So below is an excerpt of an essay written about the birth of my first child. I laughed as I read it because I think it might be the most complete description of that very long moment that I have.
Untitled Personal Essay
by Ranee` S. Clark
Written March 2007
When I
think about the less-than-blissful hours I spent in labor with A.J., I don’t
just wonder, I seriously question how I actually came through it alive, or for
that matter, why I’ll even consider doing it again! Nobody wants to hear a
story about thirty minutes of labor and a six pound baby. Nine pounds, six ounces, that’s a good story. A kid with a head as big as his chest
(fourteen inches)? That’s something
people’s ears perk up for. Twenty-one hours of labor that climaxed in a full two hours of pushing? That is a good story.
I start
measuring big around five or six months or so. Please tell me, it can’t be
twins. The doctor says it’s not twins, there’s only one heartbeat. A lady comes
into the place where I work and thinks I’m due any day. I still have two months
left.
A week
and a half before my due date, I go to the doctor. My husband can’t come, so
Mom comes with me. Can’t see Dr. Bohlman, he’s in an emergency c-section, the
receptionist tells me, you can see the nurse. Take a seat and she’ll be right
with you. They told me everything was
fine, but on the way home Mom didn’t think so. My feet are puffy, my hands are
puffy, everything about me is puffy.
We’re
turning around, she says, we’re taking you back and you’re going to see
somebody. I don’t care who. A nurse practitioner agrees with Mom and tells me
to go home and quit work because I have the beginning signs of preeclampsia, so
I need to go home and do a lot of laying down on my left side. I see my doctor
on Friday, a week before my due date and he tells me I’m measuring big. They
estimate the baby weighs eight-six, and they can be off by half a pound.
So what
you’re saying is that he could be nine pounds?
I’m
saying he could be eight pounds, he says. I want to see you on Monday.
When I
go in to see him on Monday, I pray in the bathroom before my appointment that
he’ll decide we need to induce labor. Later, as we’re walking over to the
hospital to check in, I prayed and said thank you, he’s inducing labor. But
they made me go home, because there’s another woman there getting induced,
because I just have pre-preeclampsia and she has preeclampsia and her baby is
in distress. Babies in distress are more important than babies who are too big.
I know they’re right, but I don’t feel too sure.
The
nurse says we can come in Wednesday night, so Wednesday at 5 p.m. Mom and I are
waiting in a quiet room because if we wait for thirty minutes or so then room
32, the big room, will be open. At 7:30 they finally check me in. Sorry, the
nurse says, sorry, we didn’t know it would take so long.
It’s
okay, I wanted the big room, I tell her. I get into bed and they give me a pill
that’s supposed to start labor. Dr. Bohlman told me that if you’re ready to
have a baby, then the pill will start you. If you’re not ready to have a baby,
then you have to go on The Pit the next morning to start contractions. If that
doesn’t work, then you get a c-section. I just nod, because I don’t care
anymore. I’m nine months pregnant, my feet are swollen, my cheeks are fat, my
back hurts, and I have a nine pound baby in me that’s probably not going to be
a picnic getting out.
The
contractions start at ten and are about five minutes apart, and they go on like
that all night. I thought sleeping when you were nine months pregnant was bad.
You can’t sleep on your back because that hurts. For obvious reasons, you can’t
sleep on your stomach, which happened to be my favorite sleeping position
before I got pregnant. The left side is the best because the blood flows to the
baby better from that side, but neither that side nor the right side is
comfortable. After a lot of nights waking up every few hours just to roll over
and try to fall asleep again I thought, it can’t be any worse when the baby
comes. As the night wears on, I’m so tired I fall asleep in the two or three
minutes between the end of each contraction and the start of a new one. My
water breaks at two and it’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever felt in my life. The
contractions are getting harder and closer, and the nurse suggests taking a
shower and running hot water over my bulging stomach, which sooths the pain,
especially the back pain, a little. Finally, at five-thirty, the nurse tells me
I can have an epidural, do I want an epidural?
If I
were the swearing type, this would have been the place to use expletives.
Instead, yes, please, I’d really like an epidural. It takes the
anesthesiologist until six to get there. I lean over the wheeled bedside table,
holding the nurses hand with my right and Mom’s hand with my left.
Now tell
me when the contraction is over, he tells me, and I’ll stick the needle in in
between. I look over and my husband’s eyes are large as saucers because the
needle is so long.
Okay, I
breathe, it’s over. I don’t even feel the needle go in, and it’s amazing how
fast the relief spreads. I lie back in the bed and fall asleep. I’m in and out
the rest of the day, only waking up to throw up, get a drink of water, or
listen to see how dilated I am. Sometime around noon I stop progressing and
they put me on The Pit, and as the afternoon wears on, Dr. Bohlman starts
talking about c-sections again. Before I was okay with that, but then I decide
that I don’t really want my stomach cut open. I start praying again, and my
dad’s sister calls every twenty minutes or so because everyone, including
myself, expected that I would have a baby by noon, or one or two at the latest.
And that starts to get annoying.
You’re a
ten, the nurse suddenly declares after they check me at four, you can start
pushing. Although it has been dragging on all afternoon, the sudden rush of
action startles me. My husband plants himself on my left side, Mom on my right,
and after two pushes I’m exhausted. Little do I know, I have another hour and a
half. They have a monitor on the baby to monitor his heartbeat after being in
the birth canal so long, and a monitor on me to make sure my contractions progress.
Once or twice I don’t tell them I’m having a contraction so I can rest a
little. Mom catches me and gives me a look and hides a smile. In the final
stages, I think someone accidently got the address to a party wrong and ended
up in my room. There’s the doctor, his student, two nurses, Mom, my husband,
and my mother-in-law, who didn’t want to be in the room in the first place, is
hiding in a corner. I don’t even care anymore.
One last
push, the nurse says.
One last
push, Mom adds. I push again. And then I push again.
One last
push, they repeat. I put the remains of my strength into it. And then I have to
push again.
One last
push, Mom says.
I lose
it (can you really blame me, I’ve been relatively good this whole time); That’s
what you said last time! The nurse and Mom look at each other and smirk.
One last
push and I can tell his head is out. One last push and the doctor looks up and
smiles at me. One last push and I my son cries and I’m absolutely relieved to
know that it’s all over.
His head
is huge, Dr. Bohlman announces.
No
kidding. They place him on the scale and everyone is guessing how far up the
numbers will run. Nobody guesses high enough.
Nine
pounds, six ounces, the nurse declares. This means that not only were they half
a pound off when they estimated his weight, but that he grew nearly half a
pound in not quite a week, and no wonder, as thick as the umbilical cord is. My
husband wouldn’t cut it, and Mom has to use both arms to slice through it.
They
place A.J. on my chest. Skin-to-skin contact in the first half hour after birth
is very important to the hospital. I look down at this nine pound, six ounce,
half-grown newborn laying on my chest with a, thankfully, head full of dark
hair, and I feel guilty because all I feel is relief that it’s done.
It
passes as I begin to study him and realize the wonder lying on top of me.
I close my eyes, begin to pray
Then tears of joy stream down my face
With arms wide open.
My
husband leans over and strokes his head, and smiles at his little namesake.
We stand in awe.
Done.
No comments:
Post a Comment