Barren Mare

38 weeks and...

Counting.

Nothing much is happening, to be honest, on the Caveat front. At my last midwife appointment, he was apparently not completely back to back (good) and the head is 3/5 engaged. I could kind of tell s to the latter, given the persistant ache in my lower back and the sense of a cannonball pressing against my nether regions. But maybe he's popped back up again, since the bump doesn't look much lower to me, the need to waddle has lessened slightly and the scalding volcano of heartburn every night remains just as active. Occasionally I have something which I think may be Braxton Hicks action- or then again, not so much.

For added amusement, I've also developed a hacking cough/cold, which I am fighting to keep at bay with steam and vast quantities of oranges but really could do without at this stage.

I am, all things considered, extremely uncomfortable.

So the days go by, filled quite comprehensively by Christmas shopping and wrapping, sorting out a long overdue service of the boiler, Botany's nursery Christmas parties, my office Christmas lunch. Did I mention we seem to be in the run up to Christmas? Hmm, yes. It's proving hard to pull the shutters down and retreat into the hibernation of prebirth with all this going on- but on the upside it makes the days go a bit faster. And I am finding it a relief to have reached December at last. Every day there is a new window to open on the advent calendar and we are one day closer to the wretched discomfort of the third trimester ending. Everyone is suddenly counting down and alight with anticipation- albeit with a slightly different aim. 

 

Windblown

Gale force winds across Scotland today. First scan tomorrow evening. Hang onto your hats.

Meanwhile, another short password protected post up:

http://barrenmare.typepad.com/bandersnatch

For a password, email me at barrenmare at gmail dot com and tell me who you are as a reader-I'll try to get back to you as soon as possible.

 

Seasick

Tra la la, everything is fine, nothing to see here. Except me turning a shade of green every other hour- I'm not vomiting but I feel permanently, relentlessly queasy. It's bearable at present, most of the time although by the end of every day,when I am getting tired anyway, I feel like a sailor battling to keep my sealegs in a stiff gale.

 I'll need to look back through my archives to compare notes with my Botany pregnancy. I'm pretty sure I was quite ill then too- although at about seven weeks, we went on a ferry to across the channel to France in the choppy seas of January, which I'm certain would turn most stomachs to a degree.

Mainly what I recall with Botany was eating my way through the nausea, to the point where I emerged from the first trimester probably about a stone heavier than I should of been (translation for Americans: a stone=14 pounds). Putting on twice the recommended amount of weight is a mistake I am determined not to repeat, come what may.

And yet- the cravings. Ah, so frequent and so varied. Pine nuts. Marks & Spencer sushi with lashings of wasabi and soy sauce (no raw fish involved). Roast chicken. Pasta with cheesy tomato sauce. Pesto. French fries and fish sticks. Savoury cheese and onion filling in a baked potato. Tuna melts. Green olives. Watermelon. Rocket salad. Scampi. Dried apples. Scrambled eggs. Bengali green chicken curry (the really hot one from the Indian takeaway around the corner).

I roam the supermarket aisles, my cart contents dictated solely by the whims of my stomach at that moment in time. I get home, stuff my face with whatever has taken my present fancy. An hour or two later I am hungry for something else. And then the next day, I can barely stand to even think about whatever it was I have consumed so eagerly without my gorge rising.

Oh, what I wouldn't give right this minute for a soft pretzel with lashings of mustard- but they (the pretzels, that) is are virtually unobtainable here. I will console myself with the thought that by tomorrow the very notion of eating a pretzel is likely to repulse me entirely.

 

Fluffy bunnies, flee!

I've finally figured out the key to wreaking life-changing events upon myself: decide to hang up the blog. That was the intention- at least for awhile until I rediscovered some mojo. I've toyed with that notion a great many times over the last few months but I was really quite far down the path of actually doing it this time. I even had the "going-on-hiatus" post all drafted up (with a cute picture at the end! With a beach scene and everything!). But something made me hesitate to hit the publish button- so I slept on it.

I had an appointment the next day for a aromatherapy massage- a long overdue Christmas present from Knox. And given that I knew there was a possibility this month, it crossed my mind that it was a good a time as any to do the very last pregnancy test in the box from an earlier bulk *bay purchase-though like many things, my enthusiasm for testing had fallen by the wayside somewhat in the last couple of months.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but two lines. Two. The second test line on the faint side but clear enough to be seen in the picture I took on my iphone a couple hours later. I promptly ran out, purchased four more tests and used up three over the course of the weekend. All positive- and by today, quite obviously so. Whaddya know, I am apparently pregnant (standard issue caveat: for now).

Now for some frank confessions- lest the perception be that I am deliriously happy about all this and fluffy bunnies start dancing the conga down a pregnancy ticker at the bottom of the page. I am, to be honest, COMPLETELY FREAKING OUT, quite spectacularly so. I was excited- wildly elated- for about two hours and then I heard the baby next door crying. It was like an anvil crashing down on my head, followed by overpowering panic. Oh my god. Oh my gooood. But I wanted this, didn't I?  And then it was like having one of those crash zoom moments, where the past three and half years of Botany's birth, newbornness, nightmare behaviour from 18 months to 2 years, weaning, potty training -zip through my brain in slow motion- and I was suddenly kneecapped with panic at going through all of it- any of it- again. The prospect of more sleep deprivation of the type experienced in the not too distant past makes me feel all weepy, not to mention exhausted even typing this.

And then there are the statistics and don't get me started on that. I imagine that even a few minutes of searching "pregnant over 40" on Google is enough to send even the most stalwart diving for cover under the kitchen table. It could all end tomorrow. The internets say there is a reasonable chance that it will- or that there will be problems, horrid problems. Of course, in the interests of balanced reporting the internets also say otherwise, a fact I will try to remember when I am done breathing into a paper bag. And leaving all of that aside, there is the need to sort out, once for all, the underlying ambivalence I have had this whole time about the prospect of a second child which I stuffed away because lalalalala, I figured I was too old, too past it to get pregnant to really worry about it actually happening.

That's where a blog comes in, and I think I am going to need to write at least a little about it, in search of some form of clarity, for as long as it lasts. I think fluffy bunnies may be in short supply initially. If aspects of it seem in any way whiny or ungrateful (because I am actutely aware how it might seem that way, especially since the opportunity that has landed in my lower lap is one many people would give anything for) then this is maybe the time to start to look- oh, over there.

 

Birth Story Part VIII: Rio

This is the last one in the birth story saga.

Wednesday: sometime about 4.30 pm?

Once my hour has elapsed, there is a flurry of activity. The room is suddenly full of doctors, people taking blood and injecting me with I don't know what. One of the doctor subjects me to a 10 minute quiz about antibiotics.  I am allergic to pencillin, right. So, she asks, can I have ampimoxilliynocillin?  I have no idea what that is. What about oxytocillinohcillin?  Um, pass?  Have I ever had methotreycyllinocillinocillin?  Dunno. Fracocyllinmethocyllin?  Duhydrofandgoocillin?  Look, I finally tell her, I haven't a clue. I am usually very healthy and have not required a prescription of antibiotics in approximately eight years.  I don't know the names. I am not a pharmacist.  Can we move it along, please?

Meanwhile, I am told I am going to the theatre where I will have a "trial by forceps".  The first part of this sounds very jolly- the theatre! With front row seats! Oh goody. The second part is less appealing. Who wants a further trial at this point? Not me. But all this means is that basically, I get three more pushes with some assistance from the salad tongs to drag the baby out, after which we will proceed straight to C-section. Do not pass Go, please collect baby.  I am given a barrage of information about the possible procedures, which I am too exhausted to take in, and there is long-winded discussion about consent, until I finally hold up my hand and say, "Just. Do. Whatever. You. Have. To."

E. disappears off somewhere to change into his Dr Doug Ross outfit. As I am wheeled down the hall to the theatre on my own, I start crying. I am disoriented and the lights are shining in my face. The radio is playing very loudly. They ask if I mind the music, and I say I don't.  They heave me and all my various tubes onto the table like a sack of potatoes. Feet into stirrups. I am so sweaty and my hair is in my face. One of the nurses is kind and askes me what has happened and strokes my hand for a minute as I sob.  Another Drug Doc comes along and starts fooling with the epidural so that we are good to go with the section right away if need be. He sprays a little jet of cold air on parts of my body to see if I feel it. Pretty soon, I don't.

Goddamnit, I think, they put me through how many hours of hell and I'm going to end up with a C-section anyway? Well, screw that. I make up my mind that I am so pissed off that it's come to this that in fact, I don't want a section after all. I am going to push with every last ounce of my utterly sapped strength.

E. comes back. He sits by by my head and holds my hand. Then Three is there and it's like before- she looks at the monitor and tells me when it's time to push. Now. Breathe in and...I push like never before; it is as if I am completely outside myself, outside my body and into some other dark, silent place where there is nothing but the pushingthepushingthepushing. 

I stop, gasping. And then I hear Three say that the baby's head is out.

"Oh, thank God," I say to E.  I suddenly know, with a sense of the profoundest relief, that somehow we're going to be OK.

One more push, the last one, and again I give it my all, though I cannot muster the same force as before but it doesn't matter, because the baby is out. She is here, born to the sound of Duran Duran singing "Rio". 

They place her on my chest briefly. In moment I will never forget for as long as I live, we look at each other. She has a red forceps mark down the side of her face and is staring at us with one open wide otherworldly eye. E says, "Oh, it's you."

They tell us it's a girl, with a long enough pause that for a moment I think perhaps we got it wrong after all in the scan.  Then they whisk her away for what seems an interminably long time while I am stitched up after the episiotomy that I didn't know I had had. Everything is a bit of a blur. It takes another eternity once I am wheeled into recovery to undo all the bits and pieces of medical paraphenalia- though I am left with the IV drip and a catheter which I will come to abhor with violent loathing over the next two days. Eventually they bring Botany back, wrapped in a blanket. Finally after a fandango involving having to shift my floppy self between beds again, I am taken to the ward, where the baby is placed in a funny little raised plastic crib beside me.  E. and my mother say goodbye, kiss us and head home to collapse.

I ask for something to eat and drink, and somebody brings me tea and toast. I fall asleep while I am eating it. I don't remember a lot about that first night, except snippets. There are three other women in the same room.  It is exceptionally hot. I am still sweating profusely. I am given a sponge bath. Can't feel my legs.  Can't get up. Have to ring bell to get someone to hand me baby to nurse. No recollection of her first latch on- we seem to fall into a nursing pattern automatically. Fall asleep again. Baby cries. Where am I?  Room dark, lights in the hall, disoriented again. Oh my god, there is a baby- wait,that is my baby. Can't get up- ring again to get someone to help me stop her crying so we don't wake the entire ward.

In the dim light, I nurse her again, holding her in my arms. I think, I can't believe we made it. Thank god we made it. She's here. She's finally here.

Birth Story Part VII: The Final Push

Sorry if this is dragging out, but we're nearly at the end, I promise- just a couple more.

Wednesday, approximately 2 or 3pm-ish?

At the end of the four hours, something remarkable happens.  Another exam by Three reveals that I am, in fact fully dilated. She is very pleased and a little surprised. Hurray! Time to push, she announces with glee. 

Inwardly, I groan. Aside from the aforementioned morbid preoccupations, tired does not begin to cover how I am feeling. And even if the mind is willing, I am not too sure the body is going to co-operate. I honestly don't know how I am going to find the energy.

I find myself thinking of that scene in the first instalment of the Lord of the Rings. The gallant little band of the Fellowship have just endured a violent snowstorm, an encounter with a creepy lake dweller, been chased around some scary mines by an army of goblins, had their asses kicked by a slobbering troll-thing and are now making a frantic run over the bridge to safety.  That's when the evil firebreathing demon Balrog appears, and Gandalf takes one look at it before leaning on his staff and saying something along the lines of "Oi! What crappy timing, cause I'm a bit pooped after all that."  Of course, he stands and fights anyway, but all the more of a bummer that he ends up getting sucked down into the fiery abyss for his trouble.

Or what about the bit in the English Patient where Ralph Fiennes runs through the desert for three days without food or water to save Kirsten Scott-Thomas from dying in the cave and he finally makes it to safety but then is too tired to coherently explain the problem of his nationality to the British army, so they clobber him on the head like an enemy spy and he wakes up on a prison train heading god knows where and of course by the time he escapes and gets back to the cave, it's a little too late to rescue his beloved and he staggers out weeping among the rocks with her body wrapped in something white and flowing and...

I digress. But you get the drift.   

Meanwhile, Threee trots off to the nurses station to impart the news, something which I gather she is required to do. Only, by prior agreement with me, she is going to tweak things a little bit to buy me a little more time to push.  I forgot exactly what she was going to tell them; something along the lines of I am basically there but not quite. This subterfuge is necessary because apparently, I only get an hour to push before being hauled off for medical assistance via forceps/section. This is the first time I have heard of the "hour limit"- it certainly wasn't mentioned in the antenatal classes- and so I can see the appeal of finagaling an extra twenty minutes or so to prepare.

Because as it happens, I actually have no idea how to do this pushing thing; all the more so since I can't feel anything in my lower half.  So Three talks me through it- you breathe in like this, and bear down like that. Not exactly rocket science, I guess, except that I am gibberingly exhausted in a mushy pea brain way- and again, the no-feeling in the necessary bits. But I resolve to give it a go, since I am sort of gritty that way.

We get ready. Three tells me when there is a contraction. I start pushing. I mess up the first one by exhaling at the wrong point. Another contraction. I try again. PUUUUUUUUUSSSSH. E. and my mother are standing by with water for forehead and for drinking. PUUUUUUSSSH.  Damn, it is hot in here. I am sweating rather profusely.  PUUUUUUSSHH.  Waterwaterwater.  PUUSSSSHHHH. In fact, I am absolutely drenched in sweat and gasping like a marathon runner hitting the wall.

At one point, E. and Three stand at the end of the bed, and I brace one foot against each of their bodies and I PUUUUUUSSSSSHHHHHH.  Three tells me later the force of my leg pushing against her has bruised her hip.

Then Three tells me she can see the baby's head. That's the good news. The bad news is that I am way too overheated and the baby is starting to become distressed.  PUSHPUSHPUSHPUSH.  The baby doesn't shift. We keep trying for a bit longer, but my pushing is now rather ineffective. pushpushpuuuuush. Can't breathe.  Too hot. Too tired. puuuussh.  pffffttttt.

We stop. It's been an hour and a half. My pushing time is up-(as is my posting time, for now.)

Birth Story Part VI: Too Hip for the Epidural

You know that feeling when you wake up in the middle of the night with an agonising cramp in your calf muscle, causing you to flail in a panicky daze out of bed, crashing into the nightstand, howling in pain and hopping up and down in an attempt to ease the knot?  If not, then lucky old you.  If so, then you'll appreciate what's coming next- hold that thought.

Wednesday- sometime in the morning:

The drip has ramped up for a short time when I start feeling a wee bitty uncomfy in my right hip. Ever since my days of torturing my joints during adolescent ballet classes, I have had something of a problem with my...whatchamathingme- hip flexor?  The best way I can explain is that from time to time, particularly after exercise or lying in certain positions, I need to "pop" the joint. All this entails is lifting my leg up to a certain height, like a dog watering a fire hydrant, and it releases the tension or whatever it is that bugs. Sort of like cracking a knuckle. I'd been doing this a lot during the pregnancy- at least three or four times a night-, since all that lying on the left side caused a general ache in my whole body, including said hip.

So, I begin to feel an overwhelming need to pop my hip.  However, this is not easy when strapped, as I am, to the bed with a variety of tubes. I fidget for awhile trying to get my leg up.  Then my mother and Three come to help and tries to raise it.  I get myself onto the left side and together we work at contorting my limbs into various position, but without success.

The discomfort is becoming considerable.  It feels like somebody reaching into my pelvis and slowly twisting something in a gruesome vice. The pain comes in waves.  The epidural has absolutley no  effect on this. Ack. Ack. I don't know how much longer I can put up with it. I look at the clock.  The doctor is coming in a short time to exam me again, so I breathe deeply and figure that I'll soon be heading for my C-section, so I can hold out for just a little longer.

Except as the minutes tick by...not so much. It's become like that middle of the night leg cramp feeling, only in my hip. And by the time the doctor comes in, I am literally writhing in agony.

It is therefore unfortunate that the doctor in question has the bedside manner of, say, fungus, and is only interested in the state of my cervix rather than my overall wellbeing, which at that particular moment is not so fucking well at all. 

It all gets a bit hazy at this point. Three tries to give me some gas and air to ease the pain. I take two or three frantic gulps before swatting it away, wailing,"It's not working!  It's not working!"    The doctor is standing there blankly, ready to get on with the exam. I can't believe that we are actually contemplating carrying on with this induction- it is unfathomable that I might have to stay in this position for another minute let alone several hours. I hear somebody screaming, "Why are you doing this? I cannot fucking lie here any longer," and realise it is me.  The doctor tells me, coldly, that if they don't do the exam now, they will have to do it later.  Eh?  Whatever.  The pain eases for a second and I tell her to get on with it.

It turns out that I have dilated to 4cm.  Apparently, this is considered to be significant enough progress to warrant carrying on with the induction.  Only I beg to differ.  As another wave of pain hits, I am screaming that I want a C-section and I want it now.  (Later I will be embarrassed at all the unseemly screaming and indeed about saying "fucking" in front of my mother in such an unlady-like fashion. But I mean, really- what's childbirth without a certain amount of profanity? Exactly.) 

"No," Dr Fungus commands, "You are 4cm. You cannot have a section. We will carry on with the induction. "  And she leaves without further discussion. I freak out and it all gets really really hazy.

Several things then happen in quick succession. Three cleverly realises that the pain in my hip is linked to the contractions on the monitor. The upshot: as the baby is descending, she is pressing on a nerve or something- so basically I am feeling the full force of each rocket fuel contraction in my hip.  She summons another Drug Doc to come and adjust the epidural accordingly. I don't remember much about this apart from that the Drug Doc is very nice, calls me sweetheart and gives me lots of morphine. Soon I am feeling nothing in my hip, not to mention my entire lower region- my legs are totally numb. Bless.

It takes awhile for the SuperEpidural to kick in, and in the meantime, Three grabs the gas and air nozzle and stuffs it back in my mouth. "Breathe like Darth Vadar," she orders.  Somehow this makes sense, and I do and...ah, wait. That's better. That's much better.  That's gooood.  Um. Yum.  Pain- whapain? Gash and ayr is lovelygoodgood.  They should bottle thish stchuff up and shell it at nightclubadubdubs.

My mother takes pictures for posterity. Oh, the hilarity. Suffice to say I am not looking my best. And we have four more hours of drip, drip, drip to go. 

Birth Story Part V: Rocket Fuel

Wednesday 8.30 am.

Midwife Three, it would seem, is a little less fluffy than either of her predecessors. A little more business-like, with a no-nonsense, capable manner. Or maybe it is just that I have run out of energy to make charming chitchat to win her over to be my new best friend.  At this stage in the game, this is probably no bad thing- I am so exhausted that I need someone who can take charge, without my having to do much more than lie there like steamed broccoli.

Sometime during the morning, a decision is taken to increase the dosage of pitocin, though I can't remember exactly when this happened. What I vaguely recall is that this move follows on from another examination which reveals that I am still not progressing.  An final attempt to get things moving via a full voltage blast of the drip is all that stands between me and a C-section. 

I have misgivings about the higher dosage- I understand that it may increase the risk of stress on the baby. Then again, it appears I've basically run out of options. Three tells me that the longer the induction goes on, the more likely it is we'll have problems. Already there are blips on the monitor that suggest the baby may be starting to get a bit tired, along with my beleagured uterus. She tells me that they will be very, very careful and if it looks as if the baby is in any distress, the drip can quickly be adjusted again.

It's clear to me during this discussion that Three is pretty much reckoning a C-section is on the cards anyway; she says that unless I demonstrate significant change after a couple of hours on the rocket fuel drip, then this outcome is inevitable. So I ask her to talk me through what a Caesearean section would entail.  From where I am lying, it is starting to sound very appealing.  As the higher dosage of Syntocin is prescribed, I am thinking: why oh why not just get on with it and get this baby out now. Why incur any further risk?

But the medical protocol here is apparently to give me every chance to do this the normal way, and so the induction will continue.

Now, what follows is rather dark and disturbing, but it colours a lot of my childbirth experience, so I think I need to share it. 

What I realise as the drip is ramped up is that I have been harbouring a secret morbid (and admittedly irrational) fear. Deep down, I believe that we are going to get to the end, and I'll be pushing and pushing and somehow the baby is going to die on the way out.  Because there has to be a catch somewhere, right?  Because I am now sure there's another shoe out there just waiting to drop- to balance out the tremendous stroke of luck that enabled me to get pregnant in the first place- to enjoy a pregnancy without significant complication for 9 months. Because I cannot fathom being able to get through this and have a real, live baby to take home at the end of it.  So of course it's time to pay the piper. 

In hindsight, it might have helpedf if I could have articulated some of this at the time. And if I hadn't been so tired, or maybe if Two had still been there, I think I might have been able to. But as it is, with a slow, weary mental shrug, I resign myself to four or so more hours of lying in the same spot, letting things take its course.  I tell myself it doesn't matter.  The drip isn't working anyway.  A further exam will almost certainly demonstrate the ongoing staus quo. Then they'll do the C-section and it will all be OK, and I'll be holding my baby.   

At least this is what I am now hoping, because I've discovered that the alternative scares me shitless.

Birth Story Part IV: The Long Night

Hurrah- we're back, and we survived our first trip away with baby, dog and a car packed to the gunnels with stuffus (prams, bike, golf clubs, travel cot, dog & baby paraphenalia. Why do we have so much crap, I ask myself?) The weather was mostly wonderful, the scenery gorgeous and if it wasn't entirely relaxing due to the demands of said dog & baby, it was at least a good learning experience.

High: the walk we took on the first day down to the beach with the baby in her sling and Little Guy romping happily at our heels. It felt like we were really a family at last.  [By the way, for those who mentioned it, we have two different types of sling/carrier- a Bjorn and a ring sling thing and we use both frequently and interchangably. Lifesaving devices. ]

Low: returning from that same walk several days later after losing LG in the shrubbery for forty minutes owing to rabbit chasing frenzy, with Botany was screaming her head off (as we'd run slightly over into feeding time) to find the fire alarm blaring due to oven belching out smoke from small chicken fat incident.  Oops.  Fire alarm set off LG into barking frenzy. The ensuing cacophony made me want to stick my own head in the oven.

Anyway. Where was I?

Tuesday midnight- Wednesday 8am: Actually, nothing very much happens all night.

E. returns just after the epidural is complete, and so he finds me upbeat and resting comfortably. After a short discussion with my mother, the consensus view is that it is best for them to go home and get some sleep and come back in the morning. So they head out again.

Two dims the lights and tells me to try to get some rest. But I can't; if I move too much, it knocks the fetal monitor off, and not being able to move makes me feel antsy. I am conscious of the tubes from the drip and the epidural, which make me feel tethered and a bit restrained. I eventually settle on a half reclined position on the bed, drifting in and out of a drowsy state. 

Two keeps checking the monitor. The baby is doing fine. At some point the epidural starts to wear off, and  another nurse is called in to top it up (Two not being qualified due to a technical certification thing- she is otherwise completely capable). Over the night, I learn that I need to ask Two to arrange the top up as soon as I start feeling something, because by the time someone gets around to doing it, the discomfort begins to be considerable. And I've become accustomed to feeling nothing.

It is a very long, and very strange sort of night, waiting for the time to pass, listening to the patter of my daughter's heartbeat, craving the cool slip of the freshened epidural over my shoulder and down my back. Two moves in and out the room performing her duties.  She urges me to go to sleep, and I cannot. And as the hours go by, we have a series of gentle and slightly confessional conversations; about relationships, about travelling, about life. She tells me about working in Instanbul.  I relate some of experience with infertility, what having this baby means to me, our plans for the future. It's funny how staying awake all night in the company of another person can create such a powerful, if possibly transient bond.  We're throw into each other's path by circumstance- in my case, literally being tethered to the bed- and I come out of it feeling fortunate for having had the time in her company, as if  I have found a friend- even if I never see her again.   

At some point toward morning, Two checks to see how I am doing.  Result: I am not progressing. I have not really dilated at all.  But we still have some hours to go, so there is no immediate cause for alarm. Still, I start to think that I know how this is going end. I believe that I am headed for a C-section, and that being the case, as the hours slowly drip drip by toward dawn, I begin to sort of wish we could cut to the chase (quite literally) and get on with it.

E. and my mother return around 8am, and then it is time for the next shift change.  Two kisses me on the forehead and says she will phone later to check up on me. And then she is gone. I am handed over to the care of my third and final midwife, Three.

I confess that from here on in, I become a little fuzzy about the exact chronology of what happens when.  I am so tired, so very tired- the night is over, but we're not really all that much further forward.

And it's all about to get a whole lot messier, sweatier, swearier and scarier.

Birth Story Part III: Epidural

Tuesday, 9.30 pm-  The contractions have started!  The contractions have really started!  The contractions are...oh holy bajaysus, that hurts. Breathe, breathe.  OK.  Good.  The contractions have started!  I am in labour!  Whoo hoo!  Finally and...oh fuckadoodle, here's another one after three minutes. Oweeeee. OK. Where was I?

And so it goes on for about an hour or so.  My mother stays by the bed, making coachy-coachy breaaaathe comments and rubbing my back.  I love my mother. 

It is at this point Two talks me into an epidural.

[I should preface all this by saying I didn't know, exactly, that I didn't want an epidual before labour started.  After all, my birth plan consisted of one main theme- "wait and see".  So theoretically, I was open to the idea. However, when faced with the prospect, I found myself balking.  I am not sure why. In hindsight- DUH!  Of course I was going to have an epidural. But at the time all I could think is that I wanted to hold on to some semblence of doing this "normally".  That I could be a hard case when it comes to pain, and could somehow superhumanly handle endless contractions. That I didn't want to be completely tethered to the bed for the next however many hours. That I didn't relish the notion of having a needle stuck in my back. That these things are not absolutely risk free, there could be hideous side effects. That why did it have to be a given that I would have one when I didn't necessarily....

oh wait, another contraction.  Aieeeeeeee.]   

Two convincing me to shut up and have the epidural at the start of the induction is so skilfully done, she makes me think it was my idea. The rationale which she plants in my head in the space of that first hour of pain goes something like this:

1. If I have to have a C-section at the end of this, or at any point during, we'll be all set and it will not mean a frantic emergency procedure and indeed lessen the possibility I might have to be knocked out entirely for the birth.

2. This labour is likely to go on for way over 12 hours. Over the whole night.  And it's going to hurt like fuckaree and I am going to be exhausted as it is.  So I can either have the epidural now, while I am relatively fresh and together; or I can have it later, when I am screaming in agony, gone to pieces and completely unable to hold still. Either way, it is pretty much inevitable.   

3. Why be in pain when I don't have to be?  Because this hurts like billy-o already and it's only been an hour.

As it happens, this will absolutely, unquestionably be the best and sanest decision I make.

So I give Two the go-ahead, and she calls the epidural person. [By the way, I am too lazy to type anesthesiologist over and over- I am almost too lazy to even say it.  Let's just call her the Drug Doc.]  We wait for awhile for her to appear.  My mother, who is somewhat squicked out at the idea of watching the procedure, goes off to lie down for a quick rest in the lounge (on the uncomfy sofas, remember them?). Meanwhile, Two talks me through what will happen- how I will sit hunched over on the bed with my back bared and my feet braced on a chair as the procedure is carried out. I try to turn my mind off the latent fear.-I don't like needles, don't like things being stuck in my back, don't like having to do this, don't know if I will be able to hold still.  Instead I concentrate on the next contraaaaaaaction.

By the time the Drug Doc shows up about 11.30 pm, I am beginning to be really glad that there is some pain relief on the way. The contractions are coming, intensely, every couple of minutes. There is no way I can do this for hours on end and survive. The Drug Doc talks me through some of the potential side effects- I squirm a bit at hearing about how there could be a slight chance of a migraine which can last two weeks, but at this point? I'll roll the dice.

And as for the epidural itself?  No problem.  The Drug Doc is very, very good. I have had flu jabs that hurt more. I feel nothing, just some very slight pressure as the needle goes in.

Tthen...ahhhh...sweet sweet nothing. No more contractions. Ahhhh. 

Well done, says Two. Good decision.  I smile at her. She smiles back and adjusts the monitor.  Beep beep beep says Botany's heartbeat. My legs are a little numb but I can still wriggle my toes. Two dims the lights.  And so the long, long night begins on this peaceful note.