Just today, a friend/coworker of mine and I were talking about our daughters. And he and his wife are also "of a certain age." And he asked how Sami is doing with sleeping through the night, and I said, "Oh, she was doing that at 6 weeks." He said yes, his daughter did too. Then he said, "I think that is God's gift to old parents." ;-)
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Monday, January 24, 2005
Musings on the Days of Delivery
Some snippets of memories and thoughts that stand out and remain from the days around Sami's birth:
- Women about to give birth are unerringly hungry for any and all stories from other women about their births; but no two experiences are the same. I went in expecting excrutiating, indescribable pain, and came out thinking, "Shucks. That wasn't so bad." Truly. I did. Don't listen to the horror stories. I'm the woman you want to talk to right before you deliver.
- The afternoon of the day Sami was born, Michael took her to the nursery, and took me outside the hospital on a beautiful late summer afternoon, and helped me go for a short walk. We sat on a low wall, and the beauty of a bed of profusely blooming, multi-colored flowers somehow ended up being the symbol for me of our experience of having Sami. How did he know that was exactly the right thing to do at exactly the right time?
- That morning she was born, after we both attempted to sleep and Michael returned to the hospital, we arranged Sami near the light of the window and the gorgeous white roses his family had brought for our room, and we took photo after photo, and only then was I able to grasp how truly, exquisitely beautiful was this child we had wrought.
- We were smug because Sami had been born 21 minutes into Sunday, which allowed me to stay an extra day in the hospital, and that second night there was the most wonderful sleep I had experienced in months.
- The nurses at this hospital were the most compassionate people. Can you imagine if I was a nurse? God help us all. How do they do it? I remember feeling so spoiled by the simple offering of a soda cracker and pain medicine offered up by them in the middle of the night, because they did it with such sincere care and kindness.
- When we went to check out, we questioned why we had not been given the consent form to sign. The nurse was like, "Consent form??" We explained that it was blatantly obvious that they would forevermore want to use Sami as their hospital neonatal unit spokesbaby, and so we thought it only prudent that there be some sort of legal document allowing them to use her image in their future marketing campaigns. Why they passed up on this one, we'll never understand.
- Michael's 82 year old dad, hovering nearby as we prepared to leave the hospital with Sami, "You better be careful about taking her out in public." We inquire further..., and he says, "Other parents will want to stone their babies when they see Sami." This one didn't even really register with us until later, he delivered it so dryly.
- Michael filling me in on the gory details of the birth much after the fact, that I wasn't aware of. He says incredulously, "I saw things you can't even imagine." Accompanied by graphic descriptions of the voluminous bloodshed he witnessed. Oddly, I can't hear enough of these stories, as I think it makes me feel grandly brave and victorious.
- Weeks later, Michael telling me that Dr. Wester winked at him and told him he'd taken an extra stitch "for him." This was at the same time such a cliche, and so funny, and so outside the staid personality that this doctor displayed to me, that I thought Michael had made it up. But he insists it was true.
- In the first days of watching our angel sleep, Michael with his arm around me, saying, "She is truly a gift from God," with such heartfelt belief and sentiment that to this day, I feel myself get emotional when I think of it.
Friday, January 21, 2005
Sami in the Morning
She wakes up in her crib, and makes little "talking" sounds to herself for a while, before she really starts to get adamant about us coming to get her. And then she'll hear you coming, and by the time you peek into her crib, she has the biggest smile on her face, and when she finally sees you, it is like you gave someone a million bucks, she is so delighted to see you. She just grins and grins, and flaps her little arms like a bird, and just pumps her legs. It is indescribably cute. What if everyone did that when they saw me?
Monday, January 17, 2005
Trying To Describe the Love You Feel...
The love you feel for your child...trying to describe it... futile, but I'll try...
A woman I work with, that I really don't know very well, when she learned that I had had a daughter... this woman had to call me to discuss a work related issue, but when she got me on the phone, she gushed about me having had a child... "Isn't it like when you have met your most perfect boyfriend and you just can't wait to see him and relive every experience--every little detail with him--but it is like that every day?"And another woman's web journal that tried to describe it as a "big old flapping bird in your chest." It is both of those, but more... it is taking a fussing little girl with a weight, and a mass, and a heft to her that blows you away because she grows so much each day before your eyes, and then this fussy, stiffened child melts into a soft sleeping innocence within your arms as she falls asleep, and you see her face relax into something truly indescribable and beautiful beyond words that have yet been conjured on this earth and you want to hug her so hard that you pull her back inside of you (but you can't)... and you put her into her safe, sweet crib that was your momma's when she was a baby and you feel something that chokes you and frees you all at the same time. You catch your breath because you didn't know you could ever feel this for another living thing. And you love her father more than words can say, and watching this man that you love so very much love this daughter that the two of you have created with your love, and then those moments alone with her-whether she's sleeping or concentrating on a toy she just discovered but has been there for weeks or smiling or being excited to see you first thing in the morning...
And then you catch an episode of Dr. Phil (oh, stop it... I can't help myself) about nannies who abuse babies--with video of course--and you feel without thinking it, that if anyone ever did that to this child of yours, you could literally put your hands to them and tear them bloodily limb from body and feel only that it was deserved and necessary--oh, God, I can't even go there.
And so this baby that you worried and stressed over because when you're 42, so so many things can go wrong, and then you are bestowed with this most perfect depiction of a child that anyone has ever seen, and you realize that every single tiny bit of input that she will receive will come from you and the man that you love most in the world, and she is this peaceful, graceful, pure spirit that fills you up--I'm serious when I say you can physically feel it in your core--comes into your world...
A woman I work with, that I really don't know very well, when she learned that I had had a daughter... this woman had to call me to discuss a work related issue, but when she got me on the phone, she gushed about me having had a child... "Isn't it like when you have met your most perfect boyfriend and you just can't wait to see him and relive every experience--every little detail with him--but it is like that every day?"And another woman's web journal that tried to describe it as a "big old flapping bird in your chest." It is both of those, but more... it is taking a fussing little girl with a weight, and a mass, and a heft to her that blows you away because she grows so much each day before your eyes, and then this fussy, stiffened child melts into a soft sleeping innocence within your arms as she falls asleep, and you see her face relax into something truly indescribable and beautiful beyond words that have yet been conjured on this earth and you want to hug her so hard that you pull her back inside of you (but you can't)... and you put her into her safe, sweet crib that was your momma's when she was a baby and you feel something that chokes you and frees you all at the same time. You catch your breath because you didn't know you could ever feel this for another living thing. And you love her father more than words can say, and watching this man that you love so very much love this daughter that the two of you have created with your love, and then those moments alone with her-whether she's sleeping or concentrating on a toy she just discovered but has been there for weeks or smiling or being excited to see you first thing in the morning...
And then you catch an episode of Dr. Phil (oh, stop it... I can't help myself) about nannies who abuse babies--with video of course--and you feel without thinking it, that if anyone ever did that to this child of yours, you could literally put your hands to them and tear them bloodily limb from body and feel only that it was deserved and necessary--oh, God, I can't even go there.
And so this baby that you worried and stressed over because when you're 42, so so many things can go wrong, and then you are bestowed with this most perfect depiction of a child that anyone has ever seen, and you realize that every single tiny bit of input that she will receive will come from you and the man that you love most in the world, and she is this peaceful, graceful, pure spirit that fills you up--I'm serious when I say you can physically feel it in your core--comes into your world...
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Birth Day(s)
On Wednesday, August 25th, I had my regular weekly appointment with my doctor. He did his regular quick exam, determined I was not yet dilated, etc. and told me he'd see me in a week. He had waffled a bit on the due date, which had previously been set as August 28th, August 29th, September 1st and September 3rd. Depending on who you asked and how they were feeling that day, apparently. But he didn't think I was very close to delivery yet, was the bottom line.
I continued experiencing contractions quite regularly, as I had been for a couple of weeks. And I did ask him how I would know when they were finally the real thing. He assured me I would notice the difference. And he said one sure way to tell they were real was if I could no longer talk through them. Seemed pretty clear.
Doc did mention in passing that the coming weekend was the one during which he would not be available. And would have an alternate doctor covering for him. Since he's in private practice, he has an agreement with a couple of other OB/GYNs and they trade off so that each of them gets off one weekend per month.
Sense something coming here?
Friday the 27th I went to work as usual. In my head, I truly believed I would be back the following week, but at the end of the day I nonetheless kind of prepared my desk for departure, just in case. Left at 5 as usual, went to my regular Pilates class, and headed home. It was Michael's day off, so we just had some dinner in and watched a little tv, and to bed. He did mention that after he got off work the next day--Saturday--that he would like to come home and get me, and "take me dancing" at our favorite bar/restaurant right near our condo.
("Taking me dancing" was his charming euphemism for his last desperate attempts at having some modicum of a social life prior to parenthood, I believe. You can just imagine how much I enjoyed going to a smoky bar, observing the service of alcoholic beverages that I couldn't partake of, and then occasionally being dragged out to the dancefloor for a belly to belly dance that no doubt had us looking quite ridiculous. But because he had been the exemplary supportive and dear husband throughout my pregnancy, I acquiesced on this item time and again as D-day drew near.)
Anyway, Friday night as midnight approached, I awoke for one of my regular hourly trips to the bathroom. But this time, I noticed... something. Just the teeniest bit of bleeding. Hmmm. Weird. Went back to bed and woke Michael to tell him. You know, I was just the slightest bit concerned. He graciously assured me--with his previously untapped medical wisdom, apparently--that that was perfectly normal and that I should go back to sleep. His newfound pregnancy expertise seemed quite reasonable to me at the time, and so I went back to sleep.
Saturday dawned with me having a few contractions, as usual. But they were a bit more regular than previously. And the teeny bit of bleeding had now been accompanied by some fluid. Side note here: most women do not have the big, flooding, breaking-of-the-water ala tv, but instead experience a trickle since the baby's little head can sort of act as a cork. And we knew that once the water broke, you only have a window of a few hours within which to give birth, or there is a risk of infection. So if what I was experiencing was in fact my water having broken, I began to worry that we might not be properly recognizing it, and were putting the baby at risk.
Michael and I couldn't decide if this was for the reals or not. I didn't believe it was, since the contractions just didn't seem painful enough (I could certainly talk through them, around them and about them). But I still had the nagging worry about my water having broken. And the regularity of the contractions. We had to make a decision as to whether or not Michael would go to work at around 10:30am. Finally Michael called the doctor. Yes; the doctor upon whom we had never laid eyes, nor he me.
Michael described our past few hours and of course, doctors being doctors with all their inherent cautiousness, he said we should go to the hospital to find out if my water had broken.
We did. It hadn't.
They said we could either hang out for a while and see what was what--see if things progressed. Or we could go back home. The deciding factor was that if we stayed, I would not be allowed to eat. Having not eaten anything yet that day, the specter of an entire mealless day was too distressing to comtemplate for me. And we decided (with their urging) that to go have lunch would be a very reasonable thing to do.
The nurses cautioned me to be sure and have something for lunch that I wouldn't mind seeing again. If ya know what I mean.
Well, following the exam at the hospital, things seemed to get a little more "riled up." The intrusion of the instruments set off more contractions. But still I was convinced this wasn't really it. So we set off to a favorite deli restaurant to enjoy a nice lunch before we headed back home.
The restaurant was very busy with every table full. With complete disregard for the nurses' cautionary advice, I ordered my favorite egg salad on pumpernickel toast with fries. But as we waited for our food and reflected on the morning's happenings, the contractions got a bit more intense and regularly spaced every 5 minutes or so. They were such that, in the middle of one, I would kind of press the heel of my palm into my forehead and pause in our conversation. Then, as it passed, I would pick up chatting with Michael where we left off.
But our waitress read these signals differently. We figured out later that it must have appeared we were arguing or something, and that when I bowed my head into my hand, she perhaps interpreted that I was terribly upset, and maybe even crying. She finally came over, and sort of wedged herself between Michael and I--her back to Michael--and asked me conspiratorially, "Are you okay?" Seemed like she was gonna let Michael have it but good if I answered no.
We cheerfully explained that I was quite probably in labor.
She blanched a little and asked if she should do something. We assured her we had already been to the hospital, and had just stopped in for a little respite prior to our likely return to the hospital. She seemed less than convinced of the appropriateness of all this business.
It didn't help that right in the middle of explaining it all to her, I experienced a doozie.
By the time we finished lunch and departed, it seemed the entire restaurant staff had been brought up to speed by our concerned waitress, and we were practically escorted out by a crowd of wellwishers.
Back to Michael's condo, where we tried to relax. I still truly believed that this was false labor, with the contractions made more intense by the hospital exam, and nothing more. I felt like we just needed to get them calmed down, and that Sami's birthday was likely still about a week away. So Michael ran me a nice warm bath, and brought me a half a glass of wine. The combination almost immediately relieved the more intense portion of the pain of the contractions, and also slowed them from every 5 to 8 minutes, to more than 15 or 20 minutes apart. Things seemed to be winding down.
I was very relaxed following my bath, and decided that since I hadn't slept too well the previous night, that a nice little nap might be in order. I headed for the bed, and Michael relaxed in the next room on the couch, watching a little tv, and napping a bit himself. Later he wandered in and laid by me.
All morning we had been scrawling onto scraps of paper the time of each contraction. As I had one, I would sleepily note it on the piece of paper and then doze off again. Eventually, Michael stirred, and picked up the paper to read the times. He kind of nudged me, and noted aloud that the contractions were presently quite regular at 4 to 5 minutes apart again. That's pretty much when you're supposed to start heading for the hospital. I was in kind of a zone, just lying there, contending with the contractions, but also half asleep. He goes, "How intense are they?" I was like, "Ummm. Not too bad, I guess."
He thought for a minute, then goes, "Do you have a high tolerance for pain?"
How am I suppose to know? I kind of think I might, but luckily have never really had cause to test out that theory. That's what I tell him.
He's on the phone to the doc again. Brings him up-to-speed, and finds out that Doc definitely thinks we should head back to the hospital in the next little bit.
Michael rouses me. I'm pretty agreeable to a hospital trip--seems to make sense. So I showered, and freshened up my makeup, and did my hair a little. Got dressed. Threw a few last minute items I thought I might need into my suitcase. And still felt unconvinced that this was "it." But I was willing to go along with it for now.
As Michael went to retrieve the car from the garage, I leaned against the counter in the kitchen, surrounded by all the prescribed accoutrements mentioned in all my pregnancy books as necessary for the hospital stay. Suddenly I came out of my "zone" I had been in, and the contractions felt very intense, and were unquestionably regular. Michael came back in to get me, and I couldn't talk to him. He was trying to nail down exactly where we were at. He goes, "Okay, if you don't know how fast they're coming... tell me how many you had while I was gone." I told him three. He goes, "I was only gone for 5 minutes." We realize we gotta go. Now.
Suddenly we are in a dire hurry to get the few miles to the hospital. I don't have much memory of the actual drive there; but later Michael told me he actually turned on his flashers and even ran some lights. Safely, of course. He got me there really fast.
Around 4 in the afternoon, we walk in, and head for the emergency area. Since it is a Saturday, we have been instructed to check in there first. They're kind of busy. And the people ahead of us are a family. Two adults and two children. And both children appear to be quite severely handicapped. Wheelchairs, equipment of all sorts. We feel humbled and don't want to make a fuss. So we sit quietly. But the contractions are coming fast and hard. Every time I have one, I discreetly (so I thought) lay my head onto the cool countertop within my reach, and whiteknuckle it simultaneously. Finally, one astute youngster behind the counter goes, "Are you, like, in labor?" I go, "Like, yeah."
They let us forego the paperwork, plunked me into a wheelchair and whisked us up to the labor/delivery floor. In just a few minutes, they determine that I have now dilated to 4 cm. Finally, finally, I come to understand that this is IT. It isn't going to be a week from now. It is finally happening. I felt emotionally and mentally ready.
With the confirmation that I was now at 4 cm dilation, we were making fast progress. They seemed pleasantly surprised that we had gotten that far on our own. The nurses confided to me that by going home, I probably moved the process along much faster than had I stayed at the hospital. They said once they get you laid out flat on your back and restrict your movements with IVs, etc. it tends to slow everything down. Cool.
From there, it was just a waiting game. The contractions, while certainly noticeable, were not unmanageable. I was handling them pretty well. And turned down offers of drugs or an epidural. At this point, I was still under the impression that our "What to Expect" teacher's high opinion of natural childbirth was reasonable and desirable. Hmmff.
From mid-pregnancy on, I had made it clear to anyone who would listen that this labor and delivery were to be a very private thing. No photos. No video, for God's sake. And no one in the room as visitors -- just me and Michael and the hospital staff. So of course it wasn't long until Michael's family showed up. To their credit, they claimed to be content to just wait in the waiting room. But of course their cheerful martyrdom wore me down, and we invited them up to hang out with us for a while.
The nurses continued to check my "status." And upon discovering I was 7 cm. dilated, and with me struggling to accomodate my contractions, a nurse that I only remember as Nurse Betty (I honestly can't remember if that might have been her real name, or a moniker I assigned to her) who was older--perhaps around 55 or so, cut to the chase. She told me I had gotten this far on my 0wn, and that I owed it to myself to now have an epidural. The consensus was that Sami was up high in my womb, and just needed time to move into a more favorable position. They even started tossing around the idea of a C-section, which I definitely did not want. They said if she didn't move down and turn, it was a possibility. Anyway, Nurse Betty told me I had a long time to go, and she advised me in the most compassionate way that an epidural would not slow things down, and would not be "failing." I conceded, and gave them the go ahead after a particularly intense contraction.
The anesthesiologist Doc came in. He was quite proud of himself from the get go; he did not want for confidence in his own abilities. And by the end, I had to agree with him that he was good. Really good.
They moved my IV lines around, sat me up on the edge of the bed, and gave me a pillow to hug. I think I remember Michael being directly in front of me, rubbing my shoulders and arms as they prepped me for it. And I do remember saying, "Okay, you're putting a needle into my spine, right? What happens if I have a contraction during the administration of it, and I move?" They said I should just let them know about it and they'd handle it. They started, and as my friend and nephew's significant other described it, it felt like they were tapping a railroad spike into my spine. And sure enough, a contraction began--I told them... and next thing I knew, it was done. Shortly after, I began to shake/tremble uncontrollably. But Nurse Betty assured me that was okay and normal. Then, I settled back into the bed, and I was watching the monitor and noted that a contraction was happening. It felt like someone was gently pushing a fingertip against me. I said, "Umm... wow. This doesn't hurt now, and on the chart it looks like it should." The epidural doc was smug. The pain was gone, but I continued throughout the delivery to have feeling and control of my legs. They gave me a button I could push if I wanted to administer more painkiller at any time. But I never needed to. Ever find yourself in this circumstance? Get the epidural. No question.
Sami still wasn't in the correct position, and the specter of a C-section remained. The nurses left us to ourselves, to see if Sami would move down and turn to a more favorable position. It was late night now, and Michael informed me his family was still hanging on in the waiting room, determined to see it through. For some reason, that seemed to add some kind of pressure to me, and I finally insisted that they go home. The nurses, as they checked our progress, or lack thereof, kept insisting we were going to be there for a while. Michael's family headed home on their one hour drive.
Nurse Betty had gone off-duty by now. But prior to going, she came in and gave us a little pep talk, and showed Michael how to help me onto my side and to rock me back and forth to attempt to facilitate Sami's movement. Hours had gone by now, and while I was so comfortable I could even doze a bit, we wanted to get this thing done. And without surgery.
The nurses had left us alone for quite a while, and so Michael decided to pass the time doing the Nurse Betty move on me, coupled with him leaning in close to my belly and having a little talk with Sami. He consistently did this throughout my pregnancy, and it seemed most times, she would comply with his requests. So why not try it now? He explained to her all of the issues, and that we didn't want a C-section, but that now it was up to her to move into position. And he began to rock me back and forth gently while he talked.
I groggily cooperated. And we were so used to the blip-blip of Sami's heartbeat, that at first, when it took a dive, we didn't really get what was happening. But then I noticed it, and I looked at the monitor and her heartbeat had plummeted -- right in the middle of the "move." I was very frightened, and getting more frantic by the second, and barking orders at Michael to get out to the nurse station and get us some help. I was so fearful that we had done something to harm the baby.
A calm, young nurse came in, and read the monitor printouts, then examined me... she smoothly reported that the baby had moved right into position. Michael bore a triumphant smile, and rightfully so. I truly believe that his encouragement to move me around resulted in avoiding the C-section. She said the drop in heartbeat often happens when the baby moves down low into the birth canal and readies for birth.
The nurse got me prepped to begin pushing. This involved much movement around on the bed, encouraging words, and discouraging news... that I could expect to push--actively--for probably around 3 or more hours. I was comfortable, and felt strong and ready for it. I wasn't scared, I was focused and determined and excited to bring this to a close. Or opening, as it were. Wink. Wink.
She explained how we were going to do it, that as a contraction began and I was ready, I was to breathe in, exhale, breathe in again, and push on that second breath. We did the first one, and I learned from that one where in my core muscles to push from so that I didn't put blood pressure into my face, and didn't strain where I didn't need to. I recognized really quickly "how" to do it--the most effective way. Difficult to explain. Michael and another nurse held my feet to help me have somthing to push against. And after only 2 pushes, the nurse in charge more or less called things off. She goes, "Okay. You'll need to stop right there. This is going really fast, and I need to get the doctor in here." She seemed mildy rattled.
Michael and I kind of looked at each other and shrugged. What happened to the whole 3 hour portrait she had just painted minutes ago?
The doctor came in, settled into his position, and had me continue pushing again. He encouraged Michael to take frequent peeks of the baby's head, now visible. Michael and the nurse gave me reports of how much they could see of her head after each push. And before I knew it, I could feel she was no longer moving back when I ceased pushing between contractions -- I pushed really hard, and the doctor almost barked at me, "Sit up and watch your baby being born, and stop pushing when I say." And with that, baby Sami came into the world in a fast, slick movement. I remember the doctor grasping her by her feet, and she slipped a bit - I think he almost dropped her, in fact. He had Michael cut the umbilical cord, and they laid Sami up onto me for just a moment before whisking her off to the side table where they gave her her Apgar tests and score, did whatever all they do.
Michael was like a stunned statue. He locked into that last position he had taken up, the one kind of leaning over to see Sami coming out. And there he remained. Finally Dr. Wester gently urged Michael to go on over to where the nurses were cleaning up Sami. He stiffly walked over and stood outside their circle. Still stunned and speechless, and slack-jawed. The asked him if he wanted to help clean her up. And he stood there dazed, and finally goes, "But I'm not clean," or something like that. And they laughed at him and said, "Well, neither is she. You won't hurt her."
I then asked the doctor, "Now... I still have to deliver the placenta, right?" He told me I was already doing that, even as we spoke. He went through a rather graphic process of showing us the apparent miracle that he believes the placenta is, and demonstrating various parts of it (by this time Michael had ambled back nearby), and while I appreciated the spontaneous biology lesson and all, looking back, I'm like, "Well, really now."
The doc informed me that I had torn during the delivery, and that he had to do some suturing. Okay? Like you can sew up a 3 foot seam on a pair of pants in a few minutes. So when he was still sewing 30 minutes later, I began to have some questions. Then 45 minutes have gone by, and he's still at it. I learned later that I had torn quite severely, and when my regular doctor examined me later, he all but admired the suture-work of Dr. Wester. So I guess all in all, it certainly wasn't something I wanted him to rush through, but still... at this point, I am ready to kick back a little.
As he finished up, he kind of leaned back, and looked at me, and said, "Well, I guess you proved us wrong." I had only had to actively push for about 20 minutes. He seemed truly surprised at how quickly it had gone. I had had no expectations otherwise, so to me it was pretty normal. But the doc and nurses assured me otherwise. I was very lucky. And grateful.
Then some wonderfully kind nurses tended to me -- I was so happy to have all the tubes removed from me and finally not feel like I was going to rip off an appendage if I moved in bed. And they brought me ice for "down there," and administered some pain meds, and brought me what was at the time one of the most delicious things I've ever drank. Some concoction of ginger ale, juice and ice. They put Michael to work giving Sami her first bottle, which she went after quite eagerly. Sami wasn't distraught that I had opted out of breastfeeding. And then the nurses left us alone for a time. Just Michael, me and Sami now. He was so gentle with her, yet so comfortable handling her and we were both amazed with her. And the whole experience.
Some short while later, we realized we had to call his family, among others, and let them know that Sami had arrived such a short time after they left, that they were still driving home when she was born. Incredibly, his sister and dad turned right around and came back -- they had to see Sami, even though it was now the wee hours of Sunday morning. Sami was born at 12:21am, and they came in around 2 or so.
The middle of the night calls were kept to a minimum. We called my sister, and my best friend, and that was it. Everyone else could wait until tomorrow.
Dear, dear Michael... right in front of everyone, we sealed the deal with him surrepticiously pouring me a small styrofoam cup with my long-craved-for rum and coke celebratory drink. It was a sweet gesture that he had planned ahead. We had joked about it, but I didn't really think he would do it. I enjoyed that adult beverage like no other.
I'm not one of those brave, upstanding new mothers that insisted the baby stay in the room with me. After all the introductions were made all around, and after giving her dad my blessing to go on home and get some rest, instead of trying to sleep in my room on a fold-out bed, I shipped the delightful Sami off to the nursery for the nurses to care for, so I could get some sleep. Or try to anyway. That first night--or morning--it was nearly 4 am by the time I finally tried to sleep, wasn't very restful. I was kind of keyed up, as one might expect.
The next morning another dear nurse encouraged me and assisted me in getting myself to the shower, where I had myself possibly one of the best-feeling showers I'd ever had. I even made an attempt to put a little stylin' to my hair, and dabbed on a little makeup. My face was swollen and heavy-jawed, but I was happy and felt surprisingly good. Michael returned from home, looking quite refreshed and handsome. And together we retrieved Sami from the goddesses in the nursery, and began our pathetic efforts towards being parents.
I continued experiencing contractions quite regularly, as I had been for a couple of weeks. And I did ask him how I would know when they were finally the real thing. He assured me I would notice the difference. And he said one sure way to tell they were real was if I could no longer talk through them. Seemed pretty clear.
Doc did mention in passing that the coming weekend was the one during which he would not be available. And would have an alternate doctor covering for him. Since he's in private practice, he has an agreement with a couple of other OB/GYNs and they trade off so that each of them gets off one weekend per month.
Sense something coming here?
Friday the 27th I went to work as usual. In my head, I truly believed I would be back the following week, but at the end of the day I nonetheless kind of prepared my desk for departure, just in case. Left at 5 as usual, went to my regular Pilates class, and headed home. It was Michael's day off, so we just had some dinner in and watched a little tv, and to bed. He did mention that after he got off work the next day--Saturday--that he would like to come home and get me, and "take me dancing" at our favorite bar/restaurant right near our condo.
("Taking me dancing" was his charming euphemism for his last desperate attempts at having some modicum of a social life prior to parenthood, I believe. You can just imagine how much I enjoyed going to a smoky bar, observing the service of alcoholic beverages that I couldn't partake of, and then occasionally being dragged out to the dancefloor for a belly to belly dance that no doubt had us looking quite ridiculous. But because he had been the exemplary supportive and dear husband throughout my pregnancy, I acquiesced on this item time and again as D-day drew near.)
Anyway, Friday night as midnight approached, I awoke for one of my regular hourly trips to the bathroom. But this time, I noticed... something. Just the teeniest bit of bleeding. Hmmm. Weird. Went back to bed and woke Michael to tell him. You know, I was just the slightest bit concerned. He graciously assured me--with his previously untapped medical wisdom, apparently--that that was perfectly normal and that I should go back to sleep. His newfound pregnancy expertise seemed quite reasonable to me at the time, and so I went back to sleep.
Saturday dawned with me having a few contractions, as usual. But they were a bit more regular than previously. And the teeny bit of bleeding had now been accompanied by some fluid. Side note here: most women do not have the big, flooding, breaking-of-the-water ala tv, but instead experience a trickle since the baby's little head can sort of act as a cork. And we knew that once the water broke, you only have a window of a few hours within which to give birth, or there is a risk of infection. So if what I was experiencing was in fact my water having broken, I began to worry that we might not be properly recognizing it, and were putting the baby at risk.
Michael and I couldn't decide if this was for the reals or not. I didn't believe it was, since the contractions just didn't seem painful enough (I could certainly talk through them, around them and about them). But I still had the nagging worry about my water having broken. And the regularity of the contractions. We had to make a decision as to whether or not Michael would go to work at around 10:30am. Finally Michael called the doctor. Yes; the doctor upon whom we had never laid eyes, nor he me.
Michael described our past few hours and of course, doctors being doctors with all their inherent cautiousness, he said we should go to the hospital to find out if my water had broken.
We did. It hadn't.
They said we could either hang out for a while and see what was what--see if things progressed. Or we could go back home. The deciding factor was that if we stayed, I would not be allowed to eat. Having not eaten anything yet that day, the specter of an entire mealless day was too distressing to comtemplate for me. And we decided (with their urging) that to go have lunch would be a very reasonable thing to do.
The nurses cautioned me to be sure and have something for lunch that I wouldn't mind seeing again. If ya know what I mean.
Well, following the exam at the hospital, things seemed to get a little more "riled up." The intrusion of the instruments set off more contractions. But still I was convinced this wasn't really it. So we set off to a favorite deli restaurant to enjoy a nice lunch before we headed back home.
The restaurant was very busy with every table full. With complete disregard for the nurses' cautionary advice, I ordered my favorite egg salad on pumpernickel toast with fries. But as we waited for our food and reflected on the morning's happenings, the contractions got a bit more intense and regularly spaced every 5 minutes or so. They were such that, in the middle of one, I would kind of press the heel of my palm into my forehead and pause in our conversation. Then, as it passed, I would pick up chatting with Michael where we left off.
But our waitress read these signals differently. We figured out later that it must have appeared we were arguing or something, and that when I bowed my head into my hand, she perhaps interpreted that I was terribly upset, and maybe even crying. She finally came over, and sort of wedged herself between Michael and I--her back to Michael--and asked me conspiratorially, "Are you okay?" Seemed like she was gonna let Michael have it but good if I answered no.
We cheerfully explained that I was quite probably in labor.
She blanched a little and asked if she should do something. We assured her we had already been to the hospital, and had just stopped in for a little respite prior to our likely return to the hospital. She seemed less than convinced of the appropriateness of all this business.
It didn't help that right in the middle of explaining it all to her, I experienced a doozie.
By the time we finished lunch and departed, it seemed the entire restaurant staff had been brought up to speed by our concerned waitress, and we were practically escorted out by a crowd of wellwishers.
Back to Michael's condo, where we tried to relax. I still truly believed that this was false labor, with the contractions made more intense by the hospital exam, and nothing more. I felt like we just needed to get them calmed down, and that Sami's birthday was likely still about a week away. So Michael ran me a nice warm bath, and brought me a half a glass of wine. The combination almost immediately relieved the more intense portion of the pain of the contractions, and also slowed them from every 5 to 8 minutes, to more than 15 or 20 minutes apart. Things seemed to be winding down.
I was very relaxed following my bath, and decided that since I hadn't slept too well the previous night, that a nice little nap might be in order. I headed for the bed, and Michael relaxed in the next room on the couch, watching a little tv, and napping a bit himself. Later he wandered in and laid by me.
All morning we had been scrawling onto scraps of paper the time of each contraction. As I had one, I would sleepily note it on the piece of paper and then doze off again. Eventually, Michael stirred, and picked up the paper to read the times. He kind of nudged me, and noted aloud that the contractions were presently quite regular at 4 to 5 minutes apart again. That's pretty much when you're supposed to start heading for the hospital. I was in kind of a zone, just lying there, contending with the contractions, but also half asleep. He goes, "How intense are they?" I was like, "Ummm. Not too bad, I guess."
He thought for a minute, then goes, "Do you have a high tolerance for pain?"
How am I suppose to know? I kind of think I might, but luckily have never really had cause to test out that theory. That's what I tell him.
He's on the phone to the doc again. Brings him up-to-speed, and finds out that Doc definitely thinks we should head back to the hospital in the next little bit.
Michael rouses me. I'm pretty agreeable to a hospital trip--seems to make sense. So I showered, and freshened up my makeup, and did my hair a little. Got dressed. Threw a few last minute items I thought I might need into my suitcase. And still felt unconvinced that this was "it." But I was willing to go along with it for now.
As Michael went to retrieve the car from the garage, I leaned against the counter in the kitchen, surrounded by all the prescribed accoutrements mentioned in all my pregnancy books as necessary for the hospital stay. Suddenly I came out of my "zone" I had been in, and the contractions felt very intense, and were unquestionably regular. Michael came back in to get me, and I couldn't talk to him. He was trying to nail down exactly where we were at. He goes, "Okay, if you don't know how fast they're coming... tell me how many you had while I was gone." I told him three. He goes, "I was only gone for 5 minutes." We realize we gotta go. Now.
Suddenly we are in a dire hurry to get the few miles to the hospital. I don't have much memory of the actual drive there; but later Michael told me he actually turned on his flashers and even ran some lights. Safely, of course. He got me there really fast.
Around 4 in the afternoon, we walk in, and head for the emergency area. Since it is a Saturday, we have been instructed to check in there first. They're kind of busy. And the people ahead of us are a family. Two adults and two children. And both children appear to be quite severely handicapped. Wheelchairs, equipment of all sorts. We feel humbled and don't want to make a fuss. So we sit quietly. But the contractions are coming fast and hard. Every time I have one, I discreetly (so I thought) lay my head onto the cool countertop within my reach, and whiteknuckle it simultaneously. Finally, one astute youngster behind the counter goes, "Are you, like, in labor?" I go, "Like, yeah."
They let us forego the paperwork, plunked me into a wheelchair and whisked us up to the labor/delivery floor. In just a few minutes, they determine that I have now dilated to 4 cm. Finally, finally, I come to understand that this is IT. It isn't going to be a week from now. It is finally happening. I felt emotionally and mentally ready.
With the confirmation that I was now at 4 cm dilation, we were making fast progress. They seemed pleasantly surprised that we had gotten that far on our own. The nurses confided to me that by going home, I probably moved the process along much faster than had I stayed at the hospital. They said once they get you laid out flat on your back and restrict your movements with IVs, etc. it tends to slow everything down. Cool.
From there, it was just a waiting game. The contractions, while certainly noticeable, were not unmanageable. I was handling them pretty well. And turned down offers of drugs or an epidural. At this point, I was still under the impression that our "What to Expect" teacher's high opinion of natural childbirth was reasonable and desirable. Hmmff.
From mid-pregnancy on, I had made it clear to anyone who would listen that this labor and delivery were to be a very private thing. No photos. No video, for God's sake. And no one in the room as visitors -- just me and Michael and the hospital staff. So of course it wasn't long until Michael's family showed up. To their credit, they claimed to be content to just wait in the waiting room. But of course their cheerful martyrdom wore me down, and we invited them up to hang out with us for a while.
The nurses continued to check my "status." And upon discovering I was 7 cm. dilated, and with me struggling to accomodate my contractions, a nurse that I only remember as Nurse Betty (I honestly can't remember if that might have been her real name, or a moniker I assigned to her) who was older--perhaps around 55 or so, cut to the chase. She told me I had gotten this far on my 0wn, and that I owed it to myself to now have an epidural. The consensus was that Sami was up high in my womb, and just needed time to move into a more favorable position. They even started tossing around the idea of a C-section, which I definitely did not want. They said if she didn't move down and turn, it was a possibility. Anyway, Nurse Betty told me I had a long time to go, and she advised me in the most compassionate way that an epidural would not slow things down, and would not be "failing." I conceded, and gave them the go ahead after a particularly intense contraction.
The anesthesiologist Doc came in. He was quite proud of himself from the get go; he did not want for confidence in his own abilities. And by the end, I had to agree with him that he was good. Really good.
They moved my IV lines around, sat me up on the edge of the bed, and gave me a pillow to hug. I think I remember Michael being directly in front of me, rubbing my shoulders and arms as they prepped me for it. And I do remember saying, "Okay, you're putting a needle into my spine, right? What happens if I have a contraction during the administration of it, and I move?" They said I should just let them know about it and they'd handle it. They started, and as my friend and nephew's significant other described it, it felt like they were tapping a railroad spike into my spine. And sure enough, a contraction began--I told them... and next thing I knew, it was done. Shortly after, I began to shake/tremble uncontrollably. But Nurse Betty assured me that was okay and normal. Then, I settled back into the bed, and I was watching the monitor and noted that a contraction was happening. It felt like someone was gently pushing a fingertip against me. I said, "Umm... wow. This doesn't hurt now, and on the chart it looks like it should." The epidural doc was smug. The pain was gone, but I continued throughout the delivery to have feeling and control of my legs. They gave me a button I could push if I wanted to administer more painkiller at any time. But I never needed to. Ever find yourself in this circumstance? Get the epidural. No question.
Sami still wasn't in the correct position, and the specter of a C-section remained. The nurses left us to ourselves, to see if Sami would move down and turn to a more favorable position. It was late night now, and Michael informed me his family was still hanging on in the waiting room, determined to see it through. For some reason, that seemed to add some kind of pressure to me, and I finally insisted that they go home. The nurses, as they checked our progress, or lack thereof, kept insisting we were going to be there for a while. Michael's family headed home on their one hour drive.
Nurse Betty had gone off-duty by now. But prior to going, she came in and gave us a little pep talk, and showed Michael how to help me onto my side and to rock me back and forth to attempt to facilitate Sami's movement. Hours had gone by now, and while I was so comfortable I could even doze a bit, we wanted to get this thing done. And without surgery.
The nurses had left us alone for quite a while, and so Michael decided to pass the time doing the Nurse Betty move on me, coupled with him leaning in close to my belly and having a little talk with Sami. He consistently did this throughout my pregnancy, and it seemed most times, she would comply with his requests. So why not try it now? He explained to her all of the issues, and that we didn't want a C-section, but that now it was up to her to move into position. And he began to rock me back and forth gently while he talked.
I groggily cooperated. And we were so used to the blip-blip of Sami's heartbeat, that at first, when it took a dive, we didn't really get what was happening. But then I noticed it, and I looked at the monitor and her heartbeat had plummeted -- right in the middle of the "move." I was very frightened, and getting more frantic by the second, and barking orders at Michael to get out to the nurse station and get us some help. I was so fearful that we had done something to harm the baby.
A calm, young nurse came in, and read the monitor printouts, then examined me... she smoothly reported that the baby had moved right into position. Michael bore a triumphant smile, and rightfully so. I truly believe that his encouragement to move me around resulted in avoiding the C-section. She said the drop in heartbeat often happens when the baby moves down low into the birth canal and readies for birth.
The nurse got me prepped to begin pushing. This involved much movement around on the bed, encouraging words, and discouraging news... that I could expect to push--actively--for probably around 3 or more hours. I was comfortable, and felt strong and ready for it. I wasn't scared, I was focused and determined and excited to bring this to a close. Or opening, as it were. Wink. Wink.
She explained how we were going to do it, that as a contraction began and I was ready, I was to breathe in, exhale, breathe in again, and push on that second breath. We did the first one, and I learned from that one where in my core muscles to push from so that I didn't put blood pressure into my face, and didn't strain where I didn't need to. I recognized really quickly "how" to do it--the most effective way. Difficult to explain. Michael and another nurse held my feet to help me have somthing to push against. And after only 2 pushes, the nurse in charge more or less called things off. She goes, "Okay. You'll need to stop right there. This is going really fast, and I need to get the doctor in here." She seemed mildy rattled.
Michael and I kind of looked at each other and shrugged. What happened to the whole 3 hour portrait she had just painted minutes ago?
The doctor came in, settled into his position, and had me continue pushing again. He encouraged Michael to take frequent peeks of the baby's head, now visible. Michael and the nurse gave me reports of how much they could see of her head after each push. And before I knew it, I could feel she was no longer moving back when I ceased pushing between contractions -- I pushed really hard, and the doctor almost barked at me, "Sit up and watch your baby being born, and stop pushing when I say." And with that, baby Sami came into the world in a fast, slick movement. I remember the doctor grasping her by her feet, and she slipped a bit - I think he almost dropped her, in fact. He had Michael cut the umbilical cord, and they laid Sami up onto me for just a moment before whisking her off to the side table where they gave her her Apgar tests and score, did whatever all they do.
Michael was like a stunned statue. He locked into that last position he had taken up, the one kind of leaning over to see Sami coming out. And there he remained. Finally Dr. Wester gently urged Michael to go on over to where the nurses were cleaning up Sami. He stiffly walked over and stood outside their circle. Still stunned and speechless, and slack-jawed. The asked him if he wanted to help clean her up. And he stood there dazed, and finally goes, "But I'm not clean," or something like that. And they laughed at him and said, "Well, neither is she. You won't hurt her."
I then asked the doctor, "Now... I still have to deliver the placenta, right?" He told me I was already doing that, even as we spoke. He went through a rather graphic process of showing us the apparent miracle that he believes the placenta is, and demonstrating various parts of it (by this time Michael had ambled back nearby), and while I appreciated the spontaneous biology lesson and all, looking back, I'm like, "Well, really now."
The doc informed me that I had torn during the delivery, and that he had to do some suturing. Okay? Like you can sew up a 3 foot seam on a pair of pants in a few minutes. So when he was still sewing 30 minutes later, I began to have some questions. Then 45 minutes have gone by, and he's still at it. I learned later that I had torn quite severely, and when my regular doctor examined me later, he all but admired the suture-work of Dr. Wester. So I guess all in all, it certainly wasn't something I wanted him to rush through, but still... at this point, I am ready to kick back a little.
As he finished up, he kind of leaned back, and looked at me, and said, "Well, I guess you proved us wrong." I had only had to actively push for about 20 minutes. He seemed truly surprised at how quickly it had gone. I had had no expectations otherwise, so to me it was pretty normal. But the doc and nurses assured me otherwise. I was very lucky. And grateful.
Then some wonderfully kind nurses tended to me -- I was so happy to have all the tubes removed from me and finally not feel like I was going to rip off an appendage if I moved in bed. And they brought me ice for "down there," and administered some pain meds, and brought me what was at the time one of the most delicious things I've ever drank. Some concoction of ginger ale, juice and ice. They put Michael to work giving Sami her first bottle, which she went after quite eagerly. Sami wasn't distraught that I had opted out of breastfeeding. And then the nurses left us alone for a time. Just Michael, me and Sami now. He was so gentle with her, yet so comfortable handling her and we were both amazed with her. And the whole experience.
Some short while later, we realized we had to call his family, among others, and let them know that Sami had arrived such a short time after they left, that they were still driving home when she was born. Incredibly, his sister and dad turned right around and came back -- they had to see Sami, even though it was now the wee hours of Sunday morning. Sami was born at 12:21am, and they came in around 2 or so.
The middle of the night calls were kept to a minimum. We called my sister, and my best friend, and that was it. Everyone else could wait until tomorrow.
Dear, dear Michael... right in front of everyone, we sealed the deal with him surrepticiously pouring me a small styrofoam cup with my long-craved-for rum and coke celebratory drink. It was a sweet gesture that he had planned ahead. We had joked about it, but I didn't really think he would do it. I enjoyed that adult beverage like no other.
I'm not one of those brave, upstanding new mothers that insisted the baby stay in the room with me. After all the introductions were made all around, and after giving her dad my blessing to go on home and get some rest, instead of trying to sleep in my room on a fold-out bed, I shipped the delightful Sami off to the nursery for the nurses to care for, so I could get some sleep. Or try to anyway. That first night--or morning--it was nearly 4 am by the time I finally tried to sleep, wasn't very restful. I was kind of keyed up, as one might expect.
The next morning another dear nurse encouraged me and assisted me in getting myself to the shower, where I had myself possibly one of the best-feeling showers I'd ever had. I even made an attempt to put a little stylin' to my hair, and dabbed on a little makeup. My face was swollen and heavy-jawed, but I was happy and felt surprisingly good. Michael returned from home, looking quite refreshed and handsome. And together we retrieved Sami from the goddesses in the nursery, and began our pathetic efforts towards being parents.
What is Sami Time?
I've created this blog (web log) as a place where I can post my stories, thoughts and reflections about my newly realized role as a mom to Sami, born August 29, 2004.
I've discovered I'm less than proficient at maintaining a traditional baby book, and thought this approach might suit me better.
My first posting will cover the birth of Sami--I need to get it recorded into words before my memory fades any further. She's already 4 months old, and my 42 year old brain doesn't retain details so much.
I've discovered I'm less than proficient at maintaining a traditional baby book, and thought this approach might suit me better.
My first posting will cover the birth of Sami--I need to get it recorded into words before my memory fades any further. She's already 4 months old, and my 42 year old brain doesn't retain details so much.
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