As Seen On TV: Part Two

As a disclaimer for this particular blog post: I have been asked to note that my wife, who reads this and approves of not only my recounting of this story but the ways in which I tell it, has asked me to keep this entry to at least a PG-13 level.  Seeing as how she really did most of the work that I will be discussing, I will respect her dignity... and herein, will be using that specific term to refer to the region betwixt m'lady's thighs.

Ready to attack childbirth!  Throwing my hospital bag into "The White Warrior".

So at the end of our story's first installment, we were drifting off to a tenuous sleep, dreaming of dilation, effacement, and crowning.  The sterile hospital air that night was tempered with a hint of "dignity-introduced" medication.  Jan continued to contract with regularity every two minutes, but did get some sleep due to their slight nature.  Our favorite nursing team had gone home, and our night nurse was still charming and appropriately sarcastic, but also presented with a "take no crap" attitude.  We were happy to be cared for, but still missed Team L.  I woke periodically on my own due to the uncomfortable nature of the chair/bed to which I was relegated, and woke periodically on demand to assist my wife in her bathrooming.  ...those who have had children will agree that once this process starts, your sense of shame tends to go the way of the Dodo a little bit.

  

We anticipated our 6am appointment with the OB/GYN, who arrived dutifully to remove the Cervidil and perform a checkup on my wife.  After thoroughly inspecting my wife's "dignity", we were informed that the medication had served it's purpose, and she was now dilated 3cm.  ...so in 18 hours, we'd gone from the width of a Cheerio to the width of a slice of banana.  Like the German economy in the 1950s, we were making progress, albeit slowly.  The best news to come out of the 6am doctor's visit was learning that after the removal of the medication, Jan was allowed to temporarily remove her monitors and actually venture beyond the sides of her bed and the toilet seat (big victory).  We took a brief jaunt out into the hallway to stretch our legs; Jan then decided to take a shower.  ...and by "Jan decided to take a shower," I of course mean "wipe down wife as she stands in the hospital bathroom shower stall."

  

The two precious hours between 6am and 8am went by all too quickly.  We both had the opportunity to clean ourselves, then Jan's breakfast tray arrived (given that I was not the important one in the room, I was left to forage for myself again... but of course, I really have no grounds to complain about anything, so I dutifully kept my mouth shut).  She did her best to force down the gruel that the hospital nutritionist had stamped as sufficiently healthy and pressed into the relative shape of actual human food (omelette and a muffin, I think?), but quickly turned to the provisions that we had secured from visitors the night before.  Matt had stopped by after work and brought some turkey sandwiches from the grocery store around the corner, and they were now seriously coming in handy.  NOTE TO PREGNANT PARENTS: unless you show up the hospital already crowning, bring a cooler and some munchies.

  

Hungry and sleep-deprived, the mama wildebeest scours the Serengeti for anything she can find.

The 8am visit from the doctor meant Jan was now strapped in for the long haul.  The OB/GYN broke her water for her, and I posited that due to her low fluids, I was assuming that the noise it made would be "..pfffft."  Luckily for me, my jokes were landing; for this would otherwise be an even longer day.  Thankfully for us, Team L was back on the job that morning for the day shift, and seemed excited to see us.  Following the water breaking (which was not nearly as eventful as is portrayed in the movies), the nurses put Jan on Pitocin to help move things along.

  

Click here, mobile readers, to see what TV taught me water-breaking and birth would be like.

The only way to describe how the next few hours passed would be to say "both slowly and quickly".  Some things seemed like they were taking forever: we were obviously not preparing to push at all, and Jan wasn't feeling any of the physical signs that birth was imminent.  ...also, Saturday morning TV was crappy.  Other things, however, happened quite quickly: Jan's contractions still occurred regularly every two minutes, but since the introduction of the Pitocin, her contractions began to increase in intensity.  The nurses asked her routinely what her pain rating was on a scale of 1-10, and despite the subjective worsening of her experience (measured on the "bitchiness/loudness" scale), she kept reporting, "two... just two".  Finally, when she forced a "two" through clenched teeth from behind bulging eyeballs, I felt compelled to walk across the room and pull the pain chart off the wall so I could hold it in front of her face, forcing a reassessment.  "Oh... ok, well, at least like a 4...?"

You'd think this would be helpful...?

Her biggest issue was deciding when she should ask for the epidural.  We had been cautioned by Team L that it could be as long as 90 minutes until the drugs kick in (factoring in time for the anesthesiologist to arrive, set up everything, play a quick round of 18, and actually deliver the medication).  She was very concerned about asking for the medication too early, lest the entire hospital run out, I suppose.  Eventually she decided that somewhere around "definitely a 6-out-of-10" and "stop asking me how badly it hurts, you a**hole," it was time for some pain meds.  The anesthesiologist arrived surprisingly quickly, and despite delivering his spiel with the droll presentation of the guy who reads legal disclaimers at the end of radio commercials, I was positive that he still gets the highest customer service ratings of every employee in the hospital.

"The Candy Man can, 'cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good..."

Gentlemen, let me tell you: get your hands on an epidural and give it to EVERY WOMAN IN YOUR LIFE, EVERYDAY.  This stuff is liquid magic.  In a matter of minutes, our conversation had not only decreased in both intensity and volume, but experienced a significant qualitative shift as well:

BEFORE:

"Get me my water!  Why are you sitting down??  No, not THAT water, the other water!!  Go get ice!  Come back, I need my water!  WHY ARE YOU TAKING SO LONG?!?"

AFTER:

"...mmm, come look at the monitor.  ...let me know if I'm having a contraction right now; I can't tell."

  

Jan's epidural kicked in around 11:30am, and the OB/GYN came back for a checkup of Jan's "dignity" at noon.  We had made *some* progress: she was now dilated 4cm (diameter of a Ritz cracker).  For everyone playing along with the home game, we still had to make our way up the to diameter of an H&H Bagel.

In retrospect, the afternoon actually went by faster than it seemed.  I was afraid to leave the room lest I miss anything, and Jan soldiered through every new cramp and position shift like a champion.  She also seemed to be enjoying her inaugural experience with the urinary catheter far more than her inaugural experience with the IV.  In an effort to suck up to our birthing staff, I had noted which pieces of candy were preferred by our team members (nurses and doctors alike) and had set dishes of mini-candies about the room in key locations: next to the handwashing sink, on top of the fetal monitor, etc.  Subsequent to this, I noted an increase in the number of staff members that passed through our room that afternoon.

Finally, around 4:00pm, Jan sat up and proclaimed loudly, "I have to poop."  Stand down, fecal enthusiasts: this sensation was the harbinger of parenthood for which he had been waiting so patiently.  The doctor was summoned, and upon inspection, informed Jan that she was dilated at least 9cm (good work, dear).  She was sat up, and a flurry of activity commenced around us.  Tables of sterile instruments were assembled, and the stage was lit appropriately (dual spotlights from the balcony).  I had previously discussed my background of medical training with our birthing team, and it was agreed that as long as everything was progressing healthily, I would be allowed to deliver our daughter (from the head down).  This meant that years from now, I would actually be able to use the Bill Cosby quip, "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it!" (I like to set up my discipline-related humor years in advance).

  

Jan's last photo as a childless person; how enthusiastic!

Pushing commenced at 5pm.  I have always made jokes about how my wife's reaction to even the slightest side-bump is to scream in pain, but when the metal met the meat, she was an absolute warrior.  She didn't need to have anyone tell her when to push, she would just give us a nod, lean forward, and hunker down.  During the early stages of the process, my job was to supply water, hold legs, and control the music playlist.  Our nurses noted that we were really having a good time, and at one point even called for more of their coworkers to come in and join us.  (By the time this kid appeared, we were one baby, two parents, an OB/GYN, five nurses, and a partridge in a pear tree; good thing we got the big room!)  

  

If I haven't previously mentioned so over the course of this chronicle, I would describe what childbirth looks like as "a wet saint bernard trying to squeeze in through the cat door".  Very early on in the process, BGA's head made an appearance; everyone was impressed that she came out with a good head of hair.  Upon hearing this, Jan asked what color it was; I responded, "Well, at the moment, black; ...and wet; ...and a little blood-red."  (Jokes continued to land effectively throughout.)

Click here, mobile users, to see what is probably the most accurate portrayal of birth from the inside yet seen. 

Over the course of the pushing sequence, I finally discovered just what "new baby smell" really is: it is Johnson&Johnson baby shampoo.  ...for that is the lubricant that was applied liberally to my daughter's dome and my wife's "dignity" whilst she attempted to pass our little mass of genetic amalgam.  Just like her mother and father, this little bundle of goo was being stubborn.  Jan was doing an amazing job, but after an hour-and-a-half of active pushing, we needed a little motivation.  Finally, my darling wife voiced her interest in what was actually happening "down there".  Not giving it a second thought, the leader of Team L grabbed her hand, pulled it downstage, and slapped it right onto BGA's emerging corona.  Jan's face lit up with excitement.  Sensing this, our lead nurse asked, "Jan, I know you didn't originally want a mirror, but what about now?"  At the outset of the process, Jan had noted that she did not want a mirror because she had no desire to see any tearing/explosions/bloodshed/pooping; once she was assured that she was essentially having the most pretty and demure birth known to man, she asked for a mirror.

  

What Jan was afraid of seeing in her birthing mirror.

...well friends, that did it.  Even now, Jan says that being able to see our little girl was the motivation that she needed to finish pushing out this kid.  Maybe six more pushes, and we had a nose and mouth that had trepidatiously, but alertly, made their way into this world.  The OB/GYN and I did the most gentle transfer to have ever happened at such a speed, and as I sat in the driver's seat, I looked up at my wife.  She glanced back down to me, over to the mirror, grimaced, pushed, and made us parents.  Our gooey little lizard was the most beautiful thing that I had ever held with that degree of stickiness.  Singing us the song of her people, she went immediately onto her mother's chest, and there it was: no longer a couple, we were a family.  The nurses of Team L had been waiting on the edge of their proverbial seats for two days to see what moniker we would bestow upon our progeny.

   

After 31 hours of active labor, Jan and I looked at each other and introduced to the world our daughter, Kaleigh.  Our adventures, however, were just beginning.....

As Seen On TV: Part One

So it's been a while since my last post, and I dare say (thankfully) that it's because we've been somewhat busy.  Our twosome has recently finally become a threesome; actually Camden, sitting at my feet, has asked me to amend my count to "threesome become a foursome."  I've been plotting how best to describe our birthing experience ever since we were first admitted to the Labor & Delivery ward, and it seems as if it cannot be confined to one post alone.  So herein, I shall begin to describe the processes leading to birth of our daughter; subsequently, I shall describe our postnatal experiences.  Without further ado, please indulge me...

Exactly how real, human, actual childbirth takes place: as seen on TV.

Despite all of our willing, wishing, and hoping, no amount of walking/spicy foods/jumping up and down could get this kid out early.  On Monday (April 21), we went back to the OB/GYN's office, as I had feared in my previous post.  This was Jan's calculated due date, so as Monday waned, BGA became fashionably late.  The doctor determined that everything was, as always, progressing well but slowly.  They attempted to help us along by stripping her membranes... for those who are unfamiliar, I'll let you click on the link and investigate for yourselves, but suffice it to say that from my "stand above your wife's head" perspective, it looked a heckuva lot like the doctor was filling my wife with stuffing in preparation of a Thanksgiving feast.  They then informed us that if nothing had happened by Friday, we were to go for an ultrasound in order to check her fluid levels, and subsequent to that, we were to return for a "non-stress test" on the following Monday.

Following a week of burning our GI tracts with spicy foods and wearing out our walking shoes, Friday rolled around quickly.  I was not feeling optimistic, as I had been hoping all week that BGA would make her arrival and get me out any number of responsibilities: work, class, office hours, etc... no dice.  This particular morning we had made an ultrasound appointment at 7:30am so that if everything was fine, Jan could continue on to her school and I could catch the train downtown to mine with plenty of time.  We decided not to put our hospital bags in the car because it would only jinx us further, and if Jan had to go on to her school afterwards, they would be a risk of being stolen from the trunk of my car.

  

The ultrasound technician (the very same one from our first appointment confirming our pregnancy), nearly addled with seasonal allergies, began to calculate the fluid levels betwixt BGA and the walls of her ever-narrowing aquatic base between sneezes.  She began to remark that she was unable to get an accurate measurement of our daughter's head because it was so low, we were unable to pick it up on the screen.  (...a good sign, perhaps?)  When it finally came time to do some basic calculations, she spouted numbers out loud.  "1.6... 0... 1.7.  What's that?"  "3.3!" I exclaimed excitedly, although mostly from properly summing the numbers and not from knowing why; "What is it supposed to be?"  She informed me that the target level was 5cc or greater, and then spoke the life-changing sentence we had been waiting to hear: "You kids aren't going home; you're going to Labor and Delivery."

So, we hurried home to let out the dog, gather our bags, use the bathroom, and dash off to the hospital.  ...I may or may not have used these few minutes to pack my bag with a few extra items as well, which really made Jan run around the house like a chicken with her head cut off.  At one point I was compelled to reach between her legs and realize that the baby wasn't actually coming out at that moment, and that we could take our time.  Nevertheless, that did not mean I was about to give up the opportunity to drive almost recklessly fast to the hospital.  Jan cautioned me to slow down, but I insisted that it was arguably the one time in my life I could drive that quickly and legitimately tell any cop pulling me over that my wife was in labor.  ...alas, though, my wife played copilot and chose the absolute slowest and most red-light-riddled route to the hospital.

Trixie and The Mach 5 were quite jealous of the Hyundai SantaFe.

We arrived in Labor and Delivery right in the middle of what can only be described as a birthing sh*tstorm; pregnant women were dropping babies EVERYWHERE!  As we were waiting to meet our nurse and be led to our room, we overheard one woman be wheeled out of here room.  As she tossed back her hair, she flippantly and coolly remarked, "Oh, I can't believe how easy it all was!  Three pushes, and this baby just crawled right out."  .....BITCH.

We were introduced to our team of nurses, who we learned had the same name (herein, I shall refer to them as "Team L").  After half-jokingly making sure that neither of them dotted the "i's" in their name with hearts, we were fortunate to learn that they both had the same dark and twisted sense of humor that we did.  After meeting briefly with the doctor, Jan was connected to a fetal monitor and started on an IV drip so she could received doses of penicillin (she had tested GBS positive).  We quickly recalled that this was to be her first IV ever (years before I had tried to get her to donate blood, but she had been screened out prior to the needle because of a recent trip to Central America).  Team L literally oohed and aahed over her veins, salivating like vampires for a good puncture site.  Despite their best efforts though, they blew through the first vein on her arm and had to back out and try for their secondary site.  Jan winced in pain and I panicked, thinking that if she was this hurt from the IV, we were in some SERIOUS trouble later on.  After they finished turning her left arm into Swiss Cheese (only teasing, Team L...), our OB/GYN introduced the medication Cervidil at 12:00 noon on Friday, April 25 and informed us that we should make ourselves comfortable, because she typically leaves this medication in for 18 hours.

  

I spent an hour looking around for a T.A.R.D.I.S. before I could be sure that this wasn't some Dalek relative.

  

It was at this point that I began to unpack our bags.  Between Jan's hospital bag, my hospital bag (which was my rucksack, stuffed to the gills and actually containing our camera bag), and a bag of foodstuffs, we were basically tailgating the birth of our daughter.  After unpacking a bit, I finally took a step back to survey our setup, and began to appreciate just how fortunate we were to have received our room.  It was one of the biggest hospital rooms I had ever set my eyes on, and it was all ours!  The full bathroom was a nice touch, but I particularly liked the multiple rocking chairs, that seemed to say, "Y'all settle up here on the porch and get yo'self some sweet tea."  Of course, Jan was center stage, right under the spotlights; between the stage lighting and the wood floors, it seemed as if she was literally about to open "The Vagina Monologues" at the Winter Garden Theatre.

Cue the Overture; it's time to raise the curtain for Act I...

I was careful to take my time going around the room, pushing all of the buttons and touching all of the medical equipment in between visits from the doctor and nurses.  Lucky for me, Jan had implored me to wear my "I [heart] My Pregnant Wife" t-shirt, which was quickly making me very popular on the unit.  The nurses gave me the code to get into the room with the refrigerator and ice-chips, and we peppered the discussions about Jan's vagina with chit-chat to include the benefits of going to the cafeteria over actually ordering a tray, and who the better night nurses were.

  

During the final scheduled visit from the doctor that evening, it was determined that while Jan was progressing towards labor, she was only dilated 2cm.  The medication that she was given was working effectively, but it did not look like I would be meeting BGA that evening.  The fetal monitor was showing that Jan was having contractions regularly every 2 minutes, and had been since noon... I was already impressed, especially since she wasn't making a peep.  We had contacted a few family members to let them know that we were in the hospital, but they were either very excited or didn't believe us when we told them that nothing was happening that night, because they all came to visit.  Mercifully, they brought food; Jan wasn't required to force down the hospital's interpretation of manicotti, and I could stop subsisting on juice cups from the L&D refrigerator.  Matt even stopped by after he got off work that night with some sandwiches from a local grocery store, a few cans of soup, salt and pepper shakers (because he had noted that hospital food was notoriously bland), and a few bags of candy (these would come in handy later).

The only show we got that evening was whenever Jan needed to go to the bathroom.  We would have to unplug her IV pump from the wall, disconnect her fetal monitor, shimmy her out of the bed, and shuffle her across the room with wires, straps, and lines coming out of her gown at a variety of angles.  She was on her own while in the bathroom to not disturb the medication delivery, and then to readjust herself before climbing gingerly back onto her puppy-padded, underwearless throne.  This procedure was initiated more often than she would have liked, given the fact that she was not only being pumped full of liquid, but also the natural, pleasant effect that repeated doses of antibiotics can have on the lower gastrointestinal tract.  Yes folks, these are the glorious aspects of pregnancy NOT covered in television and the movies.

  

If they only knew what this was doing to my ego.

So there we were: like the guy who shows up a week early to burning man, we were all drugged up and ready to go, but nothing would be happening for some time yet.  Jan flipped through the few TV stations that did come in and eventually settled on the back-to-back broadcasting of 300 and Gladiator as a favor to me (thank you, TBS), knowing that she would soon pass out after taking her sleeping pill.  I then resigned to the inquisition-esque torture of the chair-bed provided for spouses/overnight guests.  As I watched the outnumbered Spartans slay Xerxes' Persian warrior slaves and Russel Crowe fight his way back to glory in Ancient Rome (well, as best I could thanks to FCC restrictions on language and gore), I wondered what bloodshed awaited me in the morning.......