Hudson, I don't even know how to describe how scary, shitty, and miserable things have been for the last twenty-four hours or so, especially knowing that things are likely to kind of, sort of, stay this way for a while. You made it through surgery with flying colors; everything went "super" (according to your surgeon) and you came back to the PICU with great stats. Then, not so much. To quote your cardiologist, your pulmonary thoracic system is "twitchy." Pretty much any stimulus can throw you into what he called a "spell," which sounds like more or less full-on cardiac distress. You've had a few more of these incidents, which your (also amazing, in addition to the others I've mentioned) nurse, Jane, assures me have gotten less awful as we've moved forward in time. Still, anything that a doctor has to be present for so that it is "less life-threatening" than it would be otherwise...good shit.
I just can't wrap my head around the idea of your life being threatened by anything. You seemed so normal and strong when you first came out. Even yesterday morning, there you were wriggling around, making little squeaky noises, death-gripping our fingers, whining when you pooted ("Dolphin farts," as your Dad playfully and accurately titled them)...totally regular new baby stuff. Today, they have you sedated so that you can't even move and accidentally startle yourself. There's a certain irony to the fact that our number one goal is not stimulating you in any way. Your Dad and I are so chill and quiet (for the most part) that we were actually kind of excited to have a kid who needs a more relaxed lifestyle. This is a fairly drastic extreme, granted, but I guess it's good to know that our virtually silent evenings will be a good match for what you can handle.
The surrealism of this situation is making it somehow easier to stomach. Not having ever had you at home, only having held you for minutes of your life, and really only seeing you for some minutes every day, are all making it nearly impossible to internalize the fact that we even HAVE a baby. I have to look at pictures of you when we're not in your room to kind of remind myself that this is real (not that massively sore boobs, healing stitches, and some still-shrinking belly flab aren't reminders enough), and even when I've got a few fingers touching some part of you that isn't covered with tubes and IVs...it's so hard to convince myself not only that you're a real person, but that you're a real part of your Dad and me. This makes me feel, frankly, awful when I register "oh yeah, right, I'm a Mom now...maybe I should be with my baby more," but it's also making it possible for me to ever sleep or leave your room. I'm capable of listening to doctors describe what is happening to your body without completely flipping out every time. I've even managed not to bawl my eyes out too many times a day (really, it's only been a few times so far), which has even me pretty impressed.
As of right now - just over five days from your birth, and roughly thirty-six hours after your surgery - you're doing a better job tolerating stimulus. They were able to suction out your throat (which was previously the worst thing throwing your whole little system into crisis, despite being completely necessary due to your breathing tube) once this afternoon without incident, and while little changes still distinctly upset you, they aren't completely messing you up. I'm tempted to take pictures of how utterly horrible you look now just so we can look at them together and you can say "holy shit, Mom," but I'm terrified that those will end up burned in my memory the way I'm trying to burn in the images of you pre-surgery, all pink and comfier. We'll see. I think I will the first day you don't look entirely like hell, but for now your Dad and I are just plopped in the cafeteria, blogging and poking around on the internet, and ducking over to watch you in little spurts. I hope the good vibes are soaking in as much as we're pouring them out.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
"Surgery Morning," or, "How I Learned to Stop Panicking and Love the Donut"
Here is what your Dad and I got at the hospital cafeteria this morning after we saw you off for surgery:
- Juice
- More different juice
- Two fairly enormous coffees (mine is mostly ice, don't worry)
- We each got sausage and mediocre but delicious corned beef hash
- Your Dad got eggs
- I got a pile of home fries, which are the kind that are basically individually fried potato product nuggets
- Two donuts: I think one is molasses, and the other is coconut
- We both grabbed a handful of ketchup packets
What the hell else can you do when you know that at this very moment, your baby is in the process of being cut open, dissembled, and reassembled to be stronger and more efficient than he started out? Food has always been a major comfort factor for me (hence bringing most of the snack aisle of the grocery store to the hospital when we were getting you out, and eating Thai take-out piled into my hospital room with your grandparents the night after you were born, and enjoying the hell out of stir-fry and college-style fried tofu made by your Papa and Aunt Erin last night despite being so tired I almost fell asleep on my plate), so of course your Dad and I bought half the cafeteria before bunkering down by the windows to wait out your surgery. We only didn't get bacon because we know we'll have some at home in a few hours, assuming all goes well.
You've had three nurses so far, and while all of them have been wonderful, two have been truly exceptional. Darcy, who was with you during the day Saturday and Sunday, was clearly extremely good at her job, but wasn't especially warm and fuzzy. I can understand why she works where she does: she clearly REALLY knows what she is doing, and the unit you're spending time in requires a lot of extremely specialized knowledge, but babies are clearly part of her job, not the reason for loving her job. Cathy, who was with you Friday and will be pretty much directly on top of you today after surgery, is just awesome. She is caring for the whole family, not just you: she insisted on getting an insulated mug brought into your room so that I can stay hydrated, has been extremely communicative, and is clearly wonderful with babies. Dee, who has been with you during the nights, really has a "everyone's grandma" vibe, and kind of vaguely smells like chocolate. I find her to be amazingly comforting and warm. The first night she was with you, she made sure you had Alfred (the crochet bear your Aunt Katie made for you), Yelling Bird (the stuffed robin the hospital gave you), and the elephant blanket your Nana and Papa gave you all in your little incubator thingy. Angie, your nurse from the NICU came down to check on you the night before last, and she and Dee set you up in the little snuggle sacks you had grown to love. I can't say enough good things about a nurse who happily and enthusiastically goes out of her way, up to and including experimenting with new things, to make sure her patients are happy and comfy.
Dee truly wins the Number One Awesome Award, however, because when we got to this hospital this morning, she had a wheelchair in the room. My first thought was "oh, nice, shove the extra junk into the room with the smallest patient and least equipment," but no. Dee had ordered it brought down so that I could hold you and be wheeled up to the OR with you. Granted, the anesthesiologist who came to escort you up needed to take you on your bed, so I had to put you back down, but I GOT TO HOLD YOU! For, like...minutes! I desperately hope that you are as snuggly and excited about being held post-surgery as you were today, because the second I had you in my arms, you calmed down, passed out, and turned into a happy little pile of goo. I don't think I've seen you quite so contentedly asleep so far. You startle really easily, and need a lot of contact to be completely calm (which has so far been mimicked by strategically placed blankets), but when I had you bundled up...oh man.
Of course your Dad got a bajillion pictures. We joked the whole time we were with you this morning about his fatherhood-induced AV superpowers. You actually had your eyes open when we got to your room (a beautiful phenomenon that I've still only really seen three times, including this one), so he was taking photos like it was his job...which to some degree, it is. Damn, you're a cute little dude. Nurses who have basically nothing to do with you keep ducking in to the room to tell us how adorable you are, which is not only just awesome to hear, but is especially funny considering my paranoid worry a few weeks ago that you might be funny-looking. It's going to be really rough seeing you all puffy and...well, damaged...for the next few days, but everyone assures us that babies your age bounce back from surgery and heal REALLY fast. Growing is basically your job at this point, and if they're not only giving you IV nutrition but also little bits of colostrum as you can stomach it, I'm optimistic that you'll be back to your adorable self quickly.
It's a tiny bit after 9:00, so we're relocating from the cafeteria up to the windowless, crappy waiting room in the SCU (Special Care Unit, which we have to pass through to get to the PICU, and which is sadly where families generally wait not for optimistic, progressive news but instead for darker updates on loved ones). I'm so excited and scared to see you. I know you'll look like hell for a few days, especially at first, and it's going to be absolutely terrifying, but we'll be over the first hump.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
It's the shit.
I hardly know where to begin, so I guess I'll start with poop. Hudson, this is going to be a common family topic of conversation, so get used to it.
I don't know if this is a superpower that some new parents just magically manifest, or if I am naturally a certain sort of desensitized to gross or icky things beyond what I thought I was, but since you've showed up, I've had no problem whatsoever with the kind of terrifying bodily stuff that has happened. Without going into too many details, I can safely say that my first shower after giving birth to you was not unlike a slasher flick; I practically had to keep alternating between giggling uncomfortably and pretending that I was being attacked by a psycho with a giant knife. Did it actually bother me? Nope. That's a thing that happens. No big deal. I know I've got a fair number of stitches in a place where I really didn't ever want to think about having stitches, but whatever. You needed that to happen, so I haven't batted an eye.
On your end, it's been a little tougher. The first time I tried to see you after you popped out, a few NICU doctors or specialists or something were hooking up your IV, and apparently having a tough time of it. I couldn't see anything but the suggestion of you in a sea of blue sterile blankets, so we had to wait and come back half an hour later. At first, you had an IV in your head, one through your belly button, a ton of small sticks where they tried to place IVs in both of your hands and feet, something in one of your heels, and you were covered - COVERED - with tiny sensors that measured your heart rate, respiratory rate, and oxygen saturation. This sounds awful. It looked awful. Frankly, it WAS awful, but I didn't really care. I knew you were being kept as comfortable as possible, and everything that was being done was necessary. Your Dad has been similarly collected about all the medical junk, to a point where he has actually been there and keeping you company during a number of procedures while I was off being poked or prodded for some reason on my own. The only time I have seen cracks in his genuine cool has been around poop.
Hudson, I am positively thrilled that you have still been pooping and peeing close to as much as any baby does. Not only does that mean that you have good, oxygenated blood flow getting everywhere it needs to, but it means you're getting the nutrition and hydration you need. I've only been able to help change your diaper twice, but - while I'm sure I'll be more than sick of dealing with diapers sooner rather than later - that has actually been a huge treat. It's such a normal thing. I haven't even been able to hold you except for immediately after you were born, and then I was a little shell-shocked; I know it happened, but I can't really pull up a concrete memory of anything except kissing the top of your head and thinking "wow, he is just COVERED in gunk." I don't remember the weight of you, and there were enough other people hovering around that I didn't really need to worry about you wriggling off or away. Your Dad got to carry you back from the NICU folks who checked you over right after birth to see me, so he's at least held you a little more than me, but he is not so excited about poop. In fact, he's stood by and stoically held your hands or feet or cupped the top of your head while doctors or nurses have done all sorts of things to you, but during diaper changes? Not so much.
Why is this so damn funny to me? I know this is a legitimate aversion that he will really need to work on, but watching him grunt "Oh GOD..." and turn away from poop, but not anything else? It's weirdly comforting. What a totally normal, non-medical thing to be uncomfortable with. I know that the next few days are likely to get rougher, what with your surgery tomorrow morning and the inevitable pile of scary machines, tubes, and substantially more invasive things going on, but even these first few days have shown how much better we can both feel as lines come out, color gets better, and dire situations get calmer. Plus, you're pooping! That shouldn't stop, so you should just keep being more and more like a healthy, normal baby.
I don't know if this is a superpower that some new parents just magically manifest, or if I am naturally a certain sort of desensitized to gross or icky things beyond what I thought I was, but since you've showed up, I've had no problem whatsoever with the kind of terrifying bodily stuff that has happened. Without going into too many details, I can safely say that my first shower after giving birth to you was not unlike a slasher flick; I practically had to keep alternating between giggling uncomfortably and pretending that I was being attacked by a psycho with a giant knife. Did it actually bother me? Nope. That's a thing that happens. No big deal. I know I've got a fair number of stitches in a place where I really didn't ever want to think about having stitches, but whatever. You needed that to happen, so I haven't batted an eye.
On your end, it's been a little tougher. The first time I tried to see you after you popped out, a few NICU doctors or specialists or something were hooking up your IV, and apparently having a tough time of it. I couldn't see anything but the suggestion of you in a sea of blue sterile blankets, so we had to wait and come back half an hour later. At first, you had an IV in your head, one through your belly button, a ton of small sticks where they tried to place IVs in both of your hands and feet, something in one of your heels, and you were covered - COVERED - with tiny sensors that measured your heart rate, respiratory rate, and oxygen saturation. This sounds awful. It looked awful. Frankly, it WAS awful, but I didn't really care. I knew you were being kept as comfortable as possible, and everything that was being done was necessary. Your Dad has been similarly collected about all the medical junk, to a point where he has actually been there and keeping you company during a number of procedures while I was off being poked or prodded for some reason on my own. The only time I have seen cracks in his genuine cool has been around poop.
Hudson, I am positively thrilled that you have still been pooping and peeing close to as much as any baby does. Not only does that mean that you have good, oxygenated blood flow getting everywhere it needs to, but it means you're getting the nutrition and hydration you need. I've only been able to help change your diaper twice, but - while I'm sure I'll be more than sick of dealing with diapers sooner rather than later - that has actually been a huge treat. It's such a normal thing. I haven't even been able to hold you except for immediately after you were born, and then I was a little shell-shocked; I know it happened, but I can't really pull up a concrete memory of anything except kissing the top of your head and thinking "wow, he is just COVERED in gunk." I don't remember the weight of you, and there were enough other people hovering around that I didn't really need to worry about you wriggling off or away. Your Dad got to carry you back from the NICU folks who checked you over right after birth to see me, so he's at least held you a little more than me, but he is not so excited about poop. In fact, he's stood by and stoically held your hands or feet or cupped the top of your head while doctors or nurses have done all sorts of things to you, but during diaper changes? Not so much.
Why is this so damn funny to me? I know this is a legitimate aversion that he will really need to work on, but watching him grunt "Oh GOD..." and turn away from poop, but not anything else? It's weirdly comforting. What a totally normal, non-medical thing to be uncomfortable with. I know that the next few days are likely to get rougher, what with your surgery tomorrow morning and the inevitable pile of scary machines, tubes, and substantially more invasive things going on, but even these first few days have shown how much better we can both feel as lines come out, color gets better, and dire situations get calmer. Plus, you're pooping! That shouldn't stop, so you should just keep being more and more like a healthy, normal baby.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Go time.
6:35 - We head into Portland to go to Ri-Ra, the pub where your Dad and I had our rehearsal dinner before our wedding, and where I quite honestly believe you can get the best burger in the city. Wednesday is half-price burger night, which made our scheduled induction today weirdly fortuitous. For the first time ever, we manage to score a parking space directly across the street from the pub. No joke: best parking ever, and we've been here a lot in the last few years. Our waiter was super-friendly, but it was clear that this was not a magical, happy night for him; I can't imagine that nights when your average bill is somewhere around $10-$15 instead of more than double that are especially fun or awesome. Regardless of his happiness, we had awesome burgers, your Dad got a Black & White (Guinness floated over Allagash White - yum), and despite not being super hungry when we walked in the door, I polished off everything but a few fries. There were two other conspicuously pregnant women eating there, which I found strangely amusing and reassuring, especially since one of them was sort of enormous in comparison to me. We mused over whether any of the other couples had had the same brilliant idea as us, simultaneously wanting to be unique and enjoying the validation of a good plan.
7:30 - After dinner, we wander up and down Commercial street, both to kill a little time and to just move around freely for a few. Your Dad and I bullshit about game stuff. We laugh a lot.
8:00 - We arrive at the hospital, go to the security desk we were told to go to, and are immediately told to turn around and go to Admitting, which (with our five bags and full tummies) is kind of really far away. Also, I was told just to come in and go straight upstairs, so I'm confused. After ten minutes of sitting and waiting, someone comes to get me to fill out paperwork in a windowless, tiny room. Not even five questions in to the "interview," someone comes in frantically to inform us that I am wanted upstairs in Labor & Delivery, and that my intake will be completed there. You mean like I was told earlier in the day...by my doctor...who is currently wondering where I am...? Yeah. We've officially entered "Hospital Time," a crappy and miserable time that my family is all too well-acquainted with. Nothing happens when you are told it will or when it seems it should, and you never get what you expect when you expect it. We're walked upstairs to the Labor & Delivery floor, showed into a room (which, funnily enough, is the same room we saw on a tour a few weeks earlier), and left there. Waiting. We can't get the internet working, which of course drives your Dad insane, so he wanders around essentially hunting for a wireless signal.
8:40, give or take a few minutes - Dr. Linnell - Liz - one of my OB's, finally shows up. She checks me out, finds that I am 100% effaced and already four centimeters dilated, muses somewhat unfortunately that we were only scheduled this late at night because they were expecting me to come in neither dilated nor effaced. I'm given the option to just take an Ambien, go to sleep, then get everything going in the morning, but seriously? How wired are we already? There's no way your Dad or I was going to either sleep OR not start getting you out of here as quickly as possible. At this point, we're committed. This is happening. If none of this gets to be on our terms, then damn it, everyone else is following through on their commitments. I'm told that we'll start off with breast pumping, get some hormones going naturally, and see how that goes for a few hours.
9:35-ish - My nurse, Beth, who is very sweet and not at all obnoxious (score) finally comes in to introduce herself, do my intake paperwork, get a copy of the birth plan, and discuss next steps. The breast pump we came in with is missing some parts, so she has a hospital pump delivered...but then announces that she really doesn't know how to use it. Hm. Per Liz's orders, they want an IV in ASAP so they can start the antibiotics we need because I tested positive for Group B Strep, so Beth checks me over and...can't find a good vein. She recommends calling in another nurse who has tons of experience placing IV's. This somehow does not inspire confidence either. At least, at this point, I have a lovely pink bucket of ice water and we've not only managed to get the internet going, but we're happily both puttering away. Good thing, too. I open up some of the packages that came with the breast pump (which is this weird turquoise-blue motor thing on a rolly stand and a pink plastic tub packed with sealed bags of parts), and realize that I have no friggin' clue what I'd be doing if I even tried to do anything with it.
10:15 - This other nurse - the IV pro - comes in and checks me over. She can't find good veins anywhere but my hands and the crooks of my elbows, both spots that will drive me insane if I have a plastic tube poking out of them for the forseeable future. Craps. Because I have made it abundantly clear to everyone who has ears that I really suck with needles, she's prepared to put a topical goo on two spots where she will try to get an IV going. I've used this goo before: it's not awesome, and it's not particularly effective, but it should at least minimize the discomfort of the needle for the subdermal anaesthetic she'll give me before actually placing the IV. Yes. I'm getting numbed up before they numb me up for a single needle stick that most people just get without even flinching. What once again does not inspire confidence is that in twelve years of nursing, she has never used this topical goo before. I have to instruct her in how to apply it, and even then, I don't think she really does it correctly. I'm told to wait half an hour for it to work.
10:30 - Beth comes back to put on the external monitors, which are two three and a half inch wide, inch thick discs with a flat contact surface that get strapped on to my belly with a stretchy band. We joke about the obvious practicality of this design, and I am told just how lucky I am to have one of the remote sets available. Apparently the hospital used to have a set for every room (which is what we were told on the tour), but between losses, damages, and cost, they only have about three. A+ tour guide info, I guess. Beth wanders off with the promise to return (after my IV gets placed) with another nurse who just set another patient up with a breast pump so we have multiple brains in on the problem-solving adventure. Why this is any sort of adventure, I don't know. Meanwhile, your Dad discovers Ikea Hackers and becomes entranced; this surprises me somewhat because it is a website essentially devoted to cheap Swedish furniture, but it is pretty amusing, and if it will eventually get him excited for a trip to Ikea, then score. You seem to be taking great pleasure in kicking the monitors, which gives all sorts of fun, wonky readings, and I start evaluating entertainment options for while I'm pumping. Ten minute cycles make for tricky intervals during which to do much of anything.
10:55 - It's been well over half an hour, so IV nurse SHOULD be back...
11:05 - I buzz for the nurse, and am told that they will check to see if she's ready to come in. Meanwhile, I'm having a party keeping your monitors on and transmitting consistently: apparently ANY movement on my part, and sometimes on yours, means those massive plastic buggers just float around and don't transfer data. Beth comes in with a warm blanket in hopes that it will help my veins pop more and keep me from the dreaded hand IV. I begin to worry - amusedly - about going to the bathroom with the monitors and an IV hooked up.
11:11 - I discover that my recently-discovered guilty pleasure, Regretsy.com, is blocked by the hospital firewall because it contains "adult content." WTF?
11:20 - Finally, an hour later, IV nurse comes back and gets to work. It takes her about ten minutes, top to bottom, but getting the IV in really wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Honestly, I hardly felt anything, but the knowledge that there is a plastic tube in my arm still makes me feel really weird.
11:45 - My IV starts leaking. It gets fixed, but now I can kind of see where it goes in to my arm, which is seriously gross. I start thinking that I should get more used to medical, gross things. We're still waiting for this other nurse to come and help with the breast pump. I begin to wonder if I will be doing this volume of waiting for promised things once I'm in active labor, or if I'm just a low priority now because you're not terribly actively trying to get out of me. Did I mention that I've been having fairly mild, not-terribly consistent, but definitely escalating contractions since Liz did her initial exam at 8:30-ish and did some casual membrane stripping?
12:10 - I finally start breastpumping to get things going. This works. Rapidly. The contractions evolve from mildy uncomfortable cramps to profoundly noticeable aching that I absolutely can't ignore. After six cycles of pumping for ten minutes, waiting for ten minutes, and taking a break in the middle somewhere, I'm having strong enough contractions that I am no longer comfortable. At all. Your Dad is a total champ about keeping me as distracted and entertained as possible, up to and including making a number of requisite jokes about how much breastpumping makes me look like a cow being milked.
3:00-ish - Breastpumping is officially complete, contractions are coming regularly, and you are flipping around like crazy. I'm miserable and exhausted, but still keeping things more or less together. Beth offers me an Ambien, which is supposed to not only help me sleep but help me sleep through the increasingly shitty contractions. A bit before 4:00, when I'm still not only awake but distinctly not able to ignore the pain, I'm given a second Ambien.
4:00 to 7:25 - Your Dad sort of, kind of dozes off (albeit poorly), but I can't. I almost doze off between contractions, but the second one hits it's all I can do to focus on breathing through it, so I don't sleep for longer than a scattered dozen minutes. The labor and delivery room we were given faces out directly over the main entrance, parking garage, lobby, and two other major wings of the hospital, so it isn't exactly a dim or romantic view. We keep the shades drawn, but I'm vividly aware all night of being in a hospital.
7:25 - Liz pops in rather suddenly with some other OB/GYN resident whose name I don't catch, and despite my only barely being conscious, she checks and discovers that I am a whopping five centimeters dilated...then with no warning, breaks my water and casually notes that this is likely to lead to more contractions. It does. We call Kristina, our doula, and she shows up pretty quickly. The contractions are getting utterly miserable, to a point where literally all I can do is force myself to breathe and try not to clench up my entire body.
Until about 9:30 - These two hours are a haze of pain, but pain that I am powerfully rationalizing as necessary and normal. I didn't want to ask for drugs of any kind, both because I was convinced it would get worse before I really NEEDED pain relief and because I felt somehow ashamed that I would be caving in despite wanting to get through the whole process without medical interventions. (So far, nothing but the timing has been entirely unnatural, and taking two Ambien seems like a far cry from compromising my values. Hell, I've been taking Tylenol PM pretty much every night for months; Ambien is nothing.) I get into the Jacuzzi tub, discover that the jets are making me oddly nauseous, and sit through something like an hour of contractions in warm water with your Dad and Kristina quietly cheering me on. Somehow I manage not to clench my teeth, my fists, or any other clenchable part of me; even though the pain is pretty unspeakable. I'm exhausted. I'm having a hard time focusing on anything anyone is saying to me, can barely keep my eyes open, and yet the pain is so bad that I can't bring myself to do anything but sit through each contraction as it comes. Eventually I have the wherewithal to drag myself out of the tub and beg to crawl into bed, where I finally accept that I just need some pain relief. Someone calls for the doctors who come to check my dilation before they approve me getting any IV drugs...and I am not only fully dilated, but have started having contractions that lead to some very hefty inadvertent pushing. Everyone scrambles to contact the myriad people who are needed for when you show up, none of whom were really ready because they expected hours more labor before you arrived.
10:00, almost on the dot - Out you come. Somehow, that near half hour of pushing went incredibly quickly, and after hours of contractions that felt utterly fruitless, it was actually a huge relief. I didn't realize - at all - that I had any tearing as you came out, and was honestly so caught up in the focus of just pushing that I had to be told to look down as you were plopped onto my chest. You were pink, noisy, huge, and gorgeous; eight pounds, three ounces, and twenty inches long.
10:05 - Your Dad tells me they are taking you up to the NICU, and I tell him to go with you. Kristina stays with me for a few minutes while the doctors stitch me up (which oddly hurts more than giving birth to you did), and I fall asleep. Granted, it's a shallow sleep, and I'm interrupted often by doctors, nurses, and your Dad checking on me or making progress reports, but it's any sleep at all, bringing my grand total for the last thirty hours up to roughly two hours of actual unconsciousness. Your Dad's parents descend upon us with your Uncle Pookie, and after we entertain them for a while and I eat some solid food, I finally get to go see you.
Batman - Hudson - you are just so incredible. I don't even have words for how utterly, completely, stunningly amazing you are. By the time I got to you, you were already covered with monitors, wires, tubes, and nurses, but as soon as I get one of my fingers near your hand, you grab on fiercely and won't let go. It breaks my heart that you're so completely covered with medical...stuff...that I can't hold you. I got a minute, maybe two, of full contact with you immediately after you were born, and now all we can do is rub your cheeks, hold your hands, and gently touch any other part of you that isn't covered in some vital tool. Even still, I can barely grasp the reality of the situation. Your Dad and I stood there and talked about your name for probably close to half an hour, just not knowing what to do with ourselves. Your name has basically been picked out for you for close to eight months already, but meeting you in person and calling you by name was just...wow. Here you are.
After spending a while in your room, your Dad and I were both so burned out and exhausted that we dragged ourselves back to my room in the "Mother & Baby" ward. The view of Portland is stunning, but I am conspicuously aware of the fact that you are somewhere else in the building, not with us. I know you're being watched like a hawk by outrageously qualified medical professionals, and I know that both of us really, desperately need to rest, but being away from you is more than a little rough. We're taking a dinner and internet break, then heading back down to see you ASAP. Just...wow.
7:30 - After dinner, we wander up and down Commercial street, both to kill a little time and to just move around freely for a few. Your Dad and I bullshit about game stuff. We laugh a lot.
8:00 - We arrive at the hospital, go to the security desk we were told to go to, and are immediately told to turn around and go to Admitting, which (with our five bags and full tummies) is kind of really far away. Also, I was told just to come in and go straight upstairs, so I'm confused. After ten minutes of sitting and waiting, someone comes to get me to fill out paperwork in a windowless, tiny room. Not even five questions in to the "interview," someone comes in frantically to inform us that I am wanted upstairs in Labor & Delivery, and that my intake will be completed there. You mean like I was told earlier in the day...by my doctor...who is currently wondering where I am...? Yeah. We've officially entered "Hospital Time," a crappy and miserable time that my family is all too well-acquainted with. Nothing happens when you are told it will or when it seems it should, and you never get what you expect when you expect it. We're walked upstairs to the Labor & Delivery floor, showed into a room (which, funnily enough, is the same room we saw on a tour a few weeks earlier), and left there. Waiting. We can't get the internet working, which of course drives your Dad insane, so he wanders around essentially hunting for a wireless signal.
8:40, give or take a few minutes - Dr. Linnell - Liz - one of my OB's, finally shows up. She checks me out, finds that I am 100% effaced and already four centimeters dilated, muses somewhat unfortunately that we were only scheduled this late at night because they were expecting me to come in neither dilated nor effaced. I'm given the option to just take an Ambien, go to sleep, then get everything going in the morning, but seriously? How wired are we already? There's no way your Dad or I was going to either sleep OR not start getting you out of here as quickly as possible. At this point, we're committed. This is happening. If none of this gets to be on our terms, then damn it, everyone else is following through on their commitments. I'm told that we'll start off with breast pumping, get some hormones going naturally, and see how that goes for a few hours.
9:35-ish - My nurse, Beth, who is very sweet and not at all obnoxious (score) finally comes in to introduce herself, do my intake paperwork, get a copy of the birth plan, and discuss next steps. The breast pump we came in with is missing some parts, so she has a hospital pump delivered...but then announces that she really doesn't know how to use it. Hm. Per Liz's orders, they want an IV in ASAP so they can start the antibiotics we need because I tested positive for Group B Strep, so Beth checks me over and...can't find a good vein. She recommends calling in another nurse who has tons of experience placing IV's. This somehow does not inspire confidence either. At least, at this point, I have a lovely pink bucket of ice water and we've not only managed to get the internet going, but we're happily both puttering away. Good thing, too. I open up some of the packages that came with the breast pump (which is this weird turquoise-blue motor thing on a rolly stand and a pink plastic tub packed with sealed bags of parts), and realize that I have no friggin' clue what I'd be doing if I even tried to do anything with it.
10:15 - This other nurse - the IV pro - comes in and checks me over. She can't find good veins anywhere but my hands and the crooks of my elbows, both spots that will drive me insane if I have a plastic tube poking out of them for the forseeable future. Craps. Because I have made it abundantly clear to everyone who has ears that I really suck with needles, she's prepared to put a topical goo on two spots where she will try to get an IV going. I've used this goo before: it's not awesome, and it's not particularly effective, but it should at least minimize the discomfort of the needle for the subdermal anaesthetic she'll give me before actually placing the IV. Yes. I'm getting numbed up before they numb me up for a single needle stick that most people just get without even flinching. What once again does not inspire confidence is that in twelve years of nursing, she has never used this topical goo before. I have to instruct her in how to apply it, and even then, I don't think she really does it correctly. I'm told to wait half an hour for it to work.
10:30 - Beth comes back to put on the external monitors, which are two three and a half inch wide, inch thick discs with a flat contact surface that get strapped on to my belly with a stretchy band. We joke about the obvious practicality of this design, and I am told just how lucky I am to have one of the remote sets available. Apparently the hospital used to have a set for every room (which is what we were told on the tour), but between losses, damages, and cost, they only have about three. A+ tour guide info, I guess. Beth wanders off with the promise to return (after my IV gets placed) with another nurse who just set another patient up with a breast pump so we have multiple brains in on the problem-solving adventure. Why this is any sort of adventure, I don't know. Meanwhile, your Dad discovers Ikea Hackers and becomes entranced; this surprises me somewhat because it is a website essentially devoted to cheap Swedish furniture, but it is pretty amusing, and if it will eventually get him excited for a trip to Ikea, then score. You seem to be taking great pleasure in kicking the monitors, which gives all sorts of fun, wonky readings, and I start evaluating entertainment options for while I'm pumping. Ten minute cycles make for tricky intervals during which to do much of anything.
10:55 - It's been well over half an hour, so IV nurse SHOULD be back...
11:05 - I buzz for the nurse, and am told that they will check to see if she's ready to come in. Meanwhile, I'm having a party keeping your monitors on and transmitting consistently: apparently ANY movement on my part, and sometimes on yours, means those massive plastic buggers just float around and don't transfer data. Beth comes in with a warm blanket in hopes that it will help my veins pop more and keep me from the dreaded hand IV. I begin to worry - amusedly - about going to the bathroom with the monitors and an IV hooked up.
11:11 - I discover that my recently-discovered guilty pleasure, Regretsy.com, is blocked by the hospital firewall because it contains "adult content." WTF?
11:20 - Finally, an hour later, IV nurse comes back and gets to work. It takes her about ten minutes, top to bottom, but getting the IV in really wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Honestly, I hardly felt anything, but the knowledge that there is a plastic tube in my arm still makes me feel really weird.
11:45 - My IV starts leaking. It gets fixed, but now I can kind of see where it goes in to my arm, which is seriously gross. I start thinking that I should get more used to medical, gross things. We're still waiting for this other nurse to come and help with the breast pump. I begin to wonder if I will be doing this volume of waiting for promised things once I'm in active labor, or if I'm just a low priority now because you're not terribly actively trying to get out of me. Did I mention that I've been having fairly mild, not-terribly consistent, but definitely escalating contractions since Liz did her initial exam at 8:30-ish and did some casual membrane stripping?
12:10 - I finally start breastpumping to get things going. This works. Rapidly. The contractions evolve from mildy uncomfortable cramps to profoundly noticeable aching that I absolutely can't ignore. After six cycles of pumping for ten minutes, waiting for ten minutes, and taking a break in the middle somewhere, I'm having strong enough contractions that I am no longer comfortable. At all. Your Dad is a total champ about keeping me as distracted and entertained as possible, up to and including making a number of requisite jokes about how much breastpumping makes me look like a cow being milked.
3:00-ish - Breastpumping is officially complete, contractions are coming regularly, and you are flipping around like crazy. I'm miserable and exhausted, but still keeping things more or less together. Beth offers me an Ambien, which is supposed to not only help me sleep but help me sleep through the increasingly shitty contractions. A bit before 4:00, when I'm still not only awake but distinctly not able to ignore the pain, I'm given a second Ambien.
4:00 to 7:25 - Your Dad sort of, kind of dozes off (albeit poorly), but I can't. I almost doze off between contractions, but the second one hits it's all I can do to focus on breathing through it, so I don't sleep for longer than a scattered dozen minutes. The labor and delivery room we were given faces out directly over the main entrance, parking garage, lobby, and two other major wings of the hospital, so it isn't exactly a dim or romantic view. We keep the shades drawn, but I'm vividly aware all night of being in a hospital.
7:25 - Liz pops in rather suddenly with some other OB/GYN resident whose name I don't catch, and despite my only barely being conscious, she checks and discovers that I am a whopping five centimeters dilated...then with no warning, breaks my water and casually notes that this is likely to lead to more contractions. It does. We call Kristina, our doula, and she shows up pretty quickly. The contractions are getting utterly miserable, to a point where literally all I can do is force myself to breathe and try not to clench up my entire body.
Until about 9:30 - These two hours are a haze of pain, but pain that I am powerfully rationalizing as necessary and normal. I didn't want to ask for drugs of any kind, both because I was convinced it would get worse before I really NEEDED pain relief and because I felt somehow ashamed that I would be caving in despite wanting to get through the whole process without medical interventions. (So far, nothing but the timing has been entirely unnatural, and taking two Ambien seems like a far cry from compromising my values. Hell, I've been taking Tylenol PM pretty much every night for months; Ambien is nothing.) I get into the Jacuzzi tub, discover that the jets are making me oddly nauseous, and sit through something like an hour of contractions in warm water with your Dad and Kristina quietly cheering me on. Somehow I manage not to clench my teeth, my fists, or any other clenchable part of me; even though the pain is pretty unspeakable. I'm exhausted. I'm having a hard time focusing on anything anyone is saying to me, can barely keep my eyes open, and yet the pain is so bad that I can't bring myself to do anything but sit through each contraction as it comes. Eventually I have the wherewithal to drag myself out of the tub and beg to crawl into bed, where I finally accept that I just need some pain relief. Someone calls for the doctors who come to check my dilation before they approve me getting any IV drugs...and I am not only fully dilated, but have started having contractions that lead to some very hefty inadvertent pushing. Everyone scrambles to contact the myriad people who are needed for when you show up, none of whom were really ready because they expected hours more labor before you arrived.
10:00, almost on the dot - Out you come. Somehow, that near half hour of pushing went incredibly quickly, and after hours of contractions that felt utterly fruitless, it was actually a huge relief. I didn't realize - at all - that I had any tearing as you came out, and was honestly so caught up in the focus of just pushing that I had to be told to look down as you were plopped onto my chest. You were pink, noisy, huge, and gorgeous; eight pounds, three ounces, and twenty inches long.
10:05 - Your Dad tells me they are taking you up to the NICU, and I tell him to go with you. Kristina stays with me for a few minutes while the doctors stitch me up (which oddly hurts more than giving birth to you did), and I fall asleep. Granted, it's a shallow sleep, and I'm interrupted often by doctors, nurses, and your Dad checking on me or making progress reports, but it's any sleep at all, bringing my grand total for the last thirty hours up to roughly two hours of actual unconsciousness. Your Dad's parents descend upon us with your Uncle Pookie, and after we entertain them for a while and I eat some solid food, I finally get to go see you.
Batman - Hudson - you are just so incredible. I don't even have words for how utterly, completely, stunningly amazing you are. By the time I got to you, you were already covered with monitors, wires, tubes, and nurses, but as soon as I get one of my fingers near your hand, you grab on fiercely and won't let go. It breaks my heart that you're so completely covered with medical...stuff...that I can't hold you. I got a minute, maybe two, of full contact with you immediately after you were born, and now all we can do is rub your cheeks, hold your hands, and gently touch any other part of you that isn't covered in some vital tool. Even still, I can barely grasp the reality of the situation. Your Dad and I stood there and talked about your name for probably close to half an hour, just not knowing what to do with ourselves. Your name has basically been picked out for you for close to eight months already, but meeting you in person and calling you by name was just...wow. Here you are.
After spending a while in your room, your Dad and I were both so burned out and exhausted that we dragged ourselves back to my room in the "Mother & Baby" ward. The view of Portland is stunning, but I am conspicuously aware of the fact that you are somewhere else in the building, not with us. I know you're being watched like a hawk by outrageously qualified medical professionals, and I know that both of us really, desperately need to rest, but being away from you is more than a little rough. We're taking a dinner and internet break, then heading back down to see you ASAP. Just...wow.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Good morning to us...
I woke up this morning and wondered if I should try to go back to sleep. I'm not actually scared or nervous, much like the morning of your Dad and my wedding. I'm eerily calm and at peace with the reality of the fact that we will almost definitely be parents before I really sleep again. Your Dad was still sleepy, so I went out to the living room, watched a few episodes of "How I Met Your Mother" (which is really cute), ate a Minneola tangelo (which was good, but not as good as the one I had last week), and didn't let myself think of much of anything else. You've been wriggling around a bunch - more than you usually do in the mornings, but I'm somehow not surprised. I'm pretty sure you're officially out of space.
At our last ultrasound yesterday afternoon, the sonographer estimated your weight at eight pounds, three ounces. Uhm...holy shit? I know these types of measurements really aren't necessarily THAT accurate, but dag, yo. Both your Uncle David and I were eight pounds, five (or six - my Mom has told me both numbers) ounces, so there's precedent, but your Dad was only six pounds and six ounces, or something close to that. Granted, he was a bit premature, but still...even at full term, he probably wouldn't have been THIS big. I'm jazzed, really: the more weight you have on you now, the better shape you're in for all the scary shit you'll need to go through (including not actually eating except for by IV for days), but getting over eight pounds of you out of me is going to be a trip.
See, there's the abstraction again. How the hell am I supposed to process the fact that you're going to be out in the world - an actual independently-functioning human being - hopefully in under twenty four hours from now? I mean, at the moment, I'm worrying about things like getting spare keys to our apartment made up, needing to do all our dishes before we leave this evening, and the fact that our cats are likely to be really lonely for the next few days. Tomorrow - even later tonight - priorities are going to majorly change. This morning, the big decisions were whether or not to add chocolate or butterscotch chips to our pancakes, and how many strips of bacon to cook up. (We added both kinds of chips, and each had four pieces of bacon. Hells yeah.) Tomorrow, who even knows?
We coasted through the day with what momentum we have. We spent the afternoon running errands, installing car seats (which was surprisingly easy, given the humorously absurd fuss and hassle it is presented to be in every TV show or movie ever), tidying up the apartment so it's ready for people other than us to be there taking care of the cats and such, and doing our typical anal-retentive over-planning and over-packing. Seriously: I made a five page birth plan, a list of all relevant and necessary phone numbers and contacts people might need, a letter detailing all the things people visiting the apartment can do if they are so inclined (nothing like inviting people to clean and cook for you and knowing they won't resent being asked). These were all Google documents that we printed out and left where they needed to be or brought with us. We showed up at the hospital with five bags, including WAY too much food, enough changes of clothes for both of us to stay here for days (which we know we're liable to do), and enough media and technology to keep us more than occupied and distracted. We heated up leftover Chinese food (Happy Garden!) for lunch, watched an episode of "Bones," and I did a spot-check after your Dad trimmed his hair and beard.
Things seem utterly mundane now, up to and including leaving a note on the kitchen table for whoever checks on the cats next, except there's also a baby seat sitting and waiting, a bag with some clothes for you (for whenever you eventually need them), and we're really only going about ten minutes away. Batman, this is all so weird.
At our last ultrasound yesterday afternoon, the sonographer estimated your weight at eight pounds, three ounces. Uhm...holy shit? I know these types of measurements really aren't necessarily THAT accurate, but dag, yo. Both your Uncle David and I were eight pounds, five (or six - my Mom has told me both numbers) ounces, so there's precedent, but your Dad was only six pounds and six ounces, or something close to that. Granted, he was a bit premature, but still...even at full term, he probably wouldn't have been THIS big. I'm jazzed, really: the more weight you have on you now, the better shape you're in for all the scary shit you'll need to go through (including not actually eating except for by IV for days), but getting over eight pounds of you out of me is going to be a trip.
See, there's the abstraction again. How the hell am I supposed to process the fact that you're going to be out in the world - an actual independently-functioning human being - hopefully in under twenty four hours from now? I mean, at the moment, I'm worrying about things like getting spare keys to our apartment made up, needing to do all our dishes before we leave this evening, and the fact that our cats are likely to be really lonely for the next few days. Tomorrow - even later tonight - priorities are going to majorly change. This morning, the big decisions were whether or not to add chocolate or butterscotch chips to our pancakes, and how many strips of bacon to cook up. (We added both kinds of chips, and each had four pieces of bacon. Hells yeah.) Tomorrow, who even knows?
We coasted through the day with what momentum we have. We spent the afternoon running errands, installing car seats (which was surprisingly easy, given the humorously absurd fuss and hassle it is presented to be in every TV show or movie ever), tidying up the apartment so it's ready for people other than us to be there taking care of the cats and such, and doing our typical anal-retentive over-planning and over-packing. Seriously: I made a five page birth plan, a list of all relevant and necessary phone numbers and contacts people might need, a letter detailing all the things people visiting the apartment can do if they are so inclined (nothing like inviting people to clean and cook for you and knowing they won't resent being asked). These were all Google documents that we printed out and left where they needed to be or brought with us. We showed up at the hospital with five bags, including WAY too much food, enough changes of clothes for both of us to stay here for days (which we know we're liable to do), and enough media and technology to keep us more than occupied and distracted. We heated up leftover Chinese food (Happy Garden!) for lunch, watched an episode of "Bones," and I did a spot-check after your Dad trimmed his hair and beard.
Things seem utterly mundane now, up to and including leaving a note on the kitchen table for whoever checks on the cats next, except there's also a baby seat sitting and waiting, a bag with some clothes for you (for whenever you eventually need them), and we're really only going about ten minutes away. Batman, this is all so weird.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Just over 24 hours to go.
Birth is supposed to be this beautiful, random event that happens how, when, and sometimes even where nature intends it to. The supporting cast should be a deliberately chosen ensemble of loved and trusted people whose presence makes the introduction of a new life to the world all the richer. The mother should let her body take control, and should both trust her instincts and release herself to an experience that countless others have surrendered to successfully over eons past. In other words, there shouldn't be nine extra strangers in the room, and no one should set a timer for when all this shit is supposed to go down.
I'm not going to sugar-coat, and I certainly won't ascribe blame (although I'm feeling especially shitty towards a lot of completely innocent doctors), but this whole situation is making me feel really robbed of a lot of what makes childbirth what it is. My soft-focus ideal of a birth is definitely not the mainstream, much like my dream wedding was really nothing like the standard that little girls grow up expecting, but it sure as hell was never anything like this. Last night I slept pretty horribly (and not just because you kept kicking my ribs, which was admittedly cool), and I woke up feeling hazy and depressed. I should be nesting, basking, and glowing in maternal joy, damn it! I shouldn't be panicking about the IV I know I'll need to get, the escalating interventions that seem inevitable because your birth is being forced before you're ready to make it happen on your own, and the pain that I know will be worse and harder to manage because of the dual factors of unwanted chemicals and my own stubbornness. We're both being robbed of the chance to let nature do it's thing, and I'm frankly really pissed off.
Sure, I'm upset at all the people around me who have overshared their opinions about how this experience should be (whether that be telling me how sad it is that things have to go this way, jumping to the conclusion that I'll end up with a C-section just because this is a planned birth, or openly lamenting the interventions that I literally have no control over), and sure I'm devastated that you are going to be born right into some crappy episode of a medical drama, but damn it...there's no surprise. I will need an IV for antibiotics, will almost definitely received synthetic hormones to accelerate or start labor, and having that IV present means I will almost definitely end up with some kind of pain medication (both because pitocin just makes for shittier contractions, and because if there is a needle already there, there is no excuse of trying to avoid another needle to stop me from getting some pain relief that I might otherwise justify avoiding). You will be born either Thursday, January 26th or Friday, January 27th (which would mean well over 24 hours in labor, so let's aim for NOT that). You will be taken by neonatal and cardiac specialists for a slew of tests pretty much immediately after you pop out. Your Dad will leave me in the delivery room to go off with you, which is why we have a doula so I'm not left alone. I may get as much as a few minutes of contact with you immediately after you are born, but only if you are conspicuously in really good shape right off the bat.
For someone who generally hates surprises and loves anal-retentive plans, I'm having a really damn hard time with this. I'm losing days, if not weeks of having you safely wriggling around inside me. It's really hard to remove myself from the fact that medical science is ultimately depriving me of a good chunk of time when my body can keep you safe, growing, and (I can only assume from all the swirling around) happy. You may never be safer than you are right now; I will never be able to protect you so completely. I spent most of the day feeling sort of numb, not because I'm scared (which I am, but so abstractly that it really doesn't count) but because I can't bring myself to accept that your birth is going down this way.
What do we do to cope? Your Dad is taking tomorrow off so we can just take things slow, tie up loose ends, print out what plans we hope we can have any control over once we get to the hospital, and enjoy some last quiet moments together. Control freaks don't let go easily, and this is just about all we can do. What have we retained? Well, we've kept your name (which will only legally be Batman if our pretty much set in stone name just isn't right - but I'm almost positive it will be, so hopefully that much is moot) a secret from just about everyone. That's our one last bastion of personal retention. I'm kind of ticked off that your Dad's parents actually guessed the name (his mother thinks she came up with it, but she totally didn't), but they don't know that. We did a good job covering up and saying "hmm, yeah, we thought about that..." when she mentioned it initially, but I know there will be some smugness when we announce it.
I'll tell you where the name REALLY came from soon. For now, I'm going to let myself be reassured by the really nice conversation/planning session I just had with our doula, and we're getting Chinese food for dinner. There is just about nothing as comforting as take-out from a long-time favorite local dive. It's really damn weird knowing pretty much exactly when you'll be showing up, but at least it's letting us plan out meals and activities so we strategically spend our last baby-free moments doing things we love.
I'm not going to sugar-coat, and I certainly won't ascribe blame (although I'm feeling especially shitty towards a lot of completely innocent doctors), but this whole situation is making me feel really robbed of a lot of what makes childbirth what it is. My soft-focus ideal of a birth is definitely not the mainstream, much like my dream wedding was really nothing like the standard that little girls grow up expecting, but it sure as hell was never anything like this. Last night I slept pretty horribly (and not just because you kept kicking my ribs, which was admittedly cool), and I woke up feeling hazy and depressed. I should be nesting, basking, and glowing in maternal joy, damn it! I shouldn't be panicking about the IV I know I'll need to get, the escalating interventions that seem inevitable because your birth is being forced before you're ready to make it happen on your own, and the pain that I know will be worse and harder to manage because of the dual factors of unwanted chemicals and my own stubbornness. We're both being robbed of the chance to let nature do it's thing, and I'm frankly really pissed off.
Sure, I'm upset at all the people around me who have overshared their opinions about how this experience should be (whether that be telling me how sad it is that things have to go this way, jumping to the conclusion that I'll end up with a C-section just because this is a planned birth, or openly lamenting the interventions that I literally have no control over), and sure I'm devastated that you are going to be born right into some crappy episode of a medical drama, but damn it...there's no surprise. I will need an IV for antibiotics, will almost definitely received synthetic hormones to accelerate or start labor, and having that IV present means I will almost definitely end up with some kind of pain medication (both because pitocin just makes for shittier contractions, and because if there is a needle already there, there is no excuse of trying to avoid another needle to stop me from getting some pain relief that I might otherwise justify avoiding). You will be born either Thursday, January 26th or Friday, January 27th (which would mean well over 24 hours in labor, so let's aim for NOT that). You will be taken by neonatal and cardiac specialists for a slew of tests pretty much immediately after you pop out. Your Dad will leave me in the delivery room to go off with you, which is why we have a doula so I'm not left alone. I may get as much as a few minutes of contact with you immediately after you are born, but only if you are conspicuously in really good shape right off the bat.
For someone who generally hates surprises and loves anal-retentive plans, I'm having a really damn hard time with this. I'm losing days, if not weeks of having you safely wriggling around inside me. It's really hard to remove myself from the fact that medical science is ultimately depriving me of a good chunk of time when my body can keep you safe, growing, and (I can only assume from all the swirling around) happy. You may never be safer than you are right now; I will never be able to protect you so completely. I spent most of the day feeling sort of numb, not because I'm scared (which I am, but so abstractly that it really doesn't count) but because I can't bring myself to accept that your birth is going down this way.
What do we do to cope? Your Dad is taking tomorrow off so we can just take things slow, tie up loose ends, print out what plans we hope we can have any control over once we get to the hospital, and enjoy some last quiet moments together. Control freaks don't let go easily, and this is just about all we can do. What have we retained? Well, we've kept your name (which will only legally be Batman if our pretty much set in stone name just isn't right - but I'm almost positive it will be, so hopefully that much is moot) a secret from just about everyone. That's our one last bastion of personal retention. I'm kind of ticked off that your Dad's parents actually guessed the name (his mother thinks she came up with it, but she totally didn't), but they don't know that. We did a good job covering up and saying "hmm, yeah, we thought about that..." when she mentioned it initially, but I know there will be some smugness when we announce it.
I'll tell you where the name REALLY came from soon. For now, I'm going to let myself be reassured by the really nice conversation/planning session I just had with our doula, and we're getting Chinese food for dinner. There is just about nothing as comforting as take-out from a long-time favorite local dive. It's really damn weird knowing pretty much exactly when you'll be showing up, but at least it's letting us plan out meals and activities so we strategically spend our last baby-free moments doing things we love.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Privacy, or some attempt at it.
So, Batman, this post is only kind of, sort of, for you. I ranted a few weeks ago about my worries regarding maintaining a degree of privacy that your Dad and I are comfortable with during my labor, your birth, and your care immediately afterwards. To put things gently, those fears have only grown as the big day approaches. Everyone - and I mean everyone from our parents to some lady who started talking to me out of the blue at a coffee shop - wants all the gritty details about everything from how the induction process will go to how I'll handle post-partum bleeding. I'm running out of nice ways to tell people that I don't want to discuss it, but I'm trying my damndest not to get bitchy when my patience runs out. It's getting really hard.
I feel like it goes without saying at this point that I am pretty pissed off that the whole process of having you has gone from being something natural and controlled exclusively by your and my body's needs to an utterly medicalized experience that is only vaguely, tangentially, and abstractly within my control. There have been rants aplenty about that, so I won't say more. What I really can't handle, and this is a somewhat new revelation, is needing to share every excruciating detail of this process. Even the parts that are completely natural and normal are so fettered with medical interference that I just don't want to talk about them to any audience beyond your Dad and a few choice friends who I am just naturally comfortable discussing unpleasant bodily stuff with. I don't give two shits if our modern culture has evolved to a point where any details related to childbirth are just expected to be broadcast to the world: that's not me.
Your poor Dad has, as he puts it, "learned more about coworkers vaginas in the past six months than any guy ever needs to hear." Some people LOVE disclosing this stuff, regardless of gender lines or standards. I know how many stitches one of my coworkers needed after giving birth (twelve: eight internal, four external), how long a friend of a friend had to wait between asking for her epidural and finally getting it (an hour and fifteen minutes, and she just barely got it in time before she dilated too far for it to be considered safe), the horrors of post-partum bleeding experienced by a coworker's daughter (she needed three blood transfusions and they kept her on an IV for hydration for four days), and just how dreadful another coworker's wife's second C-section was (I won't even dignify that information by typing it out). Why do I know these things? Seriously!!!!!
All that being said, I'm choosing to take some posts underground from here on out. Not just considering the medical nitty-grittys, there are some things that I know will happen, or that I will want to talk about, or that I will for some reason determine that you (my son, who will inevitably find plenty of this stuff either gross or just way too informative anyhow) should be the sole audience for. For non-Batman readers, let this be my polite way of saying "I don't want to talk about everything," rather than exploding outward in a tirade about the need for me to retain control and boundaries during a time that our culture inexplicably deems to be boundary-free. I do really appreciate the openness that others have offered to me, and don't necessarily plan to withhold all personal information about this process, especially not from everyone, but I'm a damn private person for all my public writing, and that's how things will need to go from here. My vagina is not a public access television show.
I feel like it goes without saying at this point that I am pretty pissed off that the whole process of having you has gone from being something natural and controlled exclusively by your and my body's needs to an utterly medicalized experience that is only vaguely, tangentially, and abstractly within my control. There have been rants aplenty about that, so I won't say more. What I really can't handle, and this is a somewhat new revelation, is needing to share every excruciating detail of this process. Even the parts that are completely natural and normal are so fettered with medical interference that I just don't want to talk about them to any audience beyond your Dad and a few choice friends who I am just naturally comfortable discussing unpleasant bodily stuff with. I don't give two shits if our modern culture has evolved to a point where any details related to childbirth are just expected to be broadcast to the world: that's not me.
Your poor Dad has, as he puts it, "learned more about coworkers vaginas in the past six months than any guy ever needs to hear." Some people LOVE disclosing this stuff, regardless of gender lines or standards. I know how many stitches one of my coworkers needed after giving birth (twelve: eight internal, four external), how long a friend of a friend had to wait between asking for her epidural and finally getting it (an hour and fifteen minutes, and she just barely got it in time before she dilated too far for it to be considered safe), the horrors of post-partum bleeding experienced by a coworker's daughter (she needed three blood transfusions and they kept her on an IV for hydration for four days), and just how dreadful another coworker's wife's second C-section was (I won't even dignify that information by typing it out). Why do I know these things? Seriously!!!!!
All that being said, I'm choosing to take some posts underground from here on out. Not just considering the medical nitty-grittys, there are some things that I know will happen, or that I will want to talk about, or that I will for some reason determine that you (my son, who will inevitably find plenty of this stuff either gross or just way too informative anyhow) should be the sole audience for. For non-Batman readers, let this be my polite way of saying "I don't want to talk about everything," rather than exploding outward in a tirade about the need for me to retain control and boundaries during a time that our culture inexplicably deems to be boundary-free. I do really appreciate the openness that others have offered to me, and don't necessarily plan to withhold all personal information about this process, especially not from everyone, but I'm a damn private person for all my public writing, and that's how things will need to go from here. My vagina is not a public access television show.
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