the sweetest, nicest, most compliant laboring woman you've ever seen. The best part is while administering the epidural, I look over and see my husband laying on the floor. Apparently large needles going into my back make the man a tad queasy. Oops! 

Can you say "hospital incident report?" We can.

Things have finally calmed down. I begin to feel more and more pressure. Our midwife, who is also in the process of delivering a baby in the next room comes in to check on my hunch that baby is coming out. Sure enough - Lee is on his way! She has to tell the woman next door, that the Mom who is on her third baby that is ready to fall out has to be attended to now. First time Mama's take a tad more time pushing babies out. Makes sense to me, but I sure do feel bad for first time Mama (because I am being nice now, you see -- two hours before I would have knocked her down like a linebacker).

Our midwife, Meaghan (who delivered Quentin, by the way, and remembered what a complicated, marathon labor that was), coaches me along in pushing. She has me reach my hands down, wrap my fingers around his head, then his torso, then helps me catch my own baby and bring him into this world. I get to cut the cord. It was the most amazing, incredible, and fantastic ending to a panic-stricken, super-fast, furious, and very painful labor. 

Every last one of us was crying. 

I then realize how horrible I was to everyone and start doling out the apologies. Not my most graceful labor, but the birth itself was beautiful. I am trying not to beat myself up for "not coping well," but remind myself that I had the perfect ending to what amounted to a 5-hour labor. My birth plan to "have baby" really did work.

I have learned after 3 kids, that every pregnancy is different, every birth is different, every experience is different. All of them as different as each one of our amazing children are. 

The best part is that not only do feel I instantaneous love for Lee, but he makes me love Ada and Quentin even more, if that is possible. 

I never imagined myself with 3 children, but I think I'm learning that the unimagined life is a million times better than anything I could dream up myself. 

Yes, we have crazy bills, bad days, tempers, bickering, sickness, sadness, little sleep, and lots of disappointments - but my babies are perfect, my husband is good to me, and I have many things to be grateful for. 

Thank you, Lee, for putting it all into perspective.