The Birth Story - May 2, 1997

On Wednesday, April 30th, my coworkers threw a baby shower for me.  Since it had been eight years since I last had a baby, a shower was needed.  The only thing I had was a crib.  I was woefully unprepared for another child.  The shower was a good thing.  It was needed.  It was what we did for anyone having a baby, but little did they know how much I needed it.

When I came home from work on Thursday I was exhausted and not really feeling well.  I was having sporadic contractions but I really wanted to sleep.  We decided I would go to the hospital the first thing in the morning so my husband took the kids to his mom's house for the night.  I figured they would pump me with drugs to stop the contractions like we'd done in the past.  After all, my due date was another three weeks away.

Very early on Friday morning we went to the hospital and I was immediately taken to a room to get hooked up to monitors and sit around while they observed me.

My doctor was called in.

The baby was exhibiting signs of distress.

My doctor didn't mince words.  She said she wasn't going to mess around with a baby in distress combined with my cardiac history.  I needed a cesarean and I needed it immediately.

OH CRAP!

I didn't argue with her.  She was right.  I felt it in my bones.  But I was terrified.  I was literally shaking like I have never shook before.  My whole body was trembling.  How I managed to sign the papers is an absolute miracle.

Phone calls started flying out informing family and work of the impending birth.  When I called the school, I said that Mary won the office pool, that stinker for her smartass bid coming so early.

Suddenly I was prepped for surgery and people were flying all over.  I was rushed to the delivery room and had my arms and legs strapped down.  Of course I complied, but I REALLY did not like that.  The sheet went up to block my view.

My husband stayed there for the whole thing.  He had studied to be an EMT and really liked the blood and guts part of his training.  This was clinical curiosity on his part, getting to witness a real live surgery.  Oh and being a supportive spouse and all that.  Sure.  I had to ask him to remove his glasses - I could see activity in the reflection.  I'm not as curious.

My doctor talked about what she was doing as she proceeded, but I really didn't need to know.  Just get it over with and fortunately she was quick and efficient.  Evidently I have a lot of blood vessels requiring quite a bit of sautering.  Again, information I didn't care to hear.

I felt pressure on my rib cage, like the doctor was resting her arm there.  I found out afterwards that actually was my bladder or something vital that didn't belong there.  I never really thought about the need to move parts, like your organs, out of the way, like literally outside of the body cavity.

And there was the baby, completely entwined in the umbilical cord.  She carefully extracted him, continually commenting on the length of the cord - she had never seen anything like that before.  It was sent to the lab to be measured, however, I always forget to ask exactly how long it was.

Let's stop for a moment here - the baby had been completely wrapped by the cord.  There is absolutely NO WAY he could have been born vaginally.  ZERO.  We would have lost Ian and it was likely I wouldn't have survived either.  My doctor saved both of our lives.  I am eternally indebted to her.

As she started to pull him out I heard, "oooh your baby is so bad!  He just BIT ME!  I'm going to flip him over and spank him if he keeps that up!"  I had to laugh.

He was officially born at 10:44 am.

Ian was rushed over to the baby table and they proceeded to do take apgars and clean him up.  My husband left my side to monitor Ian's progress.  He was three weeks premature and they were going to get him into the NICU ("nick U" or neonatal intensive care unit) immediately.  Ian was transferred to an incubator and I remember catching only a glimpse of him as they took him out of the room.

I was cleaned up with all of my vital parts put back in place and my incision neatly stapled.  ICK!  I was taken to a private room, put on a morphine drip and slept for the rest of the day.  Everyone got to see my baby before me so as soon as I was able to get out of bed and into a wheelchair, I was taken down to the NICU to finally meet Ian.

It's more than a little disturbing to see such a tiny baby hooked up to all of those wires, but somehow it didn't freak me out.  I had already seen one of my newborns hooked up, not quite so much, but this wasn't foreign territory.  He was in good hands.  They were taking precautions.

Ian was diagnosed as Failure To Thrive, meaning he wasn't gaining weight properly.  He was put on a feeding tube and still wasn't improving.  By Sunday it was determined that he needed to see the big guns down at Children's Hospital.  My gut said he just needed to be held and nursed, but they were the experts and he needs tests to make sure nothing is wrong.  My OB had to give me a pep talk to get me on board with this plan.

Since this wasn't an emergency, the transport was arranged for midnight when there is less traffic.  They brought his incubator into my room so I could see him off, all packed with monitors and blankets and whatever else was necessary for the twenty minute ride.  I was very emotional and very alone.  When they took him out I immediately called the one person I knew had experienced this pain, my mother.  (and I'm tearing up as I type now)  I was able to explain what was going on and then just bawled my eyes out.  I can't imagine what I put my mother through, me crying and her unable to hold me on top of making her relive her own hellish memory of having a premature baby whisked out of her arms for an emergency.  I had three weeks of this crap.  She endured it for three years.  My mother knew my pain very well.

I was released from the hospital on Tuesday and I was driven straight to Children's Hospital with a blanket bundled up and held close to my abdomen to keep my guts from falling out - seriously, post cesarean feels EXACTLY like your intestines are going to spill out on the floor at any second.  I held them in place for nearly two weeks with that damn blanket.  Anyways, me and my blankie hobbled out of the car and into another wheelchair so I could visit my newborn.

The staff at Children's is AWESOME.  Clearly I wasn't the first mom to hobble into their institution.  They were frank about Ian's progress or lack thereof.  I looked around the NICU and saw all of the other babies, ones who had clearly been there for quite some time.  Many were VERY sick and some were actively dying.  It was a scary place to leave my baby.  He was in good hands, but it was scary.  And then I had to leave and go home to my other children.  Every day I came back to the hospital to hold and feed my baby.  At least I got to hold him.  It was difficult with all of his wires and tubes, but they got him into my arms.  Some moms in that room didn't get to hold their babies.  I got to hold mine.  He wasn't progressing like they wanted, but he was fine.  I knew it.

They ran an upper GI on him.  A month later I saw the bill for that little procedure, THANK GOD FOR INSURANCE because we didn't owe shit, but just for the consulting fees, not even the procedure, it was twenty THOUSAND dollars.  TWO HOURS of consulting fees was TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS.  Are they HIGH?

Finally it was determined that Ian was starting to thrive, just slowly and needed to be kept in the hospital for observation.  They wanted him at five pounds before they would discharge him.  Okay, does that have to happen at Childrens or can we move him back to his original hospital, just a couple of minutes away from my house?

HUH?

Yeah, why does he have to stay here?  Can't he be observed at the other NICU?  Doctors looked at each other, they scratched their heads and then they shrugged their shoulders - why not?  So after ten days at Children's my baby was bundled back up, loaded onto the ambulance and taken for another ride.  I spent all day, every day at the hospital until Amanda and Keith got home from school.  I held Ian and rocked him.  I knew from college psych the curative powers of direct human contact.  My mother had been a "cuddler" in that very hospital for just that reason.  Human contact.

I wished I had insisted on this earlier.  It was the right move and I felt it down to my very core.  I believe we call this "mother's intuition."  And I've got it.  Don't question it!

In a matter of days, Ian was up to his necessary five pounds and was discharged.  Just days before his due date, Ian was at home.

March 2, 1988 - A Birthing Story

It was leap year and I was nervous all day February 29th.  I did not want my child to be born on that day.  I mean it would have been cool to be only five years old this year, but then again, no it wouldn't.

Delivery was imminent, I had been experiencing bouts of false labor.  A doctor's visit on March 1st, it was a Tuesday, confirmed I was in fact in labor, but the very early stages.  After the doctor's visit we went shopping where I had a hissy fit and then melted into inconsolable tears - ah the joys of hormones.  I managed a nap that afternoon and then had sporadic cramps, especially in my back for the rest of the evening, well actually for the rest of the time.

That night I could barely sleep and then asked to go to the hospital.  UGH!  I wasn't ready and they made me walk the halls at midnight.  Eventually I was sent home, but I never got much sleep.

March 2nd was the women's final in figure skating (1988 Olympics).  Perpetually uncomfortable, I found that a rocking chair was my only relief.  I would rock like a madwoman during each contraction.  They were getting close to five minutes apart, but the skating wasn't quite finished so I insisted we stayed until the end.  (Ironically, I'm writing this as I watch Olympic figure skating - Thursday night)

At a military hospital I didn't have the luxury of a proper birthing room, but I did have a room to myself as I progressed through labor that afternoon.  It was a blur as I progressed.  By evening I lost all modesty and was seeking comfort.  I was hot so I kept tossing the covers off.  Since there weren't any other women in labor, I was the focus of the entire staff, including penny bets as to the time, size, weight and sex of the baby.

I was wheeled into a proper delivery room and I really don't remember much.  I do recall as I was being cleaned up that the doctor complained that he had just bought his shoes and now they were ruined.  oops!

My little Amanda was born just before 10:30pm, all nine pounds, five ounces of her.  All of the newborn clothes we were given would only last for few weeks for she would move right into 3 month old clothing before she was a month old.

Baby Amanda was no different from fetus Amanda, just a lot louder.  She was active and alert.  I remember her first smile and no, it wasn't gas.  She was a happy baby and as she grew she was quite capable to keep herself occupied, something that was a blessing when her brother came into the world.

With the exception of her toddler years (she sprouted horns, I swear) she was a fun, silly little girl who enjoyed reading, animals, and dressing up.  She was actually a pleasant teen and she's turned into an adult not much different from the baby I knew so many years ago - happy, self content, curious, silly, fun, and loud (surprisingly loud for a shy person).

From The Beginning

I always get sentimental right around my kids' birthdays, recalling the pregnancy and delivery and then all of the birthdays since.  Each of the kids seem to enjoy hearing their individual stories but I've never really documented them in any meaningful manner, so I'll do it here for the whole world to see which I KNOW the kids will thoroughly appreciate.

None of my pregnancies were planned.  Although the timing of each was rather inconvenient, I flat out refuse to call any of them accidents.  The kids know this yet I lovingly refer to them as OOPS, OH NO, and OH SHIT.  They can tell you which one they are.

Today I will highlight my first pregnancy which coincides rather neatly with the birthing story I will post tomorrow to celebrate the child born on March 2nd.  You'll have to wait until May and June for the other ones.  Crazy how I mapped that all out, huh?

I had just completed my junior year in college and still had more than a year of courses and student teaching to complete.  I did a week of classroom observation (at my little brother's school - that was weird) and then left immediately for an extended weekend with my then boyfriend who was stationed in Florida.

It was a great little vacation (clearly).  We took a day trip to St. Augustine which thrilled my history loving self.  He lived with a very hospitable and friendly family in a mobile home.  It was simple living in a simple world and I was very comfortable there, except the cockroaches.  Uh yeah, the place was infested with them.  WAY GROSS.  I have huge issues with roaches and this didn't help AT ALL.

Summer school began and I didn't have so much as a clue that I was pregnant.  When finally the realization struck that it was a possibility I consulted my best friend Vicki and she accompanied me to the clinic for the test.  She was the shoulder I cried on when the test was positive.  She asked what the response was supposed to be - I'm sorry or I'm so happy.  More tears as I laughed, "Both!"  I was happy, but damn, this was huge.  Thank you, Vic, for being there!

Two hundred miles away from home, I made the most frightening call ever to my mom.  I knocked her off her feet as her only response to everything I said was "wow."  She called back a few hours later, clearly the shock had faded and she was back in the driver's seat rattling off information from the insurance company, arranging a doctor appointment at home and making sure I was okay.  That simple phone call has endeared me to my mother forever.  I may bitch about her, but she has my back.  Thanks mom!

The call to babydaddy was even more nerve racking.  He had to be called out of the field and faced a lot of heckling heading for an emergency phone call from his girlfriend - that can only mean one thing, right?  And it did.  He still jokes about my statement, "I'm kinda pregnant."  KIND OF?  Either you are or you aren't.

While I was in Florida we picked out wedding rings, but never set a date.  A date was suddenly picked based on when he could get home on leave - September.

My memories of that summer are mostly about physical discomfort.  I itched.  Later I found out there's some sort of rash related to pregnancy, but none of the doctors I talked to seem to be aware of it.  Head to toe, I itched.  Everyone was convinced I was allergic to something, but we could never pinpoint the source.  Visiting home was wonderful as my mom with long fingernails would scratch my back - absolute heaven.  I also endured all day bouts of morning sickness.  I worked at Taco Bell at the time and smell of the red sauce they use on burritos just turned my stomach inside out.

I also had strong cravings for mashed potatoes.  KFC has the most incredible potatoes and they truly hit the spot.

It was a hot that summer.  Africa hot.  And we didn't have air conditioning.  I snuck outside at night when I couldn't sleep and sat on the front porch, enjoying the cooler temperatures.  It was the first time I ever saw bats as they would circle the street lights.

By September the morning sickness had faded away, but the potato cravings persisted to the bitter end.  I also had a thing for bananas, frequently making banana milk shakes.  Clearly I was needing potasium.  The other craving was gumballs.  Yes, those stupid quarter machine pieces of candy.  I was not above breaking a dollar just so I could get my gumball fix.  I mean I'll stop for one even today, but it was a dying NEED back then.

Much to the dismay of my advisor I opted not to enroll for fall semester, instead I chose to move to Florida and start my life as mother and wife.  I had a lot of tough choices to make that year, ones that had I chose otherwise would have led to a very different life today.  I do sometimes wonder "what if" but I don't regret.

Just days after a big formal wedding pulled together in a matter of months I moved to Florida to start a new life.  We stayed a few days in the roach infested trailer until we could secure our own apartment.  With only a few personal items that little apartment was stark.  Money received at our wedding supplied a TV and bed.  One of his co-workers loaded us up with a couch and coffee table.  It was funny looking to have formal serving pieces laid out on a table made from milk crates, but that's all we had.  It all felt surreal, like we were playing house. 

I began regular OB appointments at the military base, in a true clinic setting, never seeing the same doctor.  That was weird and impersonal.  Fortunately the whole body itching subsided.  I was progressing according to the schedule and that made the variety of doctors and nurses rather happy.

Most of my time was spent in the apartment.  I would lug the laundry back and forth to the apartment laundromat which was increasingly more difficult as my belly grew.  The UPS man became a common face delivering care packages and when the baby was born, he was excited to finally see her.

Thanksgiving was spent with new husband's coworkers at someone's house.  I made my mom's recipe for rolls and it was a big hit.  I came home just before Christmas so I could attend Vicki's wedding as a surprise guest.

Christmas was spent together as newlyweds and we went to the beach where I collected seashells.  It was a cold blustery day, but I was determined to get those shells, many of which I still have today.  A few days later, my mom, stepdad and youngest brother stopped through for a visit on their way to Disney World.

The last two months were agonizingly slow as we made preparations for baby.  We didn't know the sex, but we were prepared for either.  My afternoons were spent watching Days Of Our Lives and ticking off kick counts, a rather busy job as this was one very active fetus.  She grew straining against the confines of my body.  Eventually I was able to define the body parts just under my skin and could chase her foot around, assuring me she was ticklish.  The first thing I did when I got to see her in the hospital was run my finger up her foot, no surprise, she retracted that tiny foot as quick as possible.

Why she hung out in there for so long is beyond me as she was very clearly uncomfortable.  She would rock her head backwards and rub it against my spine - that is a indescribable discomfort especially as other body parts were frequently in the way, leaving me gasping for air.

Overall it was a happy, easy pregnancy.  I spent a whole lot of time rubbing that belly, talking to the unknown entity inside.  She was exposed to wide array of music between me and her father, a lot of laughs, and a whole lot of potatoes and bananas.  That probably explains a lot about her eclectic taste in music, her easy humor and an undying love for mashed potatoes.

Come back tomorrow for the birthing story.

February 22, 1988

This is such a big date in my life.  It was my focus for nine long months, my due date. 

I enjoyed being pregnant.  It was amazing that a person was growing inside me.  Unlike my later pregnancies I had no distractions and could spend a lot of time bonding with my growing belly and the alien rolling around inside.  But that last month was pure torture.  I was impatient to finally meet this person who was no longer a stranger to me.

Very impatient.

Her father was impatient too.  We jokingly contrived ways to speed up her arrival, but true to her current personality, Miss Amanda does shit according to her own schedule (file that one under things we learn from our fetuses).

I knew better that babies rarely arrive ON their due dates.  In fact, most babies arrive BEFORE their due date.  By February 1st my bag was packed, the plan mapped out, phone numbers to grandparents written down, I was ready.  And waited.  And waited. And waited.

AND WAITED.

By February 20th, anxiety, anxiousness, anticipation, and impatience were starting to take their toll.  Add to that my physical discomfort?  Let's just say there's wisdom in the old traditions of "confinement," the hiding of women during their final stages of pregnancy behind closed doors away from the general public.  I was not fit for human consumption.

The night of my due date it was clear I was nowhere near going into labor so my mom took us out to eat.  As we stood in line waiting for a table, two elderly ladies were behind us.  Two things bring out uninvited conversation from old women - babies and pregnant bellies.  So I immediately became their opening line and my mother, the non-stop talker, quickly joined in.

"Oh honey," one chimed, "you've DROPPED!"

To this day, twenty-two years later, I'm still royally pissed about this statement.  How in the FUCK would she know if I dropped or if I was carrying low?  Seriously? 

"When are you due?" she asked like every other stranger on the street has asked for the past forty weeks.

With a glint of evil joy in my eye I said, "today."

I swear both women shit themselves right there.  Their eyes bugged out and then fell to my "dropped" belly.  It was obvious they were taking quick inventory about gathering towels, sheets and boiling water in case their midwifery skills were going to be needed in the next five seconds.

And then my table was ready.  Damn.  No more torturing little old ladies!

I was then confined for the remainder of my days.  That would be another NINE DAYS.  nine.  I was contemplating a do-it-yourself caesarean.