Six months

In honor of my sweet, sweet boy's six month birthday, I want to share how he made his debut into the world. I've been wanting to do this since he was first born, but... if you have had a baby, you know how that goes!

Keep in mind, this account is long. It is primarily for my sake and Oliver's sake, so he can know the story leading up to his birth, and because I feel it is a type of catharsis for women to share their birth stories. This tale is also for those of you who knew what type of birth I wanted and may be curious how things ended up going, if you don't know already.

So with that disclaimer in mind...

My due date was October 25, 2011. I told myself from the very beginning of my pregnancy that I would not, under any circumstances, start to hope that he would arrive early. Yeah, right. That lasted until I was 32 weeks along. That was the very defining moment when I told Randy, "I am so ready to not be pregnant anymore." Incidentally, that was also the point at which my feet and ankles swelled to an alarming size. Also, around that time, I started feeling like my little boy had run out of room to grow inside my belly. My family can attest to the way my stomach would suddenly (and violently) jerk up and to one side, so it looked like I was storing an oddly shaped watermelon against my ribs on the right side. It hurt. Anyway, it was around that time that I started noticing every little sign, each tiny coincidence or weird feeling, hoping it meant that labor was imminent.

My boy obviously had other plans.

The midwives I was seeing mentioned the possibility of induction once I got to 40 weeks, but they were willing to let me ride it out until 42 weeks. I thought surely, SURELY he would decide to come on out as soon as I hit 40 weeks, if not before. Not so much.

I went back for an appointment at exactly 41 weeks, this time seeing a doctor (whom I had never even met before... what's up with that?), who told me my fluid levels were getting low and my blood pressure was high, and that I should go to the hospital that night to be induced. I told her as politely as I could that I didn't want to be induced, as nothing was at the point of emergency yet. I cannot express how grateful I am that I made that decision. It wasn't without many tears and feeling belittled, but in the end, it was perfectly right. (*Side note- I'm not saying this doctor was a bad doctor or that all doctors are evil. It was just a bad decision to see someone who didn't know anything about me or my wishes during my pregnancy.)

I was so depressed after that appointment that I drove my very large, very pregnant self to Willy's and waddled in to order the largest burrito I could possibly get. That was around 4:30 pm. I continued to be upset the rest of the evening, and when Randy got home, we discussed the possibility of going to Scalini's to try the eggplant parmesan, as a last resort (if you've never heard of Scalini's, it's a nearby restaurant whose claim to fame is that their eggplant parmesan supposedly puts women into labor). I didn't want to get my hopes up and I'd already had my HUGE meal from Willy's. I kept dithering back and forth about it until 9:30. Then I was angry, disappointed, desperate enough to call and ask if it was too late to place an order for take out since they close at 10. The man on the phone assured me it wasn't and got a very knowing tone in his voice when I placed my order. Randy and I hopped in the car ("hopping" is really not very accurate, actually. I hadn't hopped in about 20 weeks.), and rushed to pick up my order. Randy, bless his heart, went in and got it for me, and at 10:30 that evening, with hope in every forkful, I ate my eggplant parmesan. And waited.

We went to bed around midnight (stupid, Emily). Randy had to leave for class at 5:00 the next morning. As SOON as he walked out the door, I felt a contraction. In case it was a false alarm, I waited to call Randy and tried to sleep some more. I dozed and counted contractions for an hour and a half before I called him, expecting him to finish class then come home when he could. I should have known better, because he left in the middle of his class and came home to count with me. There were no irregular, very spaced out contractions for me. At the very beginning, they started out being a minute long and 10-12 minutes apart. Neither of us could sleep anymore, so we got up, showered, and finished packing for the hospital. I wanted to stay at home as long as I possibly could. Within about 3 hours, the contractions were 5-7 minutes apart and lasted close to a minute and a half. Randy kept asking if I was sure it wasn't time to leave for the hospital yet!

We finally left our condo at around 1:30 pm, I think. I wasn't very attentive to details at the time. I just remember thinking I wouldn't ever make it up the 2 flights of stairs to the parking lot. I had to stop for a contraction before getting in the car, and that car ride was one of the longest 20 minutes of my life. I do have a vague recollection, however, of thinking to myself how pretty the trees were at the final turn before the hospital. The leaves were bright red and gorgeous. Then a contraction hit and all lovely thoughts were forgotten once again.

We got to the hospital and I shuffled in wearing my slippers and clutching my medical records. While trying to check in, I kept having contractions. The lady at the desk would ask me questions and I would have to just hold one finger up, lay my head on the desk, and rock until the contraction was over. I'm positive that I looked like a lunatic. I remember being surrounded in the reception area by a gaggle of pregnant ladies who still looked presentable and were probably there to be induced. They also looked a little frightened once they saw me.

I knew from having contractions all morning that they were easier for me to cope with if I was standing up (and for some reason, if I was on my tippy toes. Weird, I know). I also knew that I would have to get in the hospital bed to be hooked up to the fetal monitor. I was not looking forward to it. Once they got the information they wanted, they were willing to unhook the monitor and let me walk around again. When they wanted to monitor again, a wonderful nurse agreed to get on her knees and hold the monitor to my belly so I didn't have to lie down again. I was only 3 centimeters dilated when I got there. The number 3 was one of the most depressing numbers I could have heard, only to be surpassed by 2 or, heaven forbid, 1. But seriously... 8 hours of labor and only 3 centimeters???

My mom and my oldest sister, April, came in my room at some point, and I was beyond exhausted. I recall looking up at April and saying, "I'm so tired." That was when I thought I really couldn't do it the way I had wanted to do it, which was completely drug free. I think I seriously contemplated an epidural at that moment. I kept telling Randy that I just had to have something. I finally convinced everyone to give me a dose of Fentanyl.

Unfortunately it meant I had to be hooked up to an IV and the monitor, and I had to be in the bed. The Fentanyl helped me sleep between contractions, but the contractions in the bed were horrendous. I would wake up, stiffen, and grab the hand of whoever was sitting next to me- Randy, Mom, or April. For some reason, I rhythmically shook my head back and forth during contractions. I felt like I just couldn't make it through if I didn't do that. As a result, I developed the world's largest rat's nest in the back of my hair. Not so good for first pictures with baby.

The first dose lasted about an hour and a half, and I got a second one, which lasted about the same. They really didn't help the pain, just allowed me to sleep. The midwife broke my water around that time, and things really got going. Shortly after, I was checked again and was at 8 centimeters. The medicine had worn off completely and I was convinced that I couldn't deliver that baby without a third dose. Only 3 doses are allowed. My sister talked to a friend of the family who is a midwife, and she strongly advised against a third dose, because it could cause the baby to not nurse well when he arrived. I also knew that a third dose would mean more people would have to be in the room when he came, if I had delivered within 4 hours of the last dose, to make sure there were no problems. I ended up not getting that third dose. I'm so very grateful I didn't!

Our friend also said I needed to get out of bed and walk again. Randy was the messenger for that little gem of advice. I was less than pleased. I kept saying "Just 10 more minutes!" He finally got me up and we walked around in the room for less than an hour when I felt like it was time to push. I was afraid to mention it, though, in case I was wrong. I finally knew for sure, and he went to get the midwife. I collapsed on the bed, and sure enough, it was time!

By the way, I have to give credit were credit is due. Randy was a fabulous coach during my entire labor and delivery. He let me squeeze and pinch the fire out of his arms. He told me constantly that I was doing great. He was quiet when I needed quiet, extra strong when I was at my weakest, and loving throughout it all. There is no way I could have done it without him.

I pushed for about 45 minutes, and it would have been less if it weren't for a slight physiological complication (by the way, during all of this, I was told for a period of time to "not push." I have likened that experience to asking a bullet not to shoot out of a gun once you pull the trigger. It ain't happening).

I had never met the midwife who delivered Oliver until about 8 hours before he was born. She was simply the one on call at the hospital. I would not have wanted to be delivered by anyone else in that hospital, though. She was an answer to prayer. She was calm, kind, and encouraging. I adored her! I also had the very best nurse. Both she and the midwife had had their babies naturally. The nurse called me "baby" and gave me so much strength. At one point, I had my fingernails deeply entrenched in her forearm, and she didn't utter a word. She mentioned that she liked my fingernail and toenail polish while I was pushing and asked what color it was. She probably didn't expect me to answer, but Randy piped up, much to everyone's surprise. He very proudly stated that my polish was called "wet cement." And by gum, he was right! My nurse soothed me and spurred me on. She hugged me tightly before they took me to my recovery room and seemed so proud of me. I still want to cry when I think about those two women. They were my dream team.

I finally got my sweet, warm baby boy in my arms at 11:46 pm, almost 19 hours after it all started. Gone were the tears and moans. I didn't think about the pain anymore. I felt wonderful! I couldn't stop smiling and laughing. He nursed right away and he looked absolutely perfect. He was sucking on the knuckle of his thumb when they put him on my chest. I remember thinking he had such cute, pouty lips and long feet. Never had my heart felt so full as at that moment. It was full of gratefulness, blessing, love, amazement, and awe. Randall Oliver was 7 pounds, 9 ounces, and supremely adorable.

In hindsight, there are things I wish I had done differently. Ultimately, I am proud of myself and beyond thankful for my happy, healthy boy. However, I wish I had not gotten the Fentanyl. I wish I had pushed through (no pun intended) without it. I have struggled with feelings of failure that I didn't go completely drug free. Now I know what I can handle, though, and I plan to go without drugs for the next one, whenever that may be. In the end, I am so grateful for the people who were with me and helped me, the strength I felt, and the little blessing God saw fit to grant me. I try every day not to take it for granted, and it has already passed far too quickly for my liking.

Happy six months, my sweet love.