The Mommy Chronicle, Part 2

So, last post, you got the whole "how we made him" story. This time, like it or not, you're getting the whole "how he got here" story.

Now, just to be up-front and honest, this one might be a little rough. I mean, we are talking about delivery room antics, and by and large, those can get a wee bit on the disgusting side. Therefore, you have had your fair warning. Gross-outs may very well follow.

Anyway, here we go.

As indicated in the last post, I got pregnant. 5 weeks into said pregnancy I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes and had to take insulin shots a couple of times a day my entire pregnancy. When the time finally came for our little bundle of joy to arrive, I was convinced that I would have little scars on my stomach where I stuck the needle every day; actually, I was hoping for those little battle scars, so that when the boy got old enough to understand I could say, "Look! Look what you did to me, child, before you even arrived! You gonna pull that crap with me, now? You've got to be kidding!", show him the scars, and shame him into good behavior. Alas, the belly-track-marks are gone, but I still have one weapon in my arsenal - the C-Section scar. I fully intend on whippin' that baby out whenever the situation calls for it (embarrassment, shame, guilt...you know, the regular stuff).

That leads us to this. There came an afternoon when the contractions were coming strong and regular, and I looked DH square in the eye, and in the time-honored fashion of wives and mothers everywhere uttered those infamous words: It. Is. Time. Like the dutiful husband that he is, DH bustled me out of the house and into the car to fly on vulcanized...uh...tires to the local hospital. After finally telling the fifth person what I wanted to go into the hospital for (you mean it wasn't evident by the huge, undulating lump on my lower abdomen? Can I speak to someone with eyes connected to a brain, please?) I was admitted. And then, I waited.

See, there are two OB/GYNs who practiced at my chosen hospital. Yes, you read that right. TWO. One of them was out of town, and the other could not be reached until the next morning. Let me set you a little time frame here - this was Sunday night, Memorial-Day-Eve. It was right about 6PM. Sooooo....I was admitted. "A doctor" checked me, declared that I had not dilated enough for a "fast birth" to occur, given a hearty dinner, and sent to bed.

Now, let's fast forward to Monday morning, 6AM. My lovely OB/GYN trotted into the room, checked me, ordered an enema ('cause some moron gave me food the night before - I don't know nuthin' 'bout no birthin' babies, so I ate. It's what happens when you put food in front of me), and then declared he would return to "get rid of that sack in there". Now, at this point I was a little confused, but heck, I'm having a baby, like, NOW, so I was sorta goin' with the flow at that point. If he wanted to get rid of some sack, who was I to argue with him? Sack, begone!

Enema is now completely complete (if you know what I mean) and the good doc is returning to my room, nurse in tow, who happens to be carrying a large tray with some shiny instruments. The doctor positions himself between my legs, lifts up what looks to me like a large knitting needle, and says something like, "so, are we ready to bust the sack?" I'm sure white terror was on my face at this point, because I saw a distinct smile touch his eyes as he began the procedure of breaking my water. All I can say is revenge is sweet - that there man had to change his shoes when he was done.

So, everything is set and should be ready to go, right? Dilation should begin at any time, and then the pushing and then the crying and then the baby-lovin'. Right? Ain't that how it's supposed to work?

About two hours later, no dilation had occurred, and the good doctor orders Pitocin. The drip is started, and an hour after it's started, the doctor rushes back into the room, removes the Pitocin drip and declares, "we must stop the medicine. Emergency heart surgery, you cannot have labor now." WTH? I have lived here all my life. I have been to the hospital I am in many times. Never, in all my years, was I told that there was only one operating theater. Why does this make a difference? Well, if there's complications and I can't have a natural birth while the heart surgery is taking place, there's nowhere to do a C-Section with the exception of the bed I'm laying in. NOT a very good idea. Therefore, the Pitocin is stopped. A couple of hours later the doc comes back in and restarts my IV drip.

Let's catch up a little bit on the timeline, then, shall we?

6am - enema, water manually broke.
8am - Pitocin drip started
9am - Pitocin drip stopped
11am - Pitocin drip re-started

That about has us caught up, right? Okay. On with my tale.

So, a couple of hours later (that makes it 1pm), the doctor comes back in to check me, and notes that I'm still not dilating like he'd want me to. This is a new one on me, since I've been complaining for two hours about the pain of the contractions. My dear, sweet DH has not left my side and has coached me "not to push" the entire morning. I wanted to, believe me. My poor dad is a basket case, and mom hasn't spent more than a couple of minutes in the labor room with me. Anyway, the doctor orders the first epidural, the pain subsides, and a couple more hours pass.

What are we up to now - ahh, yes, that's right. 3pm.

Doctor returns - still not dilated. Epidural is wearing off. Orders another one. Blood pressure cuff, which is set on automatic, is beginning to cause abrasions and bruising on my left arm.

Couple more hours pass. Epidural is wearing off again. Doctor checks, still not dilated. He declares he is going to his office to take a nap. Does not order the third epidural. We're at 5pm now. At around 6pm, I begin to feel the "deep pressure" my friends who have babies have told me about. You know the pressure I'm talking about - good 'ole back labor - the kind you feel down really low. It's at this point I begin to pull my husband in close about every ten minutes and whisper, Honey, something's wrong. The baby's not...well, he's not...Honey, I think he's coming out of the wrong hole... to which I get more than a few completely puzzled looks. DH informs the nurses of my complaints and they laugh and giggle as they check me out, assuring me that he is in the right spot for delivery, he just doesn't have the room to make his entrance. I, however, am convinced otherwise. Some weird combination of Pitocin and fading epidural has made it crystal clear to me that I am NOT delivering a baby from my vagina, like any normal woman would, rather he is making his entrance into the world via my asshole, thus making his mark on the world at an early age.

Finally, at about 8pm, the good doctor reappears and checks me for a final time. He orders the third epidural and decides to wait it out a little longer, see if there's any change.

Uh, hello - I've had this thing in my hand delivering "medicine" (I'm not quite convinced it's not saline solution at this point) for the past oh, I dunno, 12 hours, and you're gonna wait it out A LITTLE LONGER? WTH is your PROBLEM, you freakin' masochist!

So, midnight rolls around, and we still have no baby. By now, I have spent most of Sunday, all of Monday, and we're now beginning on Tuesday in this chamber of horrors. My left arm is now bleeding and bruised from elbow to shoulder (from the BP cuff), my right hand is bruised from the tips of my fingers to mid-forearm (from the IV), I'm not dilated, the baby's coming out my ass, and I'm beginning to feel it...again. It's finally, at this point, that the doctor decides that it's time to consider a C-Section (ya THINK?!?) and has the operating room prepped for surgery. It's midnight (or thereabouts), and an hour later, they wheel me in.

I'll spare you the whole "oh, HELL no, I'm not going in with you" argument with DH that nearly ended in divorce right there in the delivery room. He went with me. I win.

I'm prepped. I'm ready. I'm shaking so hard I'm afraid I'm going to fall off the operating table. DH is next to my head, trying to calm me, when they scoot the stepstool over to the table so my OB/GYN can "be tall enough" to perform my surgery. DH and I informed the staff before the doc arrived that we DID NOT want to watch the surgery, so the mirror with a birds-eye-view is not rolled into place. We also tell them that we would like for them to not talk about what they're doing - no "'okay, we need to cut that muscle there" and "cut the fascia so that I can get the head out", please. Doc gets in position, and states nice and loud, "Okay, people, I'm making the first incision. Let's get this fella out!" As one, the ENTIRE operating room staff cry out, "NO!" and the doctor pulls away like my belly is a nest of poisonous snakes. The staff let him in on the secret, and the surgery is finally (praise be to God) completed, and the birth is over. At 2am Tuesday morning.

So, there you go, that's the story of the birth. Lesson you should learn? If you're going to have a baby in WV, for the love of God, go to Charleston, Morgantown, Huntington, Beckley, Bluefield...somewhere big. Don't do it in a country hospital. You'd be better off going to the five-and-dime and squatting right there in the floor to have your baby.