I didn’t post last night and I’m not going to say, “I’m sorry” about it.
I was feeling horribly, horribly rotten and fell asleep on the sofa early without pulling out the laptop (or going to the bathroom).
When I woke up at 3:30 with my bladder screaming in agony, I felt an internal “pop!”. By the time I made it to the bathroom it was quite evident my water had broken and the little imp inside my midsection was making a determined effort to evacuate the premises.
For the first time I was able to wake up my husband with the words, “Honey! It’s time!” (Every other delivery has been a planned c-section where an alarm clock wakes us up. This is Uno’s fault, as she had a distinct fondness for parking her noggin under my right rib and never turned head down. I’ve always been grateful we live in the U.S., a place where breech babies and their mothers don’t die in childbirth because a c-section is an option!)
Lizard reacted remarkably well! He was up in a flash, helping me pack the bag (because who actually has the bag packed when the scheduled date is three weeks away?!), calling our friends to come over and stay with the sleeping kiddos, and giving our parents and siblings heart attacks with a 3 o’clock phone call!
(I had to ask for advice about what to wear to the hospital… it didn’t seem feasible to stick a hand towel down my pants to catch the leaking. We worked it out, but not without my friend laughing at my naiveté. Rude.)
Right before we walked out the door Lizard grabbed a stick of string cheese and offered me one, too. Since my stomach was terribly upset, I gratefully chowed down the cheese in hopes the milk product would settle things. This is an irrelevant fact that will be significant soon. Just file it away in the back of your mind.
We got to the hospital, they stuck me in a wheelchair, and pushed me across the rodent-maze that is a hospital that’s been in business for decades and expanded multiple times. When we got to Labor & Delivery they took me to the triage room, monitored me, and let me know they were going to have to have proof I was leaking amniotic fluid.
That’s not an awesome process. But I was able to prove it, so that’s all that needs to be said about that.
All during this time I was feeling quite badly about the string cheese because it had done nothing to settle my stomach! I was dry heaving all over the place and it was. not. fun.
Now, in an airplane when you get nauseous, they give you a discreet white bag.
In a hospital they give you a blue horse condom.
I’d like to describe it in a different way, but I really don’t know how. It’s a 4″ plastic ring attached to an 8″ blue bag. You’re supposed to hold it to your nose and up chuck the cookies right into it. But it’s a really disturbing shape, it crinkles, and it made me feel naughty, which all culminated in vomit performance anxiety and I ended up just moaning, contracting, and thinking bad things about the phrase, “hung like a horse.”
Good times, good times.
The nurse came by and let me know my baby doctor was on her way to the airport. Apparently she didn’t think delivering my baby was worth turning around and ruining her family vacation. I see where I stand on the list of priorities.
Her partner in crime, whom I’d never met but has a lovely Swedish last name, would be delivering the baby. He preferred to do early morning c-sections, so he would likely be in to do the surgery at 7 a.m. Hurray!
Time passed, I counted on 7 a.m. and then the nurse reappeared. “The surgery is scheduled for 11 a.m. because we don’t want to take the chance on you vomiting up your cheese stick and choking to death.”
That string cheese became the bane of my existence and proof of my rookie mistake. I don’t think I can eat a string cheese without resentment for the rest of my life.
In an effort to make a long story shorter, I’ll just say my body wasn’t interested in letting modern medicine take charge and I moved into active labor. Apparently your digestive system stops working once labor begins so the doctor decided since I wasn’t going to digest the stupid cheese anyway we might as well get the show on the road.
And so the surgery began. It was as flawless as a c-section can be… really! Except for the fact my Swedish doctor kept a running commentary on the best place in town to buy garden manure.
The real surprise is when Bubby came out, we discovered he was about seven and a half pounds!
Let me explain. At his young gestational age he should be a smidgeon over six pounds. That is not the case. He is huge. Which means if I’d actually kept him cooking until the scheduled c-section date he would have arrived in this world roughly the size of a Galapagos turtle.
I’m glad he came sooner.
The end of this really, really long saga is we have a baby boy in our family. Really! We are a family of six, with four children who are “practically perfect in every way.”
How cool is that?
As far as yours truly, I am feeling good. There are narcotics available to a woman who completes major abdominal surgery that just can’t be legally or safely consumed from the comfort of your own home.
At home, Tylenol is the only pain killing option. Which, to steal a phrase from a friend, is like telling a crack addict to have a cup of coffee to stave off their cravings.
Not anymore! The discomfort and pain I’ve been feeling the past weeks is magically erased by remedies with opium derivatives.
I feel good. (I may have 600 typos in this post, but heck!, I feel good!)
That’s the long story of the birth of Bubby. You’ll hear more as the weeks progress…. but for now, you know….
… the rest of the story.
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