Hi there! It's been awhile since I've posted anything, so if you're still reading my blog, you deserve a prize. Not that I can really give you anything, since all my time and energy goes into taking care of a baby and myself.
So. The real reason I've been out of commission here is that I was dealing with some really severe post-partum depression. It's a lot more common than most people realize, but that doesn't make it any less difficult. It's a horrible feeling to wonder if you love your child enough, or at all. But it's terrifying to realize that you think about hurting that child, and more so to realize in the darkest, most difficult moments that if you don't put her down right now, you will do something you regret.
It's not pretty, but it's the truth. I couldn't trust myself sometimes, and I'm thankful that those moments only came in the middle of the night when Andy could take over caring for her and then be my shoulder to cry on. I struggled a lot with these feelings and thoughts, and it only made me feel more inadequate as a mother. There's so much judgement for mothers who admit to being less than thrilled with parenting, and even more for those who don't know how to handle the challenges, but I feel it's important to be honest about this, even if it took me several weeks to share what I've been through.
After all the time we spent trying to get pregnant, I forgot to prepare myself for how hard the transition to motherhood would be. It's not just the sleepless nights, though that was one of my biggest triggers. It's also the insecurity of not knowing what she's trying to tell me with her cries, the fear that the mistakes I make (big or small) will have long-term consequences, and the sheer bewilderment of having a relative stranger running my life. I felt like I couldn't make her happy, but being a perfectionist, I had the completely unreasonable standard for myself that I should be able to figure what she wanted in the first couple weeks.
Life doesn't work like that though. It takes time to learn a baby's cries and cues, and even then, sometimes she's just crying to cry and there's nothing to do but soothe her until it runs its course or hand her off to someone else when you can't handle it anymore. Breastfeeding isn't strictly intuitive; there's a bit of a learning curve to get past the soreness and the leaking. And then there are the diaper changes where she pees all over the place before you can get the fresh diaper on, and then does it again two more times.
It should have been one of the most special times in my life, but I couldn't enjoy my daughter until she was almost 2 months old. I'd have brief periods of happiness, but the rest of the time I was struggling to live without being able to control how she behaved or change my environment to be more manageable. Eventually I learned to go with the flow, to not take it personally when she screamed, to recognize when I was approaching that border between rational response and losing it again. Weekly therapy has made all that possible. Medication also helped make it easier to accept the difficult moments even when I didn't have half the sleep I needed. So many people have told me that you get the hang of it around 3 months, and it seems to be true.
It's so much easier now, especially now that she only wakes up twice during the night, if at all. Life feels a lot better, though there are still hard moments when I have to walk away. I'm not sure where to take this blog now, though. I don't really have any interest in making this a "look at how cute my kid is! she has sunshine and rainbows coming out of her ass!" mommyblog (though I could do that somewhere else, since she has some spectacularly surprising stuff coming out of her ass sometimes). Yet there's not a whole lot to say about my ovaries or my hoo-ha at this point (sorry Hoozin, I just couldn't leave it alone). In about a year we'll be trying for kid #2, but until then there may be some radio silence. So tell me what you think. Should I start another blog, or should I just transform this yet again to reflect the newest stage of my life?
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
The Postpartum Adventure
Brianna is now three weeks old. She's lost her wrinkly newborn look, and just looks like a tiny baby now (well, as tiny as you can look when you're roughly 10 pounds). She holds her head up on her own sometimes and loves to watch a toy that dangles from the arm of her car seat, which is where she goes half the time because she sleeps so well in there. Occasionally she'll give us smiles, though I'm pretty sure they're not happy smiles yet, just more of a "hey, I have muscles in my face, I wonder how to use them" expression, kind of like when she lifts her eyebrows and pouts her lips out after she finishes nursing. But while my mom would be happy to have me write about Brianna until my fingers fall off, I'm here to share what it's been like for me these past three weeks with all the gory details. Fair warning: it's not always gonna be pretty.
When I was still in the hospital, the biggest thing I had to face was how unbelievably tired I was. So tired I couldn't reposition myself in bed at first, and I pretty much slept if I wasn't nursing or cuddling with Brianna. Which made going to the bathroom all kinds of fun at first, since certain areas were understandably SORE. (Percocet is such a wonderful drug when you've just pushed something the size of a small cantaloupe out of your hoo-ha! Did I mention her head was 14.5 inches around? Oy-vay.) It was also slightly disturbing to have so much bleeding afterwards. Nine months without a period, and then it seems like my body wants to make up for lost time, with the added bonus of having to use pads. It's like being back in junior high, but instead of an egg baby to care for, I have an incredibly cute but demanding newborn. After a mere 36 hours, I am sent home with a sitz bath, water jug, and squirt bottle as parting gifts. We could have stayed longer, but I would probably have been going stir crazy, and the fold out bed Andy was in was not designed for fathers over 6 feet tall.
Since coming home, I'm still incredibly tired, but it's more because I only get 5 hours of sleep in little chunks, rather than the utter exhaustion of pushing out a baby in only 20 minutes. The first full day home, we had to take Brianna to the pediatrician, and I had never regretted having stairs so much as I did after dragging myself up and down and out and about, and repeat the next day because Brianna needed to be monitored for weight after loosing too much after birth before my milk came in. (What a way to feel like a parenting failure!) Gradually the stairs got easier, and by now I'm running back and forth without any issues. I've started up walking again too, though they're kind of pathetic, slow little strolls that leave me tired when it's warm out like it has been. Everyday I go further though, and I know eventually I'll get back up to a good pace and distance.
I had planned on using a walking routine to lose any baby weight that remained after Brianna was born, but thanks to a minimal weight gain throughout the pregnancy and the crazy metabolism brought on by breastfeeding, I've already lost it all. Plus an additional 17 pounds. I have no idea how I lost that much so quickly, but I won't complain. I'm not as swollen as I had been, so a lot of it was probably water. I'm not necessarily thinner than I was before getting pregnant, but I am back into my normal clothes, which feels fantastic but is a little frustrating at times because everything is shifted around from where it was before.
My belly has quite a bit of pooch with extra skin hanging around. It's gotten better than it was right after the birth, when it felt like a big soft sponge, but I'd like to at least have some chance of wearing a cute swimsuit this summer. The other big change is that my boobs are huge. Andy certainly has nothing but smiles when the subject comes up, but dear Lord, did I really need to gain three cup sizes? It seems to have been taken from my ass to fuel breastfeeding, which honestly, I'm kind of sad about. It was the one body part that stayed normal through the pregnancy, and I was generally pretty happy with the way it looked before. It helped balance out my figure and now I just look (quite literally) slightly deflated. I'm hoping things continue to reconfigure over the next few weeks, because this isn't exactly the body I imagined having as a new mom. Better in some ways, but disappointing in others.
You know what's not disappointing? Having my hair stop growing so much! Unfortunately it didn't happen overnight. In fact, those lovely postpartum hormones gave a sudden boost to my hair and nails. Nature isn't exactly selective about which hair gets the MiracleGro treatment, so any hairs that were already present starting growing like weeds, including my facial hair. After coming home from the hospital and having barely enough energy to shower, personal grooming was pretty low on my to-do list. Until I noticed that my hairs were longer than Andy's stubble. Yes, I had finally grown more hair than my husband and had gone past the title of Bearded Lady. I had starting looking like a college sophomore who tries to grow a goatee so his fake ID is more believable. The only reason I wasn't a completely lost cause is that I had waxed my upper lip recently enough that there weren't too many hairs trying to do a Chia Pet imitation. Otherwise Andy probably would have looked at me funny when I tried to kiss him. Needless to say, I promptly waxed and plucked my way back to delicate femininity, or as close as I could come to it in this hormone-addled state, and things have been much slower growing back in.
So even with all those hormones going crazy (and who knows what PCOS will do to keep things...unpredictable), I'm doing quite well physically for being halfway through the 6 weeks that it's supposed to take to feel back to "normal".
Emotional recovery is a whole other story though.
Baby blues have given way to something more. It's not something I'm ready to get into in much detail at the moment, but I am getting treatment. Some days are harder than others, but it's starting to get easier and I'm able to enjoy more of my time with Brianna, which wasn't happening much at first.
When I was still in the hospital, the biggest thing I had to face was how unbelievably tired I was. So tired I couldn't reposition myself in bed at first, and I pretty much slept if I wasn't nursing or cuddling with Brianna. Which made going to the bathroom all kinds of fun at first, since certain areas were understandably SORE. (Percocet is such a wonderful drug when you've just pushed something the size of a small cantaloupe out of your hoo-ha! Did I mention her head was 14.5 inches around? Oy-vay.) It was also slightly disturbing to have so much bleeding afterwards. Nine months without a period, and then it seems like my body wants to make up for lost time, with the added bonus of having to use pads. It's like being back in junior high, but instead of an egg baby to care for, I have an incredibly cute but demanding newborn. After a mere 36 hours, I am sent home with a sitz bath, water jug, and squirt bottle as parting gifts. We could have stayed longer, but I would probably have been going stir crazy, and the fold out bed Andy was in was not designed for fathers over 6 feet tall.
Since coming home, I'm still incredibly tired, but it's more because I only get 5 hours of sleep in little chunks, rather than the utter exhaustion of pushing out a baby in only 20 minutes. The first full day home, we had to take Brianna to the pediatrician, and I had never regretted having stairs so much as I did after dragging myself up and down and out and about, and repeat the next day because Brianna needed to be monitored for weight after loosing too much after birth before my milk came in. (What a way to feel like a parenting failure!) Gradually the stairs got easier, and by now I'm running back and forth without any issues. I've started up walking again too, though they're kind of pathetic, slow little strolls that leave me tired when it's warm out like it has been. Everyday I go further though, and I know eventually I'll get back up to a good pace and distance.
I had planned on using a walking routine to lose any baby weight that remained after Brianna was born, but thanks to a minimal weight gain throughout the pregnancy and the crazy metabolism brought on by breastfeeding, I've already lost it all. Plus an additional 17 pounds. I have no idea how I lost that much so quickly, but I won't complain. I'm not as swollen as I had been, so a lot of it was probably water. I'm not necessarily thinner than I was before getting pregnant, but I am back into my normal clothes, which feels fantastic but is a little frustrating at times because everything is shifted around from where it was before.
My belly has quite a bit of pooch with extra skin hanging around. It's gotten better than it was right after the birth, when it felt like a big soft sponge, but I'd like to at least have some chance of wearing a cute swimsuit this summer. The other big change is that my boobs are huge. Andy certainly has nothing but smiles when the subject comes up, but dear Lord, did I really need to gain three cup sizes? It seems to have been taken from my ass to fuel breastfeeding, which honestly, I'm kind of sad about. It was the one body part that stayed normal through the pregnancy, and I was generally pretty happy with the way it looked before. It helped balance out my figure and now I just look (quite literally) slightly deflated. I'm hoping things continue to reconfigure over the next few weeks, because this isn't exactly the body I imagined having as a new mom. Better in some ways, but disappointing in others.
You know what's not disappointing? Having my hair stop growing so much! Unfortunately it didn't happen overnight. In fact, those lovely postpartum hormones gave a sudden boost to my hair and nails. Nature isn't exactly selective about which hair gets the MiracleGro treatment, so any hairs that were already present starting growing like weeds, including my facial hair. After coming home from the hospital and having barely enough energy to shower, personal grooming was pretty low on my to-do list. Until I noticed that my hairs were longer than Andy's stubble. Yes, I had finally grown more hair than my husband and had gone past the title of Bearded Lady. I had starting looking like a college sophomore who tries to grow a goatee so his fake ID is more believable. The only reason I wasn't a completely lost cause is that I had waxed my upper lip recently enough that there weren't too many hairs trying to do a Chia Pet imitation. Otherwise Andy probably would have looked at me funny when I tried to kiss him. Needless to say, I promptly waxed and plucked my way back to delicate femininity, or as close as I could come to it in this hormone-addled state, and things have been much slower growing back in.
So even with all those hormones going crazy (and who knows what PCOS will do to keep things...unpredictable), I'm doing quite well physically for being halfway through the 6 weeks that it's supposed to take to feel back to "normal".
Emotional recovery is a whole other story though.
Baby blues have given way to something more. It's not something I'm ready to get into in much detail at the moment, but I am getting treatment. Some days are harder than others, but it's starting to get easier and I'm able to enjoy more of my time with Brianna, which wasn't happening much at first.
Friday, April 22, 2011
How to Have a Baby
As promised, here's the (overly elaborate) story of how Brianna arrived. I have a lot to say, so grab a snack and dig in!
Really, it began that Sunday when I started having some mild contractions early in the afternoon. They didn't really slow down or go away, so I started keeping myself busy. I made a batch of palacsintas (a Hungarian version of a crepe), which unfortunately weren't refrigerated while we were in the hospital, so I didn't get the joy of a nutella-filled palacsinta when I got home - phooey. I went for a walk and the contractions got stronger. I sat outside while my mom planted flowers for me and they kept going. Through dinner and a shower, more and more contractions, incredibly regular. For most women, that would be a pretty sure sign that labor has begun, since contractions are supposed to go away when you move or change position if it's false labor. But apparently I'm that weirdo who doesn't like to follow medical rules. I tried laying down and getting a nap in, and once again they went away.
For some reason, it was even more devastating than the last round. They hadn't been difficult to get through, but they weren't exactly a walk in the park. I had gotten myself emotionally ready to go through with everything, and then it all went away. I was starting to wonder how many more times I would go through getting my hopes up, working to stay comfortable, and then being stuck again. We needed to reschedule our next check-in anyway since my mom needed to be at Dulles about the same time as the next day's appointment and there was no way it was going to work out with rush hour traffic on the Beltway, so we made our way to what would have been my Week 40 check-in.
We get in and it turned out that I had dilated another centimeter, but it didn't feel like enough given what I had been through. A lot of people think a slow labor is easy, and while physically it wasn't too bad, I was emotionally drained. The midwife brought up the possibility of scheduling an induction, and I told her I would be fine with it even though I had been asking to have a natural birth. My mom joked before she left to discuss it with a doctor at the hospital that today would be great, and lo and behold, our wish was granted. Luckily, I had just enough presence of mind to suggest grabbing the hospital bags on our way out, so we were ready to go.
The doctor's office happens to be right next to the hospital, so within minutes we were in the labor and delivery admitting office and then getting checked out again by the midwife on call to decide if she was okay with admitting me. I had already known that I would need an IV for antibiotics, so really the question was whether I was okay with the effects of the Pitocin and needing to be continuously monitored. At the time, I thought I could handle it, so we decided to go for it.
At 5pm, IV #1 gets started and I don't know if it was the nurse or just how swollen I had gotten by the end of the pregnancy, but it hurt. A lot. And nothing is less reassuring than seeing your ass-kicking ICU nurse mother cringe at the job done on an IV. Motherly concern or professional surprise? Either way, I was pretty sure that at some point the pain of the needle jabbing my hand would distract me for better or for worse. More on that later.
The Pit gets started along with my antibiotics, and the nurse was kind enough to start me off at the lowest dose possible and kick it up periodically until my contractions seemed to be doing well on their own. For a couple hours, the contractions were easier than what I had been going through at home. And though we tried to hold it in, my mom and I got a good laugh hearing a woman across the hall yelling "Owie!" during some intense labor. There's just something comical about hearing something a toddler would use. She definitely was making it a lot harder on herself than it needed to be, with a lot of high pitched screams that cascaded throughout the unit. We joked about going in and offering some help, because she definitely sounded like she needed it.
Around 7pm, the shift changes and I meet Morgan, the nurse who will be helping us all night. She and my mom talked shop a bit, including how far she drives to get up to Alexandria since my mom was looking at moving closer, and she mentions that Books on CD make the drive easier. "I have one right now that's so good I drove the long way home and then kept circling the block trying to keep listening. It's really long though, and part of a series--" and I blurt out "Outlander?!" and we all collapse into a fit of raving and giggles because really, how can you not love the Scottish hotness that is Jamie Fraser? That was the first sign that I was going to love having her on my labor team. She also made a point of checking in with me before starting any nursing care to see exactly how I wanted things to go, which was really reassuring. She pretty much continued to be awesome the whole night.
Not too long after that, the Pit was strong enough to get some more serious contractions going, and though nothing was terribly painful yet, they had to keep backing down the dosage because apparently my body responds quite well to it with contractions back to back. Then my mom bumped the IV while helping me pee and you would have thought I had suddenly jumped to being ready to push with the chewing out I gave her. So when we get back out of the bathroom she asked Morgan to redo it (figuring she'd be a little more competent than her predecessor) before my next round of antibiotics was due. Unfortunately that happened to be the same time as the all holy run to Chipotle for all the nurses, and since I was her only patient and everyone else had 2, she was the one leaving (did I mention I couldn't eat solid food at this point, and my mom decides to add in an order for her own burrito? cruelty, I tell you!). In the meantime, someone else tries to get IV #2 started only to discover that my body was really not wanting to cooperate, so yet another nurse comes in to try it out. They get the needle placed, and all seems well with the world. Until Morgan gets back and tries to start the meds running again...and nothing happens. Because this needle didn't work either. Lovely. IV #3 finally gets going, but at this point I've been off Pit for an hour and the contractions have stopped almost completely. I'm feeling like a human voodoo doll, and poor Andy is nauseous because he hates needles but stays by my side so I can focus on him and stay calm through each stab with the needle. The midwife for the evening shift comes in at 10 to check me out and break my water, and I've only opened up another centimeter after 4 hours of Pit. Luckily, breaking the water seems to be the magic ticket, because things really start to take off.
For the next couple hours, things are intense. Really intense. I'm past the point where most of the labor aids we brought with us (a fountain, a birthing ball, and so on) are going to be helpful, but Andy keeps talking me through my breathing, staying right by my side. Eventually I figure out I'm getting through each surge by focusing on his face, eyes locked breathing right beside me so I can hold on to his strength. We kept going like that for a long time, his face inches away from mine, showing me all the love in the world, with the sound of waves in the background on a sound machine. There were a couple times that I was doubting myself, unsure if I could make it without something for the pain. But Andy told me "I know you're strong enough to do this, but if you want to get some medication, it's okay." And something about having the encouragement to go on and the permission to get relief if I wanted to gave me the strength to choose not to use the narcotics and keep going.
Then suddenly things pick up even more. I'm struggling to find a position that doesn't hurt, and now it's my mom talking me through each contraction, showing me the way through. But as I'm struggling and moving around, the monitor that I'm hooked up to keeps shifting, so the nurses can't keep tabs on my contractions or Brianna's heart rate. And this nurse (who should be renamed Wicked Bitch of the Hospital instead of Agatha) keeps coming in to adjust the straps and the sensors, and won't even let me get through some of the tougher contractions before diving in. With this kind of pain, I can only tolerate certain types of touch from people I know and love dearly, so a stranger coming in and getting in my space isn't exactly welcome. My mom had to actually swat her hands away a couple times when she simply wouldn't leave me alone. The only good thing to come out of what she did was that the Pitocin was turned down several times because of how closely the contractions were showing up on the monitor.
There are only so many times you can turn down a dosage before you hit the minimum the pump is capable of producing. I had reached that point, as low as the IV would allow but with contractions going full strength and right on top of one another, so there was a chance the IV would be capped off and I would be sailing on my own. I was desperate to get in the shower and try using the water and heat to soothe me, but when you're on Pit, the baby must be monitored because the heart rate can suddenly change for the worse, which is when C-sections tend to be needed. But just in case it might be doable, my mom asks if I can get into the shower since the Pitocin is getting turned off. Thankfully, the midwife was okay with it just one time until I needed to get round three of antibiotics, and then I would have to stay in bed. For 30 minutes, I would be free of the IV and those incredibly confining straps. I was so sick of the pressure they were putting on my belly that I was nearly in tears, begging to have them taken off but too afraid to rip them off myself.
After a fun round of "hide the IV in a glove smaller than my wrist" so everything stays sterile while I'm wet, I crawl into the shower. It was soothing to a certain extent, but the contractions were so intense at that point that it was all I could do to remain upright. They hadn't really slowed down much by that point, so I was still just shifting from one position to another by the time the next one started. The time seemed to pass quickly, and by the time I was sicking of being uncomfortable, it was time to get out.
The thing we had forgotten about from my false labor escapades is just much a shower can move things along for me. I keep struggling through each contraction, struggling to keep from absolutely losing it and dissolving into a puddle on the floor. My mom is talking me through each one, pushing me to keep ahead of the pain that's coming and regroup with the fleeting lulls between each contraction. Each time it feels like I'm near drowning, about to lose control, unable to swim to safety and nothing to grab to pull myself away from the overpowering strong current. At this stage everything is kind of hazy, but I remember counting random sequences of numbers between 4 and 9, distracting myself by making new patterns every time. Because that's how a math geek handles contractions, obviously.
I'm going along like that for what felt like ages but was probably less than a half hour when suddenly I have to go to the bathroom so badly it distracts me from the awful contractions. But nothing happens. And suddenly we realize that I don't need to go -- I'm wanting to push. I'm fighting the urge because surely I'm not there yet, panting to give myself something else to do, but it's all so instinctual that there's no way in hell that panting will last me more than a couple minutes. So I decide to test the waters and give a little push. Holy instincts, Batman! It hurts but it feels right, and seriously, it hurts a lot but if I don't push soon I might just go crazy.
My mom is yelling over her shoulder, "Uh, she's trying to push, Morgan! Call the midwife!" and suddenly everyone is moving a lot faster. The midwife comes in to check everything out and I'm not quite there, just a tiny lip of the cervix still sitting around Brianna's head. So she and Morgan get everything set up on the sterile table and I'm back up on the bed, bearing down every so slightly with each contraction because that's the only way I can handle the intensity of the urges.
Finally, just before 3am, everything is ready. Andy and my mom are at each leg, ready to support me when I'm not pushing, and I'm being told to start. I get into it with every ounce of strength in my body, getting as many as I can with each contraction and feeling things starting to stretch and burn. My mom is counting through each push for me, telling me that Brianna is crowning already, and then Andy is counting for me, back in his role of being my rock to hold on to. All of a sudden the stretching burn gives way to the greatest pain I have ever experienced in my life. It was like having every sunburn of my life condensed into one moment and wrapped around my hoo-ha. I'm trying to push despite the pain, but each one is more and more painful, and I let out an ear-splitting primal scream, because there is nothing else my body can do to convey the agony I was feeling. But before I can get carried away with another scream, the midwife gets my attention and tells me I need to push, and suddenly I am back on track.
Just a few more pushes and even more intense pain, and suddenly I am holding the most beautiful baby girl in my arms, tears streaming down my face as Andy and I see our daughter for the first time. She is absolutely perfect, like her daddy in so many ways, and we are instantly in love. From that moment on, everything but Brianna is a little bit hazy for me, but I do remember my mom cutting her cord, the wide eyed look she gave us as she nursed for the first time in my arms, and the tears in Andy's eyes when he held her. My mom gave us some alone time to get to know Brianna while she called everyone to share the news, and I can't imagine a happier way to spend the first couple hours of her life.
Everything was quiet in the room after the midwife and Morgan got me fixed up (a first-degree tear - no surprise with that short of a delivery) and settled, though when she went to get me back on Pitocin to help my uterus contract, the IV had blown AGAIN. So six needle pokes and three failed IVs left me with a shot in the ass instead, which was infinitely better than more IV. All in all, I don't know that I could handle another birth with continuous monitoring, but with the incredible support of my mom and Andy, I got through it and managed to do it without cursing, telling Andy I hated him, or threatening to kill someone.
Really, it began that Sunday when I started having some mild contractions early in the afternoon. They didn't really slow down or go away, so I started keeping myself busy. I made a batch of palacsintas (a Hungarian version of a crepe), which unfortunately weren't refrigerated while we were in the hospital, so I didn't get the joy of a nutella-filled palacsinta when I got home - phooey. I went for a walk and the contractions got stronger. I sat outside while my mom planted flowers for me and they kept going. Through dinner and a shower, more and more contractions, incredibly regular. For most women, that would be a pretty sure sign that labor has begun, since contractions are supposed to go away when you move or change position if it's false labor. But apparently I'm that weirdo who doesn't like to follow medical rules. I tried laying down and getting a nap in, and once again they went away.
For some reason, it was even more devastating than the last round. They hadn't been difficult to get through, but they weren't exactly a walk in the park. I had gotten myself emotionally ready to go through with everything, and then it all went away. I was starting to wonder how many more times I would go through getting my hopes up, working to stay comfortable, and then being stuck again. We needed to reschedule our next check-in anyway since my mom needed to be at Dulles about the same time as the next day's appointment and there was no way it was going to work out with rush hour traffic on the Beltway, so we made our way to what would have been my Week 40 check-in.
We get in and it turned out that I had dilated another centimeter, but it didn't feel like enough given what I had been through. A lot of people think a slow labor is easy, and while physically it wasn't too bad, I was emotionally drained. The midwife brought up the possibility of scheduling an induction, and I told her I would be fine with it even though I had been asking to have a natural birth. My mom joked before she left to discuss it with a doctor at the hospital that today would be great, and lo and behold, our wish was granted. Luckily, I had just enough presence of mind to suggest grabbing the hospital bags on our way out, so we were ready to go.
The doctor's office happens to be right next to the hospital, so within minutes we were in the labor and delivery admitting office and then getting checked out again by the midwife on call to decide if she was okay with admitting me. I had already known that I would need an IV for antibiotics, so really the question was whether I was okay with the effects of the Pitocin and needing to be continuously monitored. At the time, I thought I could handle it, so we decided to go for it.
At 5pm, IV #1 gets started and I don't know if it was the nurse or just how swollen I had gotten by the end of the pregnancy, but it hurt. A lot. And nothing is less reassuring than seeing your ass-kicking ICU nurse mother cringe at the job done on an IV. Motherly concern or professional surprise? Either way, I was pretty sure that at some point the pain of the needle jabbing my hand would distract me for better or for worse. More on that later.
The Pit gets started along with my antibiotics, and the nurse was kind enough to start me off at the lowest dose possible and kick it up periodically until my contractions seemed to be doing well on their own. For a couple hours, the contractions were easier than what I had been going through at home. And though we tried to hold it in, my mom and I got a good laugh hearing a woman across the hall yelling "Owie!" during some intense labor. There's just something comical about hearing something a toddler would use. She definitely was making it a lot harder on herself than it needed to be, with a lot of high pitched screams that cascaded throughout the unit. We joked about going in and offering some help, because she definitely sounded like she needed it.
Around 7pm, the shift changes and I meet Morgan, the nurse who will be helping us all night. She and my mom talked shop a bit, including how far she drives to get up to Alexandria since my mom was looking at moving closer, and she mentions that Books on CD make the drive easier. "I have one right now that's so good I drove the long way home and then kept circling the block trying to keep listening. It's really long though, and part of a series--" and I blurt out "Outlander?!" and we all collapse into a fit of raving and giggles because really, how can you not love the Scottish hotness that is Jamie Fraser? That was the first sign that I was going to love having her on my labor team. She also made a point of checking in with me before starting any nursing care to see exactly how I wanted things to go, which was really reassuring. She pretty much continued to be awesome the whole night.
Not too long after that, the Pit was strong enough to get some more serious contractions going, and though nothing was terribly painful yet, they had to keep backing down the dosage because apparently my body responds quite well to it with contractions back to back. Then my mom bumped the IV while helping me pee and you would have thought I had suddenly jumped to being ready to push with the chewing out I gave her. So when we get back out of the bathroom she asked Morgan to redo it (figuring she'd be a little more competent than her predecessor) before my next round of antibiotics was due. Unfortunately that happened to be the same time as the all holy run to Chipotle for all the nurses, and since I was her only patient and everyone else had 2, she was the one leaving (did I mention I couldn't eat solid food at this point, and my mom decides to add in an order for her own burrito? cruelty, I tell you!). In the meantime, someone else tries to get IV #2 started only to discover that my body was really not wanting to cooperate, so yet another nurse comes in to try it out. They get the needle placed, and all seems well with the world. Until Morgan gets back and tries to start the meds running again...and nothing happens. Because this needle didn't work either. Lovely. IV #3 finally gets going, but at this point I've been off Pit for an hour and the contractions have stopped almost completely. I'm feeling like a human voodoo doll, and poor Andy is nauseous because he hates needles but stays by my side so I can focus on him and stay calm through each stab with the needle. The midwife for the evening shift comes in at 10 to check me out and break my water, and I've only opened up another centimeter after 4 hours of Pit. Luckily, breaking the water seems to be the magic ticket, because things really start to take off.
For the next couple hours, things are intense. Really intense. I'm past the point where most of the labor aids we brought with us (a fountain, a birthing ball, and so on) are going to be helpful, but Andy keeps talking me through my breathing, staying right by my side. Eventually I figure out I'm getting through each surge by focusing on his face, eyes locked breathing right beside me so I can hold on to his strength. We kept going like that for a long time, his face inches away from mine, showing me all the love in the world, with the sound of waves in the background on a sound machine. There were a couple times that I was doubting myself, unsure if I could make it without something for the pain. But Andy told me "I know you're strong enough to do this, but if you want to get some medication, it's okay." And something about having the encouragement to go on and the permission to get relief if I wanted to gave me the strength to choose not to use the narcotics and keep going.
Then suddenly things pick up even more. I'm struggling to find a position that doesn't hurt, and now it's my mom talking me through each contraction, showing me the way through. But as I'm struggling and moving around, the monitor that I'm hooked up to keeps shifting, so the nurses can't keep tabs on my contractions or Brianna's heart rate. And this nurse (who should be renamed Wicked Bitch of the Hospital instead of Agatha) keeps coming in to adjust the straps and the sensors, and won't even let me get through some of the tougher contractions before diving in. With this kind of pain, I can only tolerate certain types of touch from people I know and love dearly, so a stranger coming in and getting in my space isn't exactly welcome. My mom had to actually swat her hands away a couple times when she simply wouldn't leave me alone. The only good thing to come out of what she did was that the Pitocin was turned down several times because of how closely the contractions were showing up on the monitor.
There are only so many times you can turn down a dosage before you hit the minimum the pump is capable of producing. I had reached that point, as low as the IV would allow but with contractions going full strength and right on top of one another, so there was a chance the IV would be capped off and I would be sailing on my own. I was desperate to get in the shower and try using the water and heat to soothe me, but when you're on Pit, the baby must be monitored because the heart rate can suddenly change for the worse, which is when C-sections tend to be needed. But just in case it might be doable, my mom asks if I can get into the shower since the Pitocin is getting turned off. Thankfully, the midwife was okay with it just one time until I needed to get round three of antibiotics, and then I would have to stay in bed. For 30 minutes, I would be free of the IV and those incredibly confining straps. I was so sick of the pressure they were putting on my belly that I was nearly in tears, begging to have them taken off but too afraid to rip them off myself.
After a fun round of "hide the IV in a glove smaller than my wrist" so everything stays sterile while I'm wet, I crawl into the shower. It was soothing to a certain extent, but the contractions were so intense at that point that it was all I could do to remain upright. They hadn't really slowed down much by that point, so I was still just shifting from one position to another by the time the next one started. The time seemed to pass quickly, and by the time I was sicking of being uncomfortable, it was time to get out.
The thing we had forgotten about from my false labor escapades is just much a shower can move things along for me. I keep struggling through each contraction, struggling to keep from absolutely losing it and dissolving into a puddle on the floor. My mom is talking me through each one, pushing me to keep ahead of the pain that's coming and regroup with the fleeting lulls between each contraction. Each time it feels like I'm near drowning, about to lose control, unable to swim to safety and nothing to grab to pull myself away from the overpowering strong current. At this stage everything is kind of hazy, but I remember counting random sequences of numbers between 4 and 9, distracting myself by making new patterns every time. Because that's how a math geek handles contractions, obviously.
I'm going along like that for what felt like ages but was probably less than a half hour when suddenly I have to go to the bathroom so badly it distracts me from the awful contractions. But nothing happens. And suddenly we realize that I don't need to go -- I'm wanting to push. I'm fighting the urge because surely I'm not there yet, panting to give myself something else to do, but it's all so instinctual that there's no way in hell that panting will last me more than a couple minutes. So I decide to test the waters and give a little push. Holy instincts, Batman! It hurts but it feels right, and seriously, it hurts a lot but if I don't push soon I might just go crazy.
My mom is yelling over her shoulder, "Uh, she's trying to push, Morgan! Call the midwife!" and suddenly everyone is moving a lot faster. The midwife comes in to check everything out and I'm not quite there, just a tiny lip of the cervix still sitting around Brianna's head. So she and Morgan get everything set up on the sterile table and I'm back up on the bed, bearing down every so slightly with each contraction because that's the only way I can handle the intensity of the urges.
Finally, just before 3am, everything is ready. Andy and my mom are at each leg, ready to support me when I'm not pushing, and I'm being told to start. I get into it with every ounce of strength in my body, getting as many as I can with each contraction and feeling things starting to stretch and burn. My mom is counting through each push for me, telling me that Brianna is crowning already, and then Andy is counting for me, back in his role of being my rock to hold on to. All of a sudden the stretching burn gives way to the greatest pain I have ever experienced in my life. It was like having every sunburn of my life condensed into one moment and wrapped around my hoo-ha. I'm trying to push despite the pain, but each one is more and more painful, and I let out an ear-splitting primal scream, because there is nothing else my body can do to convey the agony I was feeling. But before I can get carried away with another scream, the midwife gets my attention and tells me I need to push, and suddenly I am back on track.
Just a few more pushes and even more intense pain, and suddenly I am holding the most beautiful baby girl in my arms, tears streaming down my face as Andy and I see our daughter for the first time. She is absolutely perfect, like her daddy in so many ways, and we are instantly in love. From that moment on, everything but Brianna is a little bit hazy for me, but I do remember my mom cutting her cord, the wide eyed look she gave us as she nursed for the first time in my arms, and the tears in Andy's eyes when he held her. My mom gave us some alone time to get to know Brianna while she called everyone to share the news, and I can't imagine a happier way to spend the first couple hours of her life.
Everything was quiet in the room after the midwife and Morgan got me fixed up (a first-degree tear - no surprise with that short of a delivery) and settled, though when she went to get me back on Pitocin to help my uterus contract, the IV had blown AGAIN. So six needle pokes and three failed IVs left me with a shot in the ass instead, which was infinitely better than more IV. All in all, I don't know that I could handle another birth with continuous monitoring, but with the incredible support of my mom and Andy, I got through it and managed to do it without cursing, telling Andy I hated him, or threatening to kill someone.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Introducing Brianna Noelle
I made it!! Brianna Noelle was born Tuesday night without pain meds at 3:16am, weighing 8 pounds and 14 ounces and measuring 20 inches long (I got part of it right). I'll do another post with the whole story, but funny thing about pushing out babies, you're completely and utterly exhausted by the end of it and everything hurts for a few days. So enjoy the pictures and poke me if I don't get around to another post in a couple days.
Asleep at home
Swaddled up in the hospital
Cuddling with my beautiful girl
Exhausted but happy
Ready to go home
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Week 38 - Return of the TMI Happy Hour
Hi there! I bet you're just thrilled to be reading yet another post where I spew forth verbal diarrhea . I wanted to give everyone adequate notice for the squeamish and shy that today will be a lot of TMI, so don't say I didn't warn you. Let's get started, shall we?
So the biggest thing on my mind lately has been a certain tendency towards being Frisky, which makes me sound like a sex-crazed maniac. This is only partly true. There seem to be two things going on right now, not exactly mutually exclusive but they don't seem to work well together either. On the one hand, my body seems to be going "Get it now before you have to wait at least 6 weeks and make it work while sleep-deprived with leaky boobs!". That part is fine, I know how to handle that (obviously, or I wouldn't be in this...predicament). But on the other hand, I feel a certain amount of pressure to be Frisky to bring on labor. There's a certain amount of ironic symmetry in pushing to do this on a regular schedule after the routines we went through to get pregnant in the first place.
One of the things that couples complain about if they have trouble conceiving is that sex starts to feel like a chore instead of a fun and intimate expression of love. We never quite got there, but there were a couple times that a small glass of wine was needed to get things started, and right now I don't have that luxury available. I'm terrified that I'll start not looking forward to it, and then I'll be regretting not taking advantage of the opportunity when I was able to.
Ahem.
Enough about that. You know what else you probably never wanted to know about? The fascinating prospect of going to the bathroom! Most women have a fear of a tiny bit of, shall we say, involuntary bodily function during delivery. But your body does it's best to clear everything out of your system before you get anywhere near the pushing stage, generally the day before you go into labor. I have never been so excited by the idea of number two before, for the sole fact that it could mean the big day is imminent. Exciting stuff, I know. Also exciting is the slow break down of the mucus plug (which somehow hadn't come out yet despite dilating to 4cm), because it's so fun to have what looks like a shower snot rocket when you wipe. But it's a good thing, if more than a little strange feeling.
We met with the midwife yesterday and got some recommendations on DIY induction. Sex and acupressure topped the list (check, and trying it out). She also tried using some of the tricks of her trade, only to discover that I'm already so close to going into labor that she couldn't actually do any of them because my body was already there. In addition to being 4cm and 60% effaced, I'm also carrying fully engaged ("her head is basically at the gates of the luge") with bulging waters and my membranes have separated on their own. One good sneeze could be all it takes, though several rough coughs associated with the bronchitis I have had hasn't been enough to do it, so I guess I can take that option out of the running. Then again, how am I supposed to know the difference between peeing my pants and having my water break? I'm guessing they all feel the same when you have a sneezing fit, based on my previous experiences with the "spritz of joy".
But enough about me and everything else you never wanted to read about. The midwife estimated Brianna to be about 8 and a half pounds, pretty much on par with last week's ultrasound, so I'm guessing she's actually in the 8 and three-quarters range. We'll see though. Either way, she puts a lot of pressure on my pelvic bone, so I will be sooooooo happy to go into labor. I've been getting about 10 hours of sleep throughout the day because I'm so tired after carrying her around for the other 14, and that's still not enough time to ease the achiness. I'm just hoping for Brianna's sake that even if I go into labor by tomorrow morning that things take just long enough that she's not born on April Fool's Day, because that's just a sucky day to have a birthday. So right now we're shooting for April 2nd just after midnight. If you see a post about going into labor, it's probably not a joke, unless I'm feeling particularly punchy. Can't discount that possibility either.
So the biggest thing on my mind lately has been a certain tendency towards being Frisky, which makes me sound like a sex-crazed maniac. This is only partly true. There seem to be two things going on right now, not exactly mutually exclusive but they don't seem to work well together either. On the one hand, my body seems to be going "Get it now before you have to wait at least 6 weeks and make it work while sleep-deprived with leaky boobs!". That part is fine, I know how to handle that (obviously, or I wouldn't be in this...predicament). But on the other hand, I feel a certain amount of pressure to be Frisky to bring on labor. There's a certain amount of ironic symmetry in pushing to do this on a regular schedule after the routines we went through to get pregnant in the first place.
One of the things that couples complain about if they have trouble conceiving is that sex starts to feel like a chore instead of a fun and intimate expression of love. We never quite got there, but there were a couple times that a small glass of wine was needed to get things started, and right now I don't have that luxury available. I'm terrified that I'll start not looking forward to it, and then I'll be regretting not taking advantage of the opportunity when I was able to.
Ahem.
Enough about that. You know what else you probably never wanted to know about? The fascinating prospect of going to the bathroom! Most women have a fear of a tiny bit of, shall we say, involuntary bodily function during delivery. But your body does it's best to clear everything out of your system before you get anywhere near the pushing stage, generally the day before you go into labor. I have never been so excited by the idea of number two before, for the sole fact that it could mean the big day is imminent. Exciting stuff, I know. Also exciting is the slow break down of the mucus plug (which somehow hadn't come out yet despite dilating to 4cm), because it's so fun to have what looks like a shower snot rocket when you wipe. But it's a good thing, if more than a little strange feeling.
We met with the midwife yesterday and got some recommendations on DIY induction. Sex and acupressure topped the list (check, and trying it out). She also tried using some of the tricks of her trade, only to discover that I'm already so close to going into labor that she couldn't actually do any of them because my body was already there. In addition to being 4cm and 60% effaced, I'm also carrying fully engaged ("her head is basically at the gates of the luge") with bulging waters and my membranes have separated on their own. One good sneeze could be all it takes, though several rough coughs associated with the bronchitis I have had hasn't been enough to do it, so I guess I can take that option out of the running. Then again, how am I supposed to know the difference between peeing my pants and having my water break? I'm guessing they all feel the same when you have a sneezing fit, based on my previous experiences with the "spritz of joy".
But enough about me and everything else you never wanted to read about. The midwife estimated Brianna to be about 8 and a half pounds, pretty much on par with last week's ultrasound, so I'm guessing she's actually in the 8 and three-quarters range. We'll see though. Either way, she puts a lot of pressure on my pelvic bone, so I will be sooooooo happy to go into labor. I've been getting about 10 hours of sleep throughout the day because I'm so tired after carrying her around for the other 14, and that's still not enough time to ease the achiness. I'm just hoping for Brianna's sake that even if I go into labor by tomorrow morning that things take just long enough that she's not born on April Fool's Day, because that's just a sucky day to have a birthday. So right now we're shooting for April 2nd just after midnight. If you see a post about going into labor, it's probably not a joke, unless I'm feeling particularly punchy. Can't discount that possibility either.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Week 37 - Under Pressure
I've been really thrown off by the whole false labor situation, so this post is a bit late. I'm second-guessing myself about a lot of different things, and it's starting to wear on me a bit. Small twinges that made me wonder seem like something I need to ignore now, and I worry that I won't recognize when the real thing starts or I'll think something else is labor when it's not. The pain of my pelvis opening up (and trying to turn over in bed when I'm that sore) make me wonder whether I'll be able to handle labor without meds. It seems like this will go on forever, but then when I consider what I still need to do at work or at home it feels like I can't possibly get to everything in time.
Luckily, my mom was AMAZING with helping us get ready this week while she was here, so that oh-shit list is a lot shorter than it was before. The nursery is completely set up and just needs the wall decals put up. Our kitchen is half baby-proofed (we'll add door latches later). She was even generous enough to hire cleaners for us, and as sad as it is to admit it, our house hasn't been this clean since we bought the place. We still have to finish taxes and replace the shelves in our bedroom closet, but everything else is as ready as it can be. We would even have a little party to show off our clean house and adorable nursery except half our friends are going out to another party which we can't make it to because (a) too many stairs at their place and (b) I don't like to be more than a half hour from our hospital. I'm weird like that. But anyone who wants to crash our place is welcome to enjoy the cheese and alcohol-free wine we will probably be enjoying with a Burn Notice marathon this Saturday. There might even be yogurt to accompany the Michael Westin eye candy.
Our last appointment was disappointing in a lot of ways. First off was the news that I was shut down like Fort Knox and shouldn't expect labor to start anytime soon. Then there was the news that my Group B Strep test came back positive, so I will have to have an IV of antibiotics when I arrive at the hospital. We were so thrown off by the news that I was no longer dilated or effaced that I didn't even think to ask about the test results, so hopefully we'll get more answers when we go in later today. (Yes, technically I'm 38 weeks already. You try doing regular blog updates when you have to pee every half hour and tell me how it goes while you search for more toilet paper.) On top of that, the OB ordered additional stuff to look at when we did the ultrasound, which made me paranoid that I would be induced early.
Luckily that probably won't happen. She still looks big, but they couldn't get her head measurement because she's so nicely engaged, which is a good sign for me. Her legs are going to be incredibly long though, unlike my stumpy limbs. That part comes from her daddy for sure. The placenta looks like it's still healthy and functioning as intended, so even if she gets bigger, an induction isn't recommended since it hasn't been shown to prevent C-sections. She's still thriving by all accounts and my pelvis should be wide enough to accommodate her, so according the perinatologist I might as well be allowed to start labor on my own. There are a couple of OBs who would be more open to them, so I'll do my best to avoid getting appointments with them over the next few weeks, but you never what will happen.
I've decided to make Friday my last day of working. I've been feeling so tired, and it just doesn't seem worth it anymore to go into labor exhausted so I can save a week or two with Brianna at the end of my maternity leave. Part-time work will let me extend my time home with her while keeping me sane, especially since I can work from home when I'm starting out instead of jumping straight into daycare. And this way I don't have to try to work when my mom comes back from her work week next Tuesday.
So how big was Brianna estimated at? Eight pounds, seven ounces. Thank God for this big bone structure of mine. I've never been so happy to wear a size 10 shoe, though I would be even happier if it didn't also come with extra width. Fred Flintstone's cross-dressing brother called, he wants his heels back. Anywho, enough of that tangent. Her lungs should be just about done maturing, though apparently another week to grow would be ideal. Her movements have slowed down quite a bit. Saturday, she scared the crap out of me by refusing to move until the afternoon when I ate two pieces of candy, drank a glass of cold water and a glass of cold juice, and put on some Queen. I'm pretty sure it's the Queen that did it, because just a couple bars into Under Pressure she started dancing around. Kind of a fitting song considering all the pressure she's putting on my pelvis. Now she just needs to stay put for a few more days until my mom comes back again, and then it will be perfect timing.
Luckily, my mom was AMAZING with helping us get ready this week while she was here, so that oh-shit list is a lot shorter than it was before. The nursery is completely set up and just needs the wall decals put up. Our kitchen is half baby-proofed (we'll add door latches later). She was even generous enough to hire cleaners for us, and as sad as it is to admit it, our house hasn't been this clean since we bought the place. We still have to finish taxes and replace the shelves in our bedroom closet, but everything else is as ready as it can be. We would even have a little party to show off our clean house and adorable nursery except half our friends are going out to another party which we can't make it to because (a) too many stairs at their place and (b) I don't like to be more than a half hour from our hospital. I'm weird like that. But anyone who wants to crash our place is welcome to enjoy the cheese and alcohol-free wine we will probably be enjoying with a Burn Notice marathon this Saturday. There might even be yogurt to accompany the Michael Westin eye candy.
Our last appointment was disappointing in a lot of ways. First off was the news that I was shut down like Fort Knox and shouldn't expect labor to start anytime soon. Then there was the news that my Group B Strep test came back positive, so I will have to have an IV of antibiotics when I arrive at the hospital. We were so thrown off by the news that I was no longer dilated or effaced that I didn't even think to ask about the test results, so hopefully we'll get more answers when we go in later today. (Yes, technically I'm 38 weeks already. You try doing regular blog updates when you have to pee every half hour and tell me how it goes while you search for more toilet paper.) On top of that, the OB ordered additional stuff to look at when we did the ultrasound, which made me paranoid that I would be induced early.
Luckily that probably won't happen. She still looks big, but they couldn't get her head measurement because she's so nicely engaged, which is a good sign for me. Her legs are going to be incredibly long though, unlike my stumpy limbs. That part comes from her daddy for sure. The placenta looks like it's still healthy and functioning as intended, so even if she gets bigger, an induction isn't recommended since it hasn't been shown to prevent C-sections. She's still thriving by all accounts and my pelvis should be wide enough to accommodate her, so according the perinatologist I might as well be allowed to start labor on my own. There are a couple of OBs who would be more open to them, so I'll do my best to avoid getting appointments with them over the next few weeks, but you never what will happen.
I've decided to make Friday my last day of working. I've been feeling so tired, and it just doesn't seem worth it anymore to go into labor exhausted so I can save a week or two with Brianna at the end of my maternity leave. Part-time work will let me extend my time home with her while keeping me sane, especially since I can work from home when I'm starting out instead of jumping straight into daycare. And this way I don't have to try to work when my mom comes back from her work week next Tuesday.
So how big was Brianna estimated at? Eight pounds, seven ounces. Thank God for this big bone structure of mine. I've never been so happy to wear a size 10 shoe, though I would be even happier if it didn't also come with extra width. Fred Flintstone's cross-dressing brother called, he wants his heels back. Anywho, enough of that tangent. Her lungs should be just about done maturing, though apparently another week to grow would be ideal. Her movements have slowed down quite a bit. Saturday, she scared the crap out of me by refusing to move until the afternoon when I ate two pieces of candy, drank a glass of cold water and a glass of cold juice, and put on some Queen. I'm pretty sure it's the Queen that did it, because just a couple bars into Under Pressure she started dancing around. Kind of a fitting song considering all the pressure she's putting on my pelvis. Now she just needs to stay put for a few more days until my mom comes back again, and then it will be perfect timing.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
....Or Not
That was what is known as false labor in medical terminology. I call it frustrating and confusing, but at least I have my mom here now. I just wish I didn't feel so down for misjudging it, and for being told that I was nowhere near labor at today's appointment.
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