Okay, so the Real Post now about how, after an intense 10-year battle with infertility, B and I finally became parents on Monday night:
We were supposed to go in for Cerv*a*dil last Wednesday, but there were no free beds in the childbirth center, and the doctor told me on the phone she'd delivered someone that afternoon on a stretcher. Yikes. So we called again the next day, and they discharged some people and moved around some others, so there was room at the inn. I was already 1 cm by then. We had the Cerv*a*dil that night, I started cramping like mad, but happily, sure that everything was progressing finally, but by the next morning, I was still at 1 cm. What the...? we said, and the doc, who is the no-bullshit variety that I really appreciate, told us she didn't think it would work, so we decided to come home and try again in a few days. I am all for spending less time in the hospital when I can, and when one of the docs told me there would be a chance I wouldn't get to have an epidural at all (apparently only two of the three anesthesiologists on staff here in Moose Country know how to do them) I thought that maybe it would be best to spend the weekend at home.
Sunday. We go in again for more Cerv*a*dil, still at 1 cm, cramping starts again but not as intense. So imagine my surprise when the next morning the doc says we're at 2.5 and can start the pit*o*cin that morning. Awesome. So we go for it, and before long I'm getting nice waves of cramps and sitting on the birthing ball and hee-heeing and hoo-hooing through some nice little contractions. Progress gets made--another centimeter or two. By noon the anesthesiologist is upstairs in the childbirth center giving an epidural to another woman down the hall, so instead of waiting they decide to give me the good drugs right away. Excellent. I am all for it. It takes a couple of sticks to get the line in my back, and then the nice tingling starts in my legs and soon I'm on my side and so comfortable I take a good afternoon nap. The contractions slide off, and they up my pit levels more and more in the hopes of getting them started again. The doc breaks the bag, which gushes out something like three gallons of green liquid. Yes, green. TBD has meconium in the fluid, on top of everything else.
Except. Except they warned me there might be spotty coverage, fine, sure, I think--how spotty can it get? So by the middle of the afternoon I'm starting to feel some pressure in a spot just below and to the right of my belly button, about the size of a baseball. The pressure gets more and more intense, and the spot gets bigger. And Bigger. And BIGGER. Soon I am panting through Every. Single. Contraction. And they are close together, 30-45 seconds, and the spot is so intense with pain it's like I'm being stabbed with a hot knife. B is busy helping me breathe through them and putting cool cloths on my head and feeding me ice, because he's a doll, and I'm thinking, get me the fucking anesthesiologist and I'll SHOW him what spotty coverage feels like. I'm begging for a booster for the epidural, a bullet in the brain, something. The doc comes in and says I've progressed so far that they don't want to give me more because they're afraid I won't be able to push. They give me a little Sta*dol instead, and so instead of pain and wanting to die, I'm high. The Stad*ol doesn't dull the pain, it just makes you not care. So now I'm screaming in pain and glad to die, apparently.
After about three bad hours, the pain starts to change over to the urge to push, but I'm still at 9 cm so the doc tells me I've got to hold off. The baby's head is facing the wrong way so the last bit of cervix won't pull back. The doc decides to try to push the cervix out of the way with her fingers while I push.
You can see where this is going, right? Yep. Two hours of pushing and no baby. We got nothing. The doc says the other woman who had the epidural is about to go in for her c-section and maybe we should think of doing the same thing. I am not a fan of this idea, but the other idea--continuing to push--is even worse.
The anesthesiologist comes in to see me and says the pharmacy gave him the wrong meds that morning, which he only discovered when the other woman's epidural wore off twenty minutes before mine did. Now he wants to use the epidural for the c-section. This does not, as you might imagine, fill me with confidence given the afternoon I've just had. But I have to say he is very careful to reassure me that if it doesn't work, he'll knock me out cold. He gives me the booster and in a few minutes we're in the OR, and Brando is in scrubs, and I'm strapped down like Jesus on the Cross and listening to a crew of something like 10 people exclaim how big my baby is, and suddenly it's out, and they're saying it's a girl (a girl? I'm thinking. Seriously? I was totally convinced TBD was a boy) and we're crying with happiness and they're showing her to me, all 10.3 pounds of her, and suctioning the meconium out of her mouth so she won't breathe it in, and I shake and shake from the drugs and the adrenaline and then.
And then she's here.
And we're back in our room and I'm trying to feed her, and she's falling asleep, and she's so beautiful, and I'm thinking, I will kill for you. Please ask me to kill for you. Start with the anesthesiologist.