Labor of Love: 70 Hours of Sheer Bliss

Comic Relief is a Natural Pain Killer

I don’t remember exactly what time my first son was born or how much he weighed. In fact, I didn’t even see his face till 12 hours later.

My pregnancy was pleasant for the duration. Besides a bit of morning sickness, everything was going fine and I wasn’t looking much different weight-wise, save for the belly. As 2 weeks past my due date approached, despite trying everything in the book, there wasn’t even the slightest hint of impending labor. I went into the hospital at 5 a.m. on a Monday morning, and began a Pitocin drip at 6. The contractions started around noon. I kept a zen-like focus on being kind to those around me, taking walks, and sitting on a yoga ball to bounce out the pain. My water broke early that evening. I played a lot of Mario Bros. on my Gameboy between moments of writhing in agony. My husband was sleeping on a cot at the foot of my bed with a pillow over his head. I have to admit, my shrieking chant of “ow.ow.ow.ow.ow!” was a tad annoying. Once in awhile, a doc would come in to check my progress. By sunrise I had achieved one whole centimeter!

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“Are my contractions whimpy?” I asked a nurse that morning. “Nope, full strength.” she answered. Now, this hospital was full of women in labor. They had a poor girl across the hall sitting on an easy chair in what looked like a broom closet. I figured no matter how bad it got, I should be pleasant to the staff, and even my husband. However, when my mother-in-law strutted through the door toting a Fisher Price tape player and an ocean waves relaxation cassette, insisting it would help, I considered throwing my pillows at her. As Tuesday night approached, I had dilated to 2 centimeters, and lost my battle against begging for drugs. They gave me Demoral. If you want the experience of feeling like you just polished off two pints of vodka through a beer bong, but can’t pass out or puke, and still endure your contractions, I highly recommend trying it.

Wednesday morning the Demoral wore off. I think they felt sorry for me, and proclaimed I was at 2 and a half centimeters! The doc approved an epidural…which I didn’t receive till 4 hours later. By the time that kicked in, I was relaxed, but starved. An IV isn’t all that filling. The same nurse I had on Monday poked her head in the room smiling, “I asked if I could take care of you again…you’re such a sweetheart”! She was actually the sweetheart, because under very hush-hush conditions, and against the doctors orders, she snuck me in a hamburger with a side of baked beans. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever eaten.

This was an ideal time to make a phone call to my unsympathetic mother in Florida. She was getting ready for a trip to Alaska to meet her internet boyfriend.

Friends came and went, I watched The Matrix and played more Game Boy. I tried to take a nap, but the pressure of the contractions was distracting. As the sun set on Wednesday, we reached 3 centimeters.

Late Wednesday night exhaustion was setting in. I was incredibly thirsty, and savored every gulp of melted ice chips I could stand to wait for. Eventually, I enlisted husband to sneak my cup into the bathroom and fill it with water. After a nice long chug, I puked up every bit of it. Then, I hit 4 centimeters. Hmm. Let’s try that again. Five centimeters.

I told my nice nurse about the upchuck phenomenom. She jumped on board. Wednesday turned into Thursday, and I was getting very weak, I think it was around 3 a.m. when my doc told me our pulses were slowing down, and I had to have an emergency c-section. You may be thinking, “Well, it’s about time”! However, I was still trying to champion this vomiting = dilation theory.

I don’t remember much about the surgery. Just feeling the pressure of all those hands pulling on my stomach, and hearing “whoa, this one’s beanpole!” as they delivered him. At that moment I passed out into a very deep sleep.

My husband would later tell me that after they closed me up, I began farting like a freight train. Him and the nurses were laughing hysterically. He even made a few phone calls amidst the flatulence, but those baked beans were WORTH IT.

I woke up around 4 p.m. in a strange room next to a strange woman, and couldn’t wait to see Jack. It was very odd when they brought him in a few minutes later… not the bonding experience I had anticipated. It actually took me a little bit to convince myself that I this was my kid. He was blonde with blue eyes like his daddy, and very, very long. I breast fed for a couple weeks, but it seemed like my spigots wouldn’t shut off, so I had to stop the messy affair if I had any hopes of ever leaving my house. Jack was incredibly content, observant baby, and remains that way. Today I have a 4 ‘2 inch 7 year old that has dismantled and reassembled 1 computer CPU. 2 VCRs, 2 DVD players, 3 sets of speakers, amongst other varied electronic equipment. He draws schematics and builds robots. Out of a unique birth experience, I got a unique and patient child.

Six weeks after that lovely ordeal, I became pregnant with Max. VBAC? Over my dead body. I’ve been in enough labor to count for all the children I will ever have. The coolest thing about having a planned C-section is getting to choose the day. Since Jack was born on 2/22, I chose 1/11 for Max’s birthday, and those dates are exactly 6 weeks apart. During this pregnancy, I wanted to listen to nothing but metal music, and ran up a credit card from my very expensive craving for filet mignon. During my second C-section, they hit a nerve while administering the spinal, and it felt like a bolt of lightning went down my right leg. It hurt, but I was more fascinated than anything, and continued to talk about it while they were delivering him. I really disliked the sound of my guts squishing around, and didn’t remember hearing that the last time. Max was appropriately named. He certainly is a wild thing, and about a head shorter than Jack. So, people don’t really bring up that they must be close in age. That’s OK. I got really bored with all the “irish twins” references when they were babies.

Yes, I’m a little unsentimental about child birth. There was much dismay when I refused to buy the utterly overpriced hospital portraits. I didn’t have baby showers. I followed my instincts and co-slept. I don’t let anyone, any book, or any tradition dictate how I raise my kids. I encourage their interests no matter how unconventional, and I’m so lucky I get to be their mommy.

Photo Credit: Jack Wiggins

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