December 27th, 2009. I have spent the better part of the day trying to keep my mind off of the fact that I will be admitting myself to Baylor Grapevine that evening to begin the process of extracting a human being from my body. It begins to occur to me that this whole pregnancy thing can only end one way. Although I try with all of my might to sweep, dust, and scrub my anxiety away, I finally give in and admit to myself that I'm basically scared out of my mind. I haven't even had a stitch in my life. Ever. The closest I have ever come to a serious injury is a three-pronged fish hook lodged in my ass, and that just ended with some local anesthetic and a good-natured chuckle from an urgent-care physician. So, to say I'm nervous about staying in a hospital is a gross understatement. My solution? Shrimp cocktail and a nap.
I finish packing my bag. I think to myself how critically important it is that I be equipped with the proper makeup, accessories, and outfits for my hospital stay, as I am still, at this point, convinced that I actually have some hope of looking attractive after the birth of my child (insert dubious snort here). The time rolls around for our drive to the hospital, and it suddenly becomes urgent that we buy baked goods for the nursing staff. In my mind, this is a fool-proof way to ensure that a) my epidural bag never runs dry and b) I somehow will be regarded as the "nurse's pet" and given special treatment. I am not above kissing some serious ass with cookies.
We arrive at the hospital and the "ripening process" begins. As the second person before 9:00 p.m. acquaints herself with my various lady bits, it begins to dawn on me that my hopes for dignity in this situation may be fading.
I attempt to get some sleep, but instead opt for alternating periods of whale-like lolling about in my hospital bed, and hobbling to and fro from the bathroom all night. I am both mortified and secretly pleased that my darling husband, henceforth referred to as, "Otter," is forced to assist in the copious trips to the loo. You know you're in love when a man will hold your IV lines while you pee.
At some point, it becomes Monday, December 28th 2009.
I awake to find a nurse, be-gloved and ready for action. I am not enthused. She seems to believe a "quick exam" is just the trick to wake me up, and she is, unfortunately, correct. She informs me that the "ripening" did not take, and I am still closed up tighter than drum. Awesome.
By 7:30 a.m., the Good Doctor has broken my water, started a hefty drip of pitocin, and violated my "no touch" policy quite effectively. Labor has now begun. The contractions are, in a word, bearable. In a few words, they are increasingly sucky and moderately painful, but not necessarily anything I can't live with. I do my best to "breathe through them" and remain relaxed and calm, but by 10 a.m. I begin to think this is not such a good idea. An exam confirms what I have suspected all along: the pitocin isn't doing very much, and I'm only 1 cm dilated.
Although I want to seem stoic and brave, willing to undergo as much pain as I can to avoid looking like a wuss, I crumble like the Berlin Wall when the nurse mentions that as the contractions progress, the exams will get more "uncomfortable." When she gingerly suggests that we summon the anesthesiologist, I all but kiss her on the mouth. It is at this point that my body decides to get serious about removing my baby, so the next 30 minutes are, needless to say, less than pleasant. I recall Otter attempting to make jokes and lighten the mood, but I believe a few four-letter expletives ended that quickly. I swore throughout the process that I would never utter the phrases, "How could you do this to me," or "This is all your fault," and although I have made it this far, my resolve is wavering.
Then, at 11:00, he arrives. That beautiful man with the shiny tray all lined with needles and tubes. The Candyman. He is a beacon of hope and joy, and I can't help but think that he reminds me of Mario Lopez. It is when I feel that delicious needle prick the middle of my spine that he instantly moves from Mario Lopez status to Busload of Gerard Butlers status, and I consider naming my baby girl after him. It is only when I realize that his name sounds like something from the Happy Szechuan Dragon menu that I reconsider.
The next four hours are somewhat of a blur. As the gloriously fast-acting epidural dissolves all sensation in the lower half of my body, I allow myself to drift into my last uninterrupted nap for the next 18 years. It is glorious. At some point or another, I am examined a few times. I am told that I have moved to 3 cm dilated, and a few hours later that I am 7 cm dilated. By 3:30, I awaken quite refreshed, and believe that this whole labor and delivery thing may not be so bad after all. For lack of anything better to do, Otter and I decide to play a game of cribbage and attempt to pass the time.
At 4:00 p.m., a few holes away from Otter beating me at cribbage for the first time in months, the Good Doctor arrives for a quick check of my progress. After a quick poke, he slaps me on the knee and says it's time to push. I seriously consider throwing up.
The Good Doctor leaves to tie up a few loose ends at his practice before the birth, and Otter and I are left with about 15 minutes to get our collective shit wired. We are both, for lack of a better word, befuddled. We cannot grasp the entirety of what's about to happen, and both make some futile last-minute attempts to reconsider. It is when the Good Doctor returns that we both realize that this is IT. The Moment. No turning back. We're about to become parents.
The hanging light from the ceiling turns on, and it feels like I'm on the set of a movie. I keep waiting for a boom mike to drop into the scene. Otter and the Doc are chatting about their respective tacky cigarette lighter collections, and I inform the nurse that I am, indeed, going to barf immediately. I am thinking this will somehow delay the beginning of my daughter's delivery, but I am jolted into reality when she hands me a barf bag and continues prepping my... area. It is at this point that I realize I have no choice but to get over myself, because this baby is coming in a matter of minutes, and my life is not about me anymore. I am told to push.
I push as hard as I can. I look at Otter, waiting for him to pass out or crack a joke, but he just holds my hand and my leg and tells me I'm doing a great job. He's trying not to look down, and I'm grateful for it, because I feel like if he does, he will vomit. And then, mid-push, when I cannot speak to object, the Good Doctor tells Otter to "Look at this." Otter's face lights up and I hear the most beautiful three words I can ever describe: "She's got hair." I smile through my tears, and keep pushing.
Otter stares, wide-eyed and grinning as I continue to attempt delivery our little girl. The Good Doctor decides to use the vaccuum extractor to help her out, and I implore God to allow my child a cone-free head upon her arrival. I am 10 minutes into pushing, and at my last break. The Doc tells me it's time to get her out, and I agree. He tells me, for the last time: "Let's push."
I push with all of my might, and feel a slight shift in the distribution of my body.
And then, just like that, she's here.
I see her face, and I recognize both myself and Otter. She is both huge and microscopic. She is my heart and soul.
He places this purple, slippery, squirming child on my belly, and I run my fingers through her thick hair. She makes little peeping noises, like a cricket. She is, without question, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
She begins to fuss, but quickly quiets when I place my pinkie in her mouth. The nurses dry her and take her to the bassinet to clean her. I wait for her to cry, and the nurses tell us she's probably got a little fluid in her lungs. Although she's not crying and Otter is nervous, I know somewhere in my heart that she'll be OK. I know she's strong, and I know she is going to do it in her own time. After twelve minutes, they decide she just isn't a crier, so they wrap her up and hand her to Otter. In that instant, I see that I have finally been given everything I could possibly want in my life.
I am whole.
I am complete.
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