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.....