friday, october 12, 2012
i am exhausted. and hungry. and sleepy. but the house is clean.
my sister will be here soon. she is spending the night. i have a baby shower tomorrow.
david is home from work. we lie across the bed, remark about how tired we are. and hungry. nothing in our house sounds good. olive garden it is.
my gas light is on. we take separate cars so i can fill up before lindsey gets here. sisters always go out shopping, even if it is just to use up a bit of store credit.
soup, salad and breadsticks for me. panini and soup for him. the waitress messes up his order. twice. we laugh about it. they must be out of mints-none came with our check. i save the receipt. one day i will win a customer service drawing.
do do do. do do da do do do. do do do. dodo da dod do do.
not going to get that one. i'll check lindsey's voicemail in a second, seeing as how i'm currently "unavailable."
hmm. that's strange. what is that on the floor in here? the cottage walk bathroom is usually very clean.
small gasp. could it be? no. i'm barely 38 weeks. with my luck i'll certainly be a week overdue.
hmm. slight panic. still not convinced. i'm not in any pain.
i give nancy my check for my sam's membership. casually ask about her water breaking.
she panics. do i need to drive you home? you need to go home. to the hospital.
nah, i'm sure it's a false alarm. i only live a few miles away. i'm fine. besides, this looked more like what you see in the movies. everyone says it really isn't like that at all. i'm fine.
stupid book. why isn't there a separate section, one that is printed on yellow pages or something that says, your water may have broken if. . .
i hand the book to david. find that part. call lee ob, he says. they closed at noon. the recording says to call labor and delivery.
i don't want to. if i do, it will be real. i'm not ready. i'm terrified.
my sister is here. don't tell her. not yet. stall her.
the call drops a minute into it. i call back. come on in, says the nurse.
lindsey, we aren't going shopping.
i have convinced not one, but two nurses that i am not a victim of domestic violence. no, those aren't marks from physical acts. i'm the idiot who collected some poison ivy while attempting a pinterest project. 37 weeks pregnant and highly allergic.
so, this is what it's like to be in a labor and delivery room. david is here. lindsey is on the couch. grandparents have been called. the frenzy has begun.
contractions aren't fun, not by any means. why are they coming so intensely? and so quickly? aren't first babies usually long labors?
suddenly it is awful. the worst feeling i have ever had. i'm far enough along to get the epidural. sweet, sweet relief.
the grandparents stop by to check in.
and now the nurses want me to relax. i can barely move so that isn't terribly difficult. sleep will not come. i feel short of breath. the medication is too much.
the cosby show is on. neither david nor i are watching. he piddles on his ipad, looking over at me all the time. i look around. doze off for a few minutes at a time every now and then.
okay, i'm going to get the table ready.
what? are you kidding me? already? that cannot be right. the doctor estimated anytime between midnight and 6 am. i was betting 6 am.
david kisses me. tells me i'm doing great. i can barely feel anything. am i pushing too much? too little? i stare at the clock, wondering if wells will be born today or tomorrow.
saturday, october 13, 2012
it's after midnight. david is standing in front of me in a gown and gloves.
one last push they tell me. i see his head. so much dark hair. dark like mine.
and now david is guiding our baby into this world. our world. our family of three. david has cut the umbilical cord.
i see him. i don't hear him. shouldn't he be crying? the nurses wipe him off a bit. hand him to me as i frantically pull down my gown. skin. my son's and mine. finally touching.
it's time for the one minute apgar. i know they have to take him away, just over to the side for a few minutes.
time slowly ticks by. hushed voices. doctors and nurses somewhat huddling. david walks over.
my son is purple.
my son is purple, not baby pink. new-to-this-world blush.
the doctor has a bag. a mask is over my son's mouth. my heart stops. no. not now. not after all this.
now the nurse anesthesiologist is here. the pediatrician arrives. they are all hoving over my son. my son.
they say his breathing must be stabilized.
was it me? something i did or didn't do? it must be. i make so many mistakes.
i cannot move. if i could i would be fighting the staff for sure, trying to get to him. he should be with me. i can't get this time back. these first few minutes. bond. i want to bond. i need him. i feel empty.
he is given to us for less than a minute. pictures are snapped. then he is gone.
praying. pleading. crying. david assures me it is not my fault. i still feel to blame. somehow.
i lie in the labor and delivery bed. there is a hole in my heart. no official report, but the nurse says he looks better.
i weep. i am so exhausted. i am empty. david assures me all will be fine. we pray.
now we are in the mother/baby room. i do not have a baby. he has been taken away. my son.
they say wells will be fine. they ran tests. did an xray. started an iv. my son. poked already. without me to hold him.
we might get to see him soon. it's up in the air as to when.
cece, the nurse, checks on me again. i don't care how i am doing. all i want is my son.
she leaves to get a report from the nursery.
a bassinet has returned with cece. my son. my son!
he is here. really here. in my arms. on my chest. skin. skin to skin. i melt. i sob. i cover him in kisses. i pray. and then he feeds. oh, sweet feeling. connection between us, physically, at last.
we are together: me and wells. mother and child. mom, dad and baby. family of three.
i'm still scared. i am happy. i cry when they take him away. he must still be monitored. this is not in my birth plan.
not my will. i must remember.
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11
hope. i have hope. my son.