October 23, 2009
I'm having more fun than I know what to do with over here. Really you guys--dragging this out, annoying people with the delays, getting emails begging for the next segment (okay, only three of those). I haven't been this amped up since that pep rally sophomore year where the bleacher creatures started pegging the cheerleaders with cartons of milk from the cafeteria!
This. Is. Awesome.
I might just do this for every post from this point forward. I can picture it now:
What I'm Making for Dinner Tonight: Part 14
Sprinkle it with salt and bake for one hour.
...To Be continued
But, since I haven't cooked a single dinner since the birth of this baby, that concept is completely premature. So, without any further hesitation, I bring you something far more timely. the third part of the story:
Jared squealed into the hospital parking lot, jumped out of the car, swung my door open and said, "C'mon, I'll help you get in there."
And instead of saying something logical, like thank you, I said, "Jared, I can't believe you picked this parking spot! We're gonna get a nasty door ding from some redneck's truck and that's gonna be the only thing I'll be able to think about what I'm in labor. That'll distract the heck out of me, J!"
Well friends, in the history of all mankind, there's never been a more laughable statement muttered. In retrospect, there could have been an obese man, wearing golf cleats, doing Jillian's 30-Day Shred on the hood of my car and I wouldn't have given half a crap about it.
We waddled into the emergency entrance of the hospital, Jared still humming Yellow Submarine, and made our way to the elevator. We rode up to the third floor, and the moment the doors opened and I saw my doctor--all ninety-two pounds of her--the freak-out resumed.
As she led me into a delivery room I was like, "BABY. BLOOD. LOTS OF BLOOD. BABY. BABY. BABY."
Within one minute I was hooked up to a monitor, listening to the whoosh whoosh whoosh of my baby's heartbeat. I cried, Jared cried, and call me crazy, but I think I saw the nurse wiping her eyes, too. By that point I was four centimeters dilated, and according to my doctor, the bleeding was a fluke, nothing bad had come of it, and it was time to pull myself together.
And I really did have to pull myself together. For two reasons:
1) Maggie's heart rate was dipping from 140 beats per minute between contractions to 60 beats per minute during contractions.
2) My doctor is cute, sassy, and happens to be a fantastic runner and triathlete. I wanted to impress her with my smooth demeanor, my wit, my insane tolerance for pain, and ultimately score an invitation to join her training group.
So pull myself together I did. Within five minutes I was bobbing up and down on the labor ball, my breathing was under control, and Maggie's heart rate was right where it needed to be.
After an hour or so (?) on the labor ball, I decided I wanted to move into tub. The nurse casually said, "Well let me just check you before you move into the water." And when she did, her eyes widened and she was like, "Amy, I need to get your doctor, you're already at eight centimeters!"
And with that news, I locked eyes with Jared and said, "I'm doing it! I'm doing it! Jared! I can do this! I can really do this!" I'm sure it was a nice change of pace for him--you know, instead of, "Jared! You DID THIS TO ME! You FOOL! How could you do this to me?!"
So my doctor sauntered in, snapped on her rubber gloves, and doing her very best to avoid eye contact with me, she said, "Actually, you're at six."
And I was like, "Hey Jared? Honey? When you have a minute, can you grab me a frying pan and that pretty little nurse's head?"
And with the straightest of faces, he was like, "Yes."
With the exception of a really fudgy brownie perched behind an electric fence, I can think of nothing on this planet that's more discouraging than moving backwards during labor. And for that reason alone, I will curse that nurse for all the days of my life. (And then maybe we'll hang out in the heavens--because she seemed really, really nice.)
With that highly discouraging bit of news, I climbed into the tub. I labored in the water for two hours or so, and I've got to say, it really took the edge off of the pain. I'd feel a contraction starting, and the peak of it, the super painful part, would only really last for five or seven seconds--totally, completely manageable. Jared was labor coach extraordinaire, and I was finally back in the zone.
After two hours, my doctor came back in and asked if I wanted her to check my cervix. My answer was a resounding YES. I was sure I'd made a ton of progress in the tub, and I was more than ready to push that baby out.
Jared helped me to the bed, the doctor snapped on another pair of rubber gloves, and once again, she avoided eye contact as best as she possibly could. In fact, I think she did one of those tricky, little mask-what-you're-saying coughs when she declared, "Well, you're still at six centimeters."
People, there's a darn good reason why six is the number of the devil. I was frozen in the depths of my own personal hell, and it was all due to that evil, evil number. I swear on all things good and lovely, I still want to vomit every time I see a number six. Let me just put it out there--telling time is all kinds of traumatic these days.
And this, this, is where the story turns fun.
My doctor said, "Amy, we can do two things here. We can wait it out, let you walk around, get back on the ball, or we can break your water to move things along. It's totally up to you."
Feeling reluctant to wait anything out at that point, I was like, "If we break my water will it make it hurt more?"
And she said, "Well it depends on the person, but it will definitely make it more intense."
I reasoned it out in my very cloudy head, and decided that I could handle my labor being turned up a by a notch or two. After all, I'm the girl who runs marathons for fun. I'm the girl who eats high fiber cereal for breakfast even though I don't struggle with constipation. I'm the girl who's been married to Jared for seven years. I CAN DO HARD THINGS.
And that's when I uttered my famous last words: Let's do it. Let's break my water.
I waited for the next contraction to come around, and when it did, holy hell I think my eyes rolled back in my head. Before I knew it, I was screaming like a crazed women in the movies. And by that I mean I was quite literally screaming at the top of my lungs.
I don't think words can do justice to the pain, but I'll try. After the doctor broke my water, it felt like a lion took a bite out of my middle and was chewing on my innards--except the universe didn't offer me the courtesy of going into shock.
So much for my display of sheer awesomeness. So much for the invitation to my doctor's training group. My reputation flew out the window the moment I screamed for the anesthesiologist. And then bounced off the parking lot, landed back in the room, and flew out the window again when I yelled my secret word: CHICKEN BURRITO WITH HOT SAUCE! CHICKEN FREAKIN' BURRITO WITH HOT SAUCE, JARED!
That was the code word Jared and I had established ahead of time. And let me tell you, it didn't mean Please get me a snack with some Mexican flare, my love. It meant, GET ME THE DRUGS THIS INSTANT OR I'LL RIDE YOU AROUND THIS ROOM LIKE A PONY!
...To Be Continued