I admit, I'm a sucker for baby stories...how they were conceived, how long it took to conceive, how the pregnancy went, how they were born, how long it took, what dreams were realized, and which ones were shattered. I'll surf blogs for a time (embarrasingly enough) and read the tender tales of women (or men) I've never met, and will probably never meet, and remember the indescribable feeling of meeting my own babies, for the very first time. And what it took to get them here. I even get weepy over Brooke Shields story, and Lord knows we won't ever meet.
Eventually, I will figure out how to archive these posts in a neat little manner that involves filing them in categories like the uber bloggers do...family, birth, humor, and the like. But for now, I'm just going to post, for no reason other than he's nearly 10 years old, my own oldest's birth story. This is my blog, and although I'd like pleasant amounts of interested traffic, I'm mainly self-absorbed enough to write what I want just because I want to.
March 1995, more than a decade ago now...
It's positive. It's positive! Three negative home preg. tests, and one trip to a clinic finally reveals that the reason my basal temps are still high, and I've not started my period yet is that, in fact, we did it (I mean, yeah, we DID it, but we DID IT!). Our friend from college was visiting, and in the shower. I seduced my delighted husband (I think I've done that three times, and hey! We have three children...go figure) and did the pelvic pillow tilt. Reveled in the afterglow that we may have actually began a new life, a life that would grow in me...my body, especially created to carry out this task, should we choose to use it in such a way. The first month we tried, we created a baby. God created a baby, through our feeble abilities. I get a pregnancy journal. I write to our baby to be. I ponder him/her and the life we'll have, wrapped in magic. I read my first entry to our unborn child to my beloved husband. We weep. We dream. And then I think, what have we done...
April 1995...
Oh Good Lord Above...what horrible, evil, unforgivable, egregious act have I commited to deserve such a sentence?!? I vomit all day, every day. I am gray, I am stringy. I stink. I can't stand the smell of PopTarts. I'd rather have rats crap in my mouth than smell my husband's head. The horror...the horror! His pee in our one bathroom is abominable! Can't he see I'm dying? Why pee while I'm showering? What is his selfish heart thinking? Damn him, damn him!
May 1995...
Repeat of all above, and add that I am sure we've made a graaaave mistake.
June 1995...
We go to the beach, Pawley's Island where we've gone forever. At least since I was 12. Where my husband came when he was a wet behind the ears newbie, trying to prove himself to my father years earlier. And now, as I gaze at the sunset over the ocean, I know our life is changed forever. And for the first time in 3 months, I don't barf. Maybe this won't be so bad.
July 1995...
I start to show. I complain about feeling fat. I complain that my boobs aren't nearly big enough for a pregnant woman...aren't we supposed to be full? Voluptuous? Have perky, full boobies? Not here. Hardly a cup size change, but don't you DARE touch my nipples...they may fall off. Linen shirts hurt. Blake says they look about the size of Husky pencil erasers, and tells all our friends that, too.
August 1995...
Definitely bigger, and feeling better. Planning a nursery. Beginning to dream again. Can stand to be near my husband again. Maybe this won't kill me.
September 1995...
Getting down right cute...little tummy poking right out. Feeling positive about my husband. Scared about the baby. Sit in my folks' driveway and sob, "what if I don't like him?" (we didn't KNOW it was a boy, but I KNEW it was a boy). Mom took me shopping, shushing sweetly that'd it'd be OK. Looking for maternity clothes, purchased by the grandmothers to be. Love that about first grandchildren.
October 1995...
It's early, but on Halloween, we put the crib up. And the swingy thing. The one that you wind up, and it goes and goes and makes your baby happy (not ours, but others we've heard). I'm a OCD neat freak, organizing pregnant fool. Fold and refold the little clothes. Wash and rewash the baseboards, the top of the fridge, and the dark place no one should wash, above the kitchen cabinets where the fake ivy is. I occasionally sneak into the nursery, and wonder, and try out the soft little rocker. I set up the I'm Clearly a Better Mother Than You Cloth Diaper Service. We're ready to roll.
November 1995...
Swollen at Thanksgiving, 3 weeks and some spare change from due date of December 17. The 17th. They
told me the 17th. I
know when we did the deed, when the babe was made...the 17th he will come. And three weeks out, I can't see my feet or tie my shoes. I'm not happy.
December 1995...
Where is the freakin' baby?!? My in-laws arrive on my due date, to WAIT FOR THE BABY. What kind of dumb ass idea is that? Doesn't everyone on the planet know that a watched pot never boils? That time does not fly when you're watching the clock? That a cranky, due to give birth mom to be will NOT GIVE BIRTH if you're sitting around waiting for said event to happen?!? 17th comes, and goes. I cannot come out of my room. I am devastated. Why? Because I believed I would actually GO INTO LABOR on my due date, no matter what the doctor said. Christmas comes. Christmas goes. I swell by the minute. I hate my life. I hate my husband. I hate my hovering family. I can't put the sweet gold charm bracelet my Mom gave me on my big, fat pregnant wrist. My husband is frightened. I am mean. The day before my birthday comes...the 27th for Pete's Sake! The baby was due 10 days ago! Had an appointment that day. Great way to spend your 25th Birthday, with an OB's finger painfully feeling your ever-tight cervix, informing you that no, you HAVE NOT PROGRESSED AT ALL. Meanwhile, aforementioned in laws are making noises that they really need to "get back". Can I help my inability to give birth? That this child just won't come or give any signal that he'll ever come?
December 27, 1995...
Dr.: So, Mrs. Tannery. Seems you've been pregnant long enough.
Hyper-Emotional Me: Um, sniff (wipe tear), it feels that way.
Dr.: So, I'm thinking, we should induce.
Me: Induce? Cold induction? Doesn't that increase our chances of difficulties (sniff, sniff)?
Dr.: Well, nooo, we just do what we need to do to get that baby out. That's all. Come in in the morning, and we'll have us a baby in no time.
Me: Um, OK, if you're sure...
Dr.: Oh yes, we do this aaaalll the time.
Me: Um, OK, if you're sure...I mean, my regular doctor (the one I was meeting with was a partner in the rotation, my doctor was on vacation), wasn't so sure we should not just wait.
Dr.: Well, you're 10 days late, you've been pregnant long enough.
(anxious husband and hormonal me exchange glances...what do we do? We don't know, we feel so desperate to have the baby here, the waiting over, so we go with the "expert's opinion"...the Doctor.)
December 28, 1995, 7:00 am...
Try to do the cervical suppository. Nothing. Start a pit drip at 9:00 am. Stay on it aaaaaalllll day, til 9:00 pm that night. Cervical change? NONE. None, none, none. Rotation Doctor calmly states we'll start a second day tomorrow. NO problem Go over to private rooms, as after 12 hours of pit, they don't want to send you home. Dear, dear, anxious husband stays with me. We wonder. We pray. And after a sleeping pill, I fall asleep, feeling surely, this pitocin will get things cranking by morning.
December 29, 1995, 6:00 am...
Blake, Blake, I yell/whisper excitedly. I think I'm having CONTRACTIONS. Stumbling from his bed/chair/cot from Hell, he starts timing. Ooooh, I think this one's for real, I slightly moan, elated to be using all that hard practiced natural labor technique. I better take a shower, because today must be the day! I stroke my belly in the shower, yelling out my "pains" as they come. Another one! Another one! And for every 6-8 minutes, I feel "uncomfortable". By 8:00 am, I'm back in LDR. My REGULAR doctor arrives, fresh from her frickin' vacation. Soooo, Mrs. Tannery, you went with the induction. I don't DO 2 day inductions.
Um, I...what, I mean, he...I stammered...I never would have recommended a COLD INDUCTION she nearly cackles. But, she warns, we
WILL get a baby today, OR ELSE! Nurse! MUA HA HA HA HA HA...start the PITOCIN...crank it HIGH...get US A BABY or I'LL CUT HER OPEN....MUA HA HA HA HA...
December 29, 1995, 10:00 am...
Um, it's hurting. It's hurting A LOT. I'm trying to be strong. I do not want medical intervention (what was I thinking, I'd been getting drugs for 24 hours!?!?). NO pain meds for MY baby...we're going Natural. But then, they crank the pit up more. Nurse! Let her have it! And they do. Let. me. have. it. And I start to tear into 2 pieces. Really. My torso and my pelvis began to separate. I could feel it. And it hurt like Hell. More than Hell. Hell with biting Black Widows and stabbing razor blades. Dear Blake is there, hee hee hee, hi hi hi, breathe, honey, focus on the Pooh Bear.
Focus on Pooh my Big Fat Splitting in Two Ass! Don't tell ME where to put my eyes! If I want to close them, I will, By GOD! I do not want to open my eyes!!! And stop that infernal talking...don't make me be one of those raving lunatic laboring women who cuss out thier husbands...JUST SHUT UP...THE TALKING HUUUURTS!
December 29
, 1995, 11:30 am
I am nearly unconscious...I'm sure of it. After trying the stupid birthing chair, the water option, and every assanine position any Natural Labor Moron every concocted, I am nearly dead, but not dead enough. Blake says he can see the monitor of all the laboring women contracting on the LDR floor. Normal, peak, back down again. Normal, peak, back down again...and then there's mine, with Super Pitocin insidiously forced into my veins...High, Higher, Peak off the Scale, Higher, Higher even more, down to high...
every 2 minutes. Please, honey, he whispers. There's no need to fight this by yourself. Maybe just a little something to take the edge off. I feel as if his voice is a faaaar way off, and I hear myself mumble
just a little Demerol...December 29, 12:30 pm
Dumbest drug on earth. Now I'm in all the pain I was before, but cannot speak clearly to convey what I need. Nor keep my eyes open. All I can muster is gripping the gurney as I lay sprawled out ginormous and naked, moaning like I've never moaned before. And then,
my water breaks. And what I thought was truly wrenching the lower part of my torso apart from the upper, BECOMES EVEN WORSE. The glib LDR nurses breezes in, throws my legs apart, inserts a gloved finger as I nearly come off the damn gurnery, and announces
3 centimeters, yall. Through the tears that I'm sure add even more to my state of overstimulated pain I'm sure I can endure no longer, I whisper to a helpless husband,
get the epidural man, get him, now.
December 29, 2:30 pm
I love the Epidural Man. He is a man of God. He is my favorite person in the Solar System. I want to marry the Epidural Man. Give him a big wet kiss. Pay him a million dollars. When this baby thing is over, I'll have sex with him. I love him sooooo much. The party starts. I can't stop giggling, talking, frenetically chattering. I am sooooo happy now, to be relieved of the burden of excruciating pain. Everyone should always just start with the epidural...just pipe in on in around the 8 month when you really start feeling big, and can't sleep well. Who the hell told us natural was better? Who would say such a stupid thing? Why choose pain when you can choose to not even feel your ass, or the need to pee, and can just get a tube up your hoo-hoo? And, the nurse announces I am at 5. FIVE!
December 29, 1995, 7:30 pm
OK, been pretty damn comfortable, but I'm tired. It's been a long 2 days. Hell, it's been a long 10 months. And nobody's fed me for 24 hours...what is up with that cruelty? Blake sheepishly eats his lovingly packed snacks, the ones I thought we'd surely be sharing by now. And the fourth nurse of this adventure drops by. Checks me out, blissfully absent all feeling, especially the painful ones, and says, we're (what's this
we're?) at 10. Time to push. Push! Push! It's finally coming!!! Hurry, someone grab a leg, I can't move! To hell with this on my back thing, I wanna
squat, like the ancient women of old!
December 29, 1995, 8:30 pm
Still pushing.
December 29, 1995, 9:00 pm
Pushing, pushing.
December 29, 1995, 9:30 pm
Getting tired of pushing. Doctor "I would induce" breezes by. Does a quick check while I push again. Announces it time to call it, go ahead and do a section. Can't see progress in the head coming down. Keeps receeding. Blah, blah, blah.
Wait! I haven't come this far, gone through this hell, to give up now and get cut open! Noooo waaaaay Dr. Doomsday...I can DO THIS! Let me hang off the table, let me sit on the ball...hang me up by my wrists...Dr. declares one more hour, I'll let you go one more hour. But then I'm going in. Alright, I'm going to push like no woman has ever pushed in the history of pushing a human out of an orifice from which no human should ever erupt. Blake tells me my eye's blood vessels are bursting.
December 29, 1995, 10:20 pm
Maternal fever, lots of meconium in the fluid, fetal heart rate dropping now with each push. I have no choice, I'm told. And they wheel me to the OR, in tears of which I thought I'd run out. I am exhausted, crushed, defeated. My body will not do what it was designed to do. Blake holds my hand as they start the incision. An entire neo-neonatal respiratory team is standing by, as Doctor is concerned about the meconium...I'm nearly asleep.
December 29, 1995, 10:50 pm
John Kimmel Tannery is pulled out. Red, squirmy, squeaking. 7 pounds, 5 ounces, 21 inches long. Oh! He has his Daddy's cowlick, in the same place on his forehead. I see him for a fleeting moment as they whisk him off for the suctioning, Apgar, clean up, temperature taking, more suctioning, and I'm left behind to get 30 minutes of closing up. We meet for the first time, about 45 minutes later, in recovery, where they tell me he's just fine. Has all his fingers, all his toes. Healthy. I have to just trust them, as he's wrapped up to his chin in a tight cacoon of pastel flannel.
December 30, 1995, 12:30 am
After nearly 48 hours since this ordeal began, we are in our room, with our baby, finally. The nurse pokes and prods my extremely sore belly. The nasty stuff pouring from my uterus is alarming. I thought all that stuff came out the top with the baby? Is there no advantage to a c-section? Apparently not. Get to get sliced open, and leak blood and fluids for weeks. Oh yippee. After changing my sexy disposable mesh panties and diaper sized pad, and the sheets, for the third time in an hour, the nurse offers to take the baby to the nursery, so I can rest. Is she on crack? After all that? I've barely seen him yet...certainly haven't even had a chance to unwrap him, touch him all over...start to nurse him. And a fierce need to just hold on to him settles over me, and doesn't really let up til he's about six months old, but that's another tale. There, that night, I just had to be near him. So I was. Told that nurse to take her cold, hard, stupid plastic bassinette, disposable diapers, her heinous suggestions of sugar water and pacifier nipples sure to cause my baby irreversible nipple confusion, and get the hell out. We had some bonding to do to which she surely would cause harm with only her mere presence.
So, we were a family. Squirmy, wiry, little cowlicked boy, and two exhausted and suddenly terrified parenting newbies. Whatever would we do when we had to take him home?
postscript: He truly is nearly 10 years old now, which I cannot believe, has that prominent cowlick just like his Daddy, a damn stubborn streak that he may have gotten from me, and in light of the fact that he suffered egregious mistakes being our guinea pig, he is turning out to be a true joy, a delightful young man whom I'm proud to call my son. This
is proof there is a God.
