Gutting A Deer

This story is beginning to seem like the labor itself--never ending. But I promise to wrap it up with this post. After all, if I go any longer, I'll never convince you to read the posts where I talk about the labor from my other five children.

Just kidding. I'm not posting about that for awhile. I can only relive just so many happy memories at one time.

By the time the doctor started talking c-section, I had been in Pitocin-induced labor for over ten hours. They had giving me pain-numbing (re: muscle-numbing) medication in an epidural twice. I had pushed hard and uselessly for over an hour and a half. I cried when the the doctor said the dreaded term, c-section, but he explained he just couldn't let me go on any longer as things were. Over my sobs--and my groans of pain--he explained that he would call the anesthesiologist back in to give me a much bigger dose of medicine through the epidural in order to completely numb me from the chest down before the surgery.

As the import of his words sunk in, my tears dried up. Did this mean I could stop feeling the contractions immediately?

I always focus on what's most important.

It turned out the anesthesiologist was in surgery and it took a while before he could get back up there. I had a few unkind things to say in the meantime, but the release from pain was so blissful, I wasn't worried about the impending surgery. Instead I was able to focus on much more minor irritations.

For one thing, you'd think that when you're numb you'd feel nothing. Not true. Instead, you kind of feel the last thing you actually felt. In my case, the last thing I had felt was that my left leg was bent. And it still felt that way. After they wheeled me into the operating room, I pretty much lay on the table feeling ignored while everyone around busied themselves with their jobs. My leg felt uncomfortable, and since I could no longer move by myself, I asked someone to straighten my leg for me. To my annoyance, no one paid me any attention. I demanded asked several more times for someone to tend to my leg before someone finally told me it was already straight.

Now I was really irritated. If it were straight, I would know it, but it clearly felt bent. I continued to argue until one of the nurses pointed above me. "Look up there, honey. You can see that your leg is straight." Above me hung the large light they would be using when they operated. It was not on yet, and had been pushed out of the way up above me. In the polished chrome I could see a slightly distorted reflection of myself, and sure enough, my leg was straight.

I could also see that I was buck naked.

I don't know which was more disconcerting--the fact that I was lying on the table, naked, in a room full of strangers, or the fact that no one was paying the slightest attention to the fact that I was lying naked on the table in a room full of strangers. Not that I wanted them to pay attention. Before I could say anything, a rather large nurse came up to stand behind me and placed an oxygen mask over my face.

I was already feeling a little claustrophobic because the rest of my body would no longer move when I wanted it to. Plus, they had a small curtain fixed just below my chin so I couldn't actually see when they operated on me. (And they pulled the light away so that I could no longer see my reflection either--thank goodness!) The pressure of the mask on my face was the final straw. I tossed and pulled my head as I struggled to get away from the mask, and begged the nurse to remove it. She told me it was for the baby--something I didn't believe for a minute--and promised to move it as soon as the baby was born.

The curtain and the lack of movement and the mask were bad enough, but this nurse was right behind my head, and she was so large, I could see her no matter which way I turned my head. It didn't help when she reached a large, gloved hand over my face and placed it on top of the mask. She was only going to lift and hold it just above my face, so I could have the oxygen without the mask actually touching me, but her actions completely freaked me out. I started jerking my head away, shouting, "Drop it! Drop it!" The mask settled back on my face, and she returned to her station just behind my head.

No one else in the room seemed to be paying any attention to the diva-patient. They were all absorbed in the surgery itself--including my husband. Indiana had been scrubbed, gowned and masked and given a seat next to my head, but when the procedure started, he stood up and watched in fascination over the curtain. The doctor looked up in surprise. "I thought you were squeamish," he commented.

Indiana shook his head. "Only with needles." He answered. "This is like gutting a deer."

My hero.

Luke was born just over twelve hours after this whole ordeal started. He weighed 9 pounds, 8 ounces and was over twenty-one inches long. I cried when I saw him, but refused to hold him until the feeling came back in my body, which happened sometime during the middle of the night. The diva attitude wore off about the time the anesthesia did, and I held my baby close about three o'clock in the morning.

He was worth every frustrating, agonizing minute of it. But don't tell him, or it'll go straight to his head. In the meantime, just like I guilt his big brother with the 32 hours of labor bit, Luke hears the "twelve hours of labor and a c-section" line quite often along with the "you're the only one that made me go through surgery." Hey, a little guilt is a great motivator. And he deserves it for giving me frequent heart attacks.

Like the other day when he reminded me that next year, he'll be old enough to vote.

Nineteen in Twenty Women ...

Okay, where was I? Oh, right.  Two weeks ago I was describing the incredible fun I had bringing this handsome, although not exactly small, young man into the world. After false labor, false hopes and a false trip to the hospital, my doctor decided to induce first thing Monday morning. If you want to read more than that incredibly condensed summary, you can click here.

I don't know about you, but I was rather stupid in my younger years. I assumed that my long labors and hours of pushing for my first two pregnancies were somehow my fault. I figured if I had been better at my job, (having the baby) then that part of the process should have been easier. For whatever reason I can't remember, I didn't have an epidural with either of my first two babies. Instead I had pain meds pushed through my IV. After talking with assorted women (good friends, nodding acquaintances, strangers in the checkout line at the grocery store) I decided than an epidural was the answer to all my problems. Everyone I spoke with assured me that, once they had the epidural, 1. there was no more pain; 2. a few pushes and the baby was out; 3. they thoroughly enjoyed the birthing experience.

Since my first two experiences were less than enjoyable, and since they were also only painfully hazy memories, I decided that having an epidural would give me the ideal birthing experience that all the books talked about. (In case you're wondering, I have since thrown those books away.)

Since this was going to be the ideal birth, I was not at all worried when the doctor said he was going to induce. Neither was I bothered when he chose to induce on Valentine's Day. In fact, I thought it was rather romantic that we were going to have our child on that day. Did I mention I was rather young and stupid at that point? And that I hadn't thought ahead to the fact that Valentine's Day forever after was going to be about birthdays and not about romantic getaways?

The only thing I didn't like was the fact that we had to be at the hospital at five in the morning. But since this was all going to go so quickly, what with the inducing at all, we could have the baby and still have most of the day for other things, right? I was even taking a different approach to labor. Instead of focusing on it (i.e. lamaze-style), I had saved a book I was dying to read for the hours I would be in labor. I could always get lost in a book, and I figured that would take my mind off the pain until I had the epidural.

The book worked for a while. I was in pain, but was still able to lose myself in the story. At least until the doctor came and checked on me mid-morning. He said I looked way too comfortable for the contractions I was supposed to be having, and then he told the nurses to push the Pitocin semi-aggressively. After he left, there was a little discussion among the nurses as to just what he meant by semi-aggressively. Judging from the sudden leap in pain intensity, they decided to focus on the aggressive as opposed to the semi.

In no time at all, I was dilated to 4, although the pain level made me believe I was at 7. It was clearly time for the epidural. The end of pain and the beginning of the end. After all, wasn't that what everyone said? Epidural, no pain, a few pushes, you're done. Being young and stupid (did I mention that yet?) I neglected to ask anyone how long their labors were normally. I think I just automatically associated epidurals with shortened, easier labors, although no one actually made that claim. And rightfully so. Here was where all my pre-conceived notions failed me.

And here's where Indiana Jones failed me too.

My fearless husband has faced down terrorists in Uganda. He's stared at the business end of an AK-47. He's almost capsized in a canoe during a violent storm on Lake Victoria. He's boldly gone into jungles in Africa where no white man has gone before. He's earned the nickname Indiana Jones.

Needles make him pass out.

With each contraction becoming more painful, I should have been able to cling to my manly husband while they tapped the needle into my spine and gave me the epidural. Instead, my husband was standing out in the hallway, turning white as a sheet at the thought of a needle being anywhere in the vicinity, while I clung to a nurse whose name I didn't even know. When the job was finished and all needles again packed away out of sight, Indiana returned to my side to resume his role as coach.

A little disgruntled, and more than a little out of sorts, I settled back on the pillows and waited for the epidural to take effect. Pain continued to hit me in waves for the next several hours, with very little relief in sight. This was not the pain-free uptopia I had been promised. When I complained, they told me that everyone responds a little differently to epidurals.

I wanted my money back.

Hours later they brought the anesthesiologist back in for a second tap and additional medication. (Indiana deserted me again to go stand in the hallway during the procedure.) Not only was the epidural not taking care of the pain, but it was also slowing the progress. Contractions were coming in fast and furiously, thanks to the semi-aggressive use of the Pitocin in my IV, but I was not dilating. When they tapped me the second time, I was only dilated to a 6. Many more hours passed before they finally declared that I had reached 10 and I could push.

Frankly, I didn't have much energy left by then, but this was supposed to be the home stretch, right? A few pushes and then we were done. That's what all those epidural-experiencing experts had told me. Of course, most of them also gave birth to normal, 6-7 pound babies as opposed to bowling balls. I probably should have factored that in.

The first few pushes made me realize something was horribly wrong. I couldn't feel any progress. In fact, other than the pain of the contractions, I couldn't feel anything at all. It seems that, although the epidural was a complete failure at numbing the pain, it had done an excellent job at numbing the muscles I needed to use to push. Sometime later I learned that epidurals work well for nineteen out of twenty women.

Meet Number Twenty.

After an hour and a half of pushing that did nothing but drain the little bit of energy I had left, my doctor examined me and said he couldn't let me go on any longer. He told the nurses to prep for a c-section. I was horrified that it had come to this, but then one thought took precedence over everything else:

Did this mean we could stop the pain?

Seventeen Years Ago ...

... I wasn't really in labor--I just wanted to get out of the house. We'd had an ice storm that week that knocked out the power for a lot of North Alabama. We had power, thankfully, but friends didn't and so they were staying with us all week as the South doesn't recover from ice easily. I was crowded, bored and nine months pregnant when the pains started. When the contractions held at every five minutes for an hour, I announced that I might be having a child that day.

Even then it wasn't a for sure thing. Our first bouncing baby boy, a 10 pounder, arrived after 32 excruciating hours of labor. (I use that fact as motivation every time I need to guilt him into something.) Our little ray of feminine sunshine rolled her 9 pound 12 ounce self into the world after 12 hours of labor. And ten days past her due date. If there was one thing I knew for sure, Boyd babies weren't in a hurry.

Our houseguests had no concept of the leisurely labor process. At five feet one inch, S was as big as my pinkie when she was nine months pregnant. Her babies came quickly because they literally had nowhere else to go, and she bounced them out with the speed and agility of Kobe Bryant on the baskbetball court. They lived the ninth month of her pregnancies in a restricted distance near the hospital and measured all activities by how long it would take to get to labor and delivery from the time the first pains hit.

"Feel like eating at Cracker Barrel?"

"They're on the south side of the street, and we'd have to cross traffic."

"Dennys?"

"Too many feet from the emergency entrance of the hospital. We'd better stick with Bob Evans instead."

So when I announced the impending arrival of our third child, and then Terry and I went on calmly eating our breakfast, it sent our company into a frenzy. Terry left soon after to do a painting job at a nearby apartment, leaving me to endure intermittent contractions--and two sets of eyes that watched my every move.

 By that afternoon the waning pains and claustrophobia had taken their toll, and I decided to go find my husband. As I waddled out the front door, our friends reached for their coats and flexed their fingers in preparation for dialing 911. Apparently they were sure that, despite all evidence to the contrary, at any moment I would drop to the ground in the full throes of labor and give birth in the middle of the street. Silly friends. Even if I were to go instantly into full blown labor, pushing alone could take 2-3 hours. Plenty of time to get a load or two of wash done and still have the ambulance deposit me at the hospital before our dawdling child decided to make an appearance.

By now I was more than sure that I wasn't actually in labor. Stupid Braxton-Hicks contractions. But I was also equally sure that I wasn't going back into that apartment until I had a baby in my arms. I knew walking could sometimes bring labor on, so my plan was simple:  find my husband and have him take me to Walmart. We'd walk around the store until I went into labor or until our friends got the electricity back on at their own home, however many days it took.

Terry was more or less agreeable to my plan, meaning he took me to Walmart for a while and then, because I was still occasionally having contractions, he insisted I go to the hospital to get checked out. I was not in the mood for a fake hospital visit, but he convinced me it was for the best. After all, he argued, we couldn't disappear for hours on end and then show up back at home without at least having stopped at the hospital.

So my pride forced me to end up spending the evening in a hospital bed, strapped to a fetal monitor and hooked up to an IV. After several hours they confirmed what I already knew:  I was not in labor. I had exchanged two watchful people for an entire shift of them, and I felt more guilty when my doctor showed up to check on me.

I perked up a little when he told me he'd been thinking about my case and my history (gestational diabetes and big babies) and had decided that my pregnancy shouldn't go any longer anyway. Show back up at the hospital first thing Monday morning, he instructed. He'd induce and we'd get this pregnancy over with.

With the promise of the end being in sight, I was finally ready to go back home. One more day and then finally I would have this baby. What a relief!

I thought.

Can you say Pitocin?