The days my boys were born

NOTE: Some writings I had done in earlier years, and shared on a smaller scale, have been requested to be posted on my blog. So I am going to do a bit of older posting, the time scale will seem off of some, so I want to be clear this is from many years ago.

 As I sit here and listen to the joyful noises that are filling my home as my son celebrates his 14th birthday with friends spilling out from every room downstairs I can't help but think back about the celebration that was quietly had in 1992.

I had gone to the hospital after laboring at home for a full night and day and expected to hear that I was nearing the finish line when I checked in around 3 a.m. on Tuesday March 31.  I walked in the ER, fully ready to deliver my baby by lunch, maybe even by breakfast, that same day. I had the swagger of a woman who comes from a long line of big babies being born without a c-section.  I felt untouchable by the scalpel…my biggest concern was would I have an episiotomy or not. The ultrasound tech had, on my due date 8 days prior, estimated a baby of about 9 lbs in size. A shrimp by the standards of my family and I was convinced that once I got to 10, a good hard sneeze would eject Nick from my womb and into the world.

When I got to the maternity floor I was taken to my L&D room by a nurse who was clearly looking forward to the end of her shift.  She handed me the standard issue items; gown, bag for my clothing and box filled with sheets of loofahs masquerading as tissues.  My room had a large bathroom adjacent to it with a whirlpool and commode. I actually wondered if my labor would be long enough to allow me a quick soak in the whirlpool. I adore a good soak in a tub and nothing relaxes me quite the same way.

The nurse showed us how to use the phone, operate the head/foot of the bed and call for assistance. She then said “Go ahead and remove all your clothing and slip into this gown. I’ll do an exam and see where ‘we’re’ at.”  Oh how nice, she’s going to labor along with me. It’s ‘we’. 

I glance around the room and ask “Where do I change?”  She blows out every bit of air from the depths of her lungs, rolls her eyes a tad and says “I’ll step out and give you a moment.”  As the excruciatingly slow closing door makes an arc behind her, I hear her call out “We’ve got some serious privacy issues in here.” I imagine her jerking her thumb towards my room and again rolling her eyes as though she had been solidly caught in the head during a Vegas prize fight.

Carefully I removed my clothing, folded them and placed them in the bag.  Put on the gown, wondered what sort of design contest gag had resulted in these being in every hospital throughout the US, and put the bag on the table beside the bed.  I climbed up and waited for the nurse to return to be checked. I was downright giddy, knowing that I was so close to delivering my baby boy. 
The nurse returned and after checking me said I was at 4.  Nearly ½ way, I couldn’t contain my happiness!  She told me to walk as much as possible and to be back every 45 minutes to be checked for progress. I was convinced that I’d be at 10 in no time!  I was checked by approximately 4.8 million people during my labor, some of who were misdirected dental professionals and felt exams should include a molar check, too.  At the beginning I insisted upon a full drape and no superfluous personnel in the room during the exams.  By hour 16 or so, if the Los Gatos High School Marching Band and Flag Team had come to watch, I’d have made sure they all had good seats.  My ‘privacy issues’ had gone out the window and high-tailed it to parts unknown.

At 3 a.m. on Wednesday April 1 I was at 4.  In 24 hours I hadn’t progressed at all! Pitocin drip, prostaglandin gel, being walked like a post-Derby Thoroughbred and denied anything more substantial than ginger ale for 24 hours.  I walked into the hospital saying I wasn’t going to use any drugs and certainly not a c-section.  That was on March 31^st.  

April 1^st, I was begging for drugs like a junkie on a street corner.  But I had to hit the magical half way point. I had to get to 5 cm.  It was hellacious. It was torture.  It was seemingly never ending.  Nurses came on shift, went off shift and returned to work and I was still there—no different than when they’d left.  Well, crabbier and desperately in need of a shower and deodorant, but no different progress-wise. 

When my doctor came in as the sun was rising on April 1^st I begged him for something—ANYTHING—to ease the pain. They gave me an injection of Demerol and it was awful. Didn’t help, just made me feel odd and out of sorts.  When Dr. Montgomery returned at noon I begged him to just give me my car keys and I’d cut the baby out. I was becoming delirious with pain, with lack of sleep and with utter hunger.  He decided that yes, a c-section was called for and I’d have the baby around 2.  The anesthesiologist was paged and I greeted him with a brilliant, high-wattage smile most often seen on the runway in Atlantic City while Bert Parks sings.  It took him 4 attempts to get the epidural seated just the way he wanted.  I recall him asking me if I could feel him touching my feet and legs…but then I fell into a blissful sleep.

When I awoke it was after 5 p.m.  I wondered if I’d had the baby. No—he was there, kicking away and doing the swirl he’d perfected months earlier.  Apparently the entire pregnant population of California was in line before me for ‘emergency’ sections. I had to wait.

Finally at 7:30 I was wheeled into the surgical suite and at 7:50 p.m. on Wednesday April 1, 1992 Nicholas Alexander came into this world with a head full of strawberry blonde hair, 22 inches in length and 10 lbs. of sweet baby.
They told me he was indeed a boy and that they’d bring him back to me when he was cleaned up and I was stitched up.  There is a photo of me holding him when he was about 30 minutes old.  My hair is an utter mess, my face is greasy and my nose looks wide and flattened.  I am holding him and looking down on his sleeping face.

I truly have never felt as beautiful in my life and when I see that picture I am overcome with an incredible feeling of partnership with God. I am holding a miracle in my arms.

Fast forward 3 years, 3 months and 10 days.

I am checking into the hospital in Charlotte to have my scheduled induction 17 days before my due date, and have my 2^nd child.  I have done everything I can to ensure a VBAC delivery and I am so ready to find out if Nicholas is going to have a brother or a sister.

That morning I got up and showered, ate a HUGE breakfast and put on my favorite maternity outfit, a pale celadon flax and linen jumper with an ivory silk shell and of course (and later thankfully!) maternity panties.

We walk through a series of doors and after going through one marked 411, the nurse hands me the same series of standard issue items I was given in 1992; a bag for my clothes, a gown to change into and a box of those exfoliating tissues.  I have been there, done that with the entire maternity scene. I feel like I can handle it. I reach down and grab the edge of my jumper, pull it over my head and bring the silk shell with it. Standing there as pregnant as can be with nothing but panties, bra and sandals on the nurse smiles and says “Hon, you can do that in your room. This is the hallway.”

Oh what a difference 3 years can make, huh?