Having a baby is the zenith of adulthood. First you do the deed. Then after 9 months of hard work you get a baby. OK, so my wife gets the majority of the credit, but I did (voluntarily) attend baby classes: Birth and Baby, Breastfeeding, and Infant CPR. You see, yeah, I was crazy involved.
In a previous post I mentioned the importance of baby classes, but I need to stress what those classes neglect to share – the ugly side of child birth. I’m referring to the scenes that somehow got cut from the movie and left off the DVD. Well, lucky for you I’m going to give you the director’s cut. It’ll take two posts, but after you’ve read ‘em you’ll be more prepared (and maybe even a little horrified) for the “beautiful” experience of child birth.
The story begins on Saturday, July 10 @2:30AM when my wife notices the first signs of early labor—blood and mucus (aka the mucus plug). She nudges me, tells me the news, and the two of us go back to bed. Around 5AM I wake up to the sound of her voice telling me she was having her first contractions (not the Braxton Hicks ones, the real deal). I ask for another 30 minutes, but she isn’t feeling so generous. Instead she tells me to get ready then proceeds to call the GSO Women’s Hospital. From my side of the conversation I can tell that we’re about to make the 30-minute trip to the hospital. I get dressed, grab the remaining overnight bags, and wait for my wife.
At 5:30AM we’re out the door. We arrive at the hospital ‘round six. Construction prevents me from parking at the door and walking my wife in so I drop her off, park the car, and meet her inside. When I join her she’s signing insurance papers and HIPAA forms. Once the docs are complete, the receptionist tells us to wait in the seating area. Two dudes (who seem homeless) are crashed out on the chairs. A family stares at them, then us, from the corner under the television. And my wife and I…we just sit and wait; tired and a little anxious.
Twenty minutes go by and a door across the way opens. A nurse calls my wife’s name and we walk with her to our room. Once inside the nurse has my wife change into a gown, then proceeds to hook up the fetal monitor.
After an hour, the nurse talks to the doc who suggests my wife walk around the hospital for an hour to intensify the contractions. We walk, and walk, and walk some more. Her friends join us. I grab a snack. And we walk a wee bit more.
When we return to the admittance area we find ourselves in the middle of an unexpected treat—a woman who had arrived only 5cm dilated was giving birth in the room next to ours. Let me tell you. When you’re having your first child, there is nothing better, nothing more encouraging than hearing someone scream as if death was knocking. The place turns to pandemonium. Our nurse runs up and down the hall like Wee Willie Winkie gathering equipment all through the town. Other nurses run frantically trying to get things in order. You can’t tell me that this has never happened before? It sure seemed that way. So this is all going on and my wife and I just stand there waiting to tell someone that we are back so we can be told what to do next. I mean, I know that some lady is having a kid, but we are too. Well, the lady continues to scream some more. A minute later I hear:
NURSE: We’ve got a baby. She’s done.
Finally we’re noticed.
NURSE: Please go to your room. We’ll be with you shortly.
Before our door closes the woman’s baby lets out a scream that rivals its mother’s. More selfishness comes my way. I start thinking, “Great. That lady just delayed our being seen at least a half an hour.” And yep, that’s what it took. 30 minutes later the nurse assistant (I think her badge actually said “secretary”) comes in and hooks up the fetal monitor. When she leaves I take a look (having now become an expert at reading the graphs). Nothing changed. Twenty minutes go by and our nurse returns and tells us the same thing.
NURSE: Go home. Or, go to the mall. Or, go somewhere. Just walk around. Maybe things will change or maybe they won’t. Maybe you’ll come back next Thursday. You just don’t know with these things.
Awesome. Thanks. Well, we drove the 30 minutes back to the house and chillaxed. My wife asks me to make some Mac-n-Cheese. In the 15 minutes it took to make the delectable treat her contractions kick in (as does nausea). She is in and out of the bathroom and I am on the couch waiting apprehensively watching the SyFy channel. Cut me some slack. It was SyFy Saturday and Grendel is on. Don’t worry, I don’t completely ignore my wife. Sure I tune out a bit when Beowulf battles the Grendel and later during the final battle scene with the Grendel’s mother, but when my wife calls out her contractions I record each and every one of ‘em.
WIFE: 1:05, 1:09, 1:13…
For a half hour they occur every 4 minutes. Then they slow to every 6.
WIFE: 1:38, 1:44, 1:50…
Then, about the time Eric Roberts dispatches his best warrior to capture the Cyclops my wife’s contractions are occurring every 3 minutes. And with ‘em, comes pain. Lots and lots of pain. And discomfort, and wincing, and anger, and nausea, and…
ME: I’ll get my shoes.
Back in the car my wife is really suffering now (and still calling out times). Thankfully, I have some Brian Regan on and am able to tune out the situation (again). OK, not really. But man do I love me some Regan comedy. When we arrive it’s the same story. I drop her off, park the car, and meet her inside. Walking up to the counter I find my wife holding her belly trying to answer the receptionist’s questions.
LADY: Do you still live at…
ME: Yes.
LADY: Do you still…
ME: Yes.
Inside, I’m thinking. “We answered all these questions two hours ago. We didn’t move in that time. Nothing’s changed. It’s not her birthday. We have the same insurance. She’s still pregnant.” Whatever. I answer her questions (while my wife closes her eyes and bites down on her lip because of the pain which is obviously more apparent to me than the hospital staff). As if the Q&A session isn’t enough, now the lady wants my wife (who can barely talk or move) to sign paperwork. Really? How about a good ole fashioned X? Nope. Gotta have the John Hancock.
With our first born signed over, the lady finally picks up on my wife’s nonverbal cues. A wheelchair zooms in, picks up my wife, and whisks her away to a waiting room. Uh oh, bathroom time. My wife really has to go. I escort her to the bathroom and am privy to a bit of discharge (that means clumps of stuff and blood and fluids). Eureka! This should move things along. Back in the room we share the info with the nurse as she hooks up the fetal monitor. Come on already! I do not want my wife to end up like the lady from earlier in the day.
The pain intensifies with the increase in contractions. I know this because there’s more blood and fluids and moaning and screaming and my wife tells me the pain is intensifying.
NURSE: On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad would you say the pain is?
Seriously? You’re going with that one?
Having seen this Regan bit a handful of times I darn near lose it when the nurse asks my wife to quantify her pain. But, I didn’t. My wife’s reply of 8 put a look of concern on the nurse’s face. I’m guessing she was thinking, “I hope we don’t have another delivery today.” She checks my wife’s vitals, checks the fetal monitor, leaves to call the doc, comes back and begins the admittance paperwork.
Holy hand grenade of Antioch. The process was as archaic as it gets. Each question (of the 1000 or so) requires the nurse sift through twelve hundred menus. Allergies? Medications? Weight? Age? On and on and on. Click click click tap tap tap tap click click click tap tap tap. Sweet mother of goodness gracious. I’m going to have my second kid before she finishes this interrogation.
NURSE: OK. I’m going to go call the doctor and I’ll be right back.
The nurse leaves the room to contact the doc and comes back with the best news of the day.
NURSE: Room 160.
Yep, we are checking in. Another wheelchair ride and we arrive at the labor room ‘round 2PM where we are greeted by our first labor nurse. She hooks up the fetal monitor and gives my wife an IV, a catheter, and an oxygen mask. She works with my wife. Helping my wife breathe through each contraction and deal with the pain. Side note: Guys, when your wife is in labor and the contractions are worse than passing a kidney stone through your urethra remind your wife to breathe. They will forget. And if they forget too long the outcome is not good. Back to it. There’s more discharge. More fluids. More gross.
Watching the fetal monitor I keep my eyes peeled for the next contraction. When I see one coming I tell my wife and get her to start the breathing process. While I’m sure it helped her mindset, it doesn’t ease the pain. Her face rivals Linda Blair’s. Should I call a priest?
WIFE: I can’t take it. Can I have the epidural?
NURSE: You’re third in line with the anesthesiologist. I’m sorry. Hang on. I’ll go check.
She returns with bad news. My wife is still third in line.
WIFE: Can I have something else while I wait?
NURSE: Hmm, let me check with your doctor.
She leaves again and comes back with a green light for an intravenous narcotic. Twenty-five minutes later my wife is on cloud 9 (doped out of her mind). Another 30 minutes later, the anesthesiologist arrives and shoves two big hairy needles into my wife’s back. Good thing for her, the narcotic masks the pain. Within 10 minutes (5PM for those of you keeping track) labor turns from painful to a stroll in the park (provided you can’t feel your legs strolling through the park). From that point forward labor turns to a waiting game.
An hour passes. More dilation checks. More blood and fluids. No progress. Then another hour. Nothing. Our first nurse is replaced by the overnight nurse (another great and patient lady who we got to know somewhat as the night went on). An hour later my wife reaches 7cm (which, btw, is nothing more than a guesstimate b/c the nurse or doctor just stick their fingers up inside the vagina and feel around. I know b/c I asked as they were doing it. What else was I to do?)
The waiting continues. I watch a movie (Invictus if you must know. It’s OK. Not particularly inspiring) and play a little Angry Birds (a $.99 bargain). My wife takes a nap. I doze off only to wake up when I hear the baby’s heart rate slow. Which is also the time the nurse walks in to check on things. She calls the doc. The doc says something. The baby’s heart reate comes back up and the waiting continues. Over and over. Distress. No distress. Distress. No distress. The doc returns and talks about c-section, but says he’s going to go with pitocin instead. More distress. No change in dilation. 1AM comes and goes. 2AM rolls around and the doc returns with an army of nurses.
DOC: It ain’t gonna happen. We’re gonna make an incision here and then we’ll pull your baby out.
As he’s talking I notice a centipede walking across the floor. Being the kind of person who doesn’t like killing bugs I grab a cup and try to rescue him. About that time my brain processes what the doc just said. Wait, what? How about asking first? How about a little beating around the bush? How about giving induction another go? Negative.
NURSE: You better find a home for that bug ’cause you’re about to have a baby.
I do and when I return my wife is being whisked to the operating room. Another nurse takes me to get changed. I watch six people go into the O.R. A few minutes later it’s my turn to go in. When I do, my wife is wide open on a table. When I say wide open I don’t mean her legs are spread. I mean there’s a huge gaping hole where her stomach should be and a bunch of stuff that is normally inside is now on the outside (my wife later told me she had no idea they had even begun). As I stare, I see the two doctors moving things around as if they’re looking for treasure.
NURSE: Keep moving and don’t touch anything covered in blue.
I do and eventually join my wife at her side.
WIFE: Don’t look.
ME: Too late. Not too bad. Actually, it’s really gross. Be glad you can’t see it.
Her face winces. Machines are beeping and bopping. When I look up I see a cylindrical container with a tube coming out of it. Behind the big blue curtain I hear suction, and then see red ooze fill the tube which then empties into the container. Phew, my wife didn’t see that, probably because she was too busy being manhandled by the doctors. It was pretty cool, or disturbing depending on how you look at it, when the docs moved stuff downstairs, my wife’s body would jerk and she was none the wiser thanks to the anesthesia. 5 minutes of tugging and pulling and suction and chatter, and I see my wife’s torso jerk violently followed by the sound of my son crying.
DOC: Call it.
NURSE: 2:42
They bring my son over. I hold him, the nurse snaps a few shots with my camera, I show him to my wife, and then take him over to the warming table where I snap a few more shots. Again, I couldn’t help myself. I glance up and see the docs digging for the placenta. One word—N-A-S-T-Y. There’s a big glob of something just resting on my wife’s chest. Blood everywhere. I continue to stare until the nurse shuffles me to the nursery.
Upon arrival I hand him to another nurse who weighs and measures him (8lbs 13 oz/21 inches). It would be an hour before he was bathed and two hours before my wife is out of the recovery room. I’m exhausted. Barely able to stand I head to our room around 4AM to get some rest. I ready the room and pull out the hide-a-bed. No sooner than my head hits the pillow the door opens and in rolls my wife. A short while later my boy is wheeled in.
That’s when things went from insane to downright ridiculous.
Seriously folks, when you’re watching the DVDs in your birthing class or listening to your “Good Witch Glenda” nurse telling you all about the wonders of childbirth keep my words in mind: there is nothing beautiful (except for the baby) about the birthing experience. It’s disgusting, painful, and gross.
Check back Monday when I will be discussing the 4-day hospital stay. It’s almost worse than the laboring. In the meantime, if you have comments post ‘em below or e-mail me at TiTy@y2kemo.com.
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