Starfish Envy

Violet's Birth Story... Part Two

Okay, I'm gonna crank out the rest of this birth story while my beautiful daughter sleeps.

When last we met, I had just decided to have a C-section.

My midwife appointment was at 2:30 pm on Thursday, June 14th.  By the time I'd done the ultrasound and been evaluated by my midwife and assessed our situation and made a decision, it was after four and my C-section was scheduled for 7:30 pm.

I still had to drive an hour home, gather my stuff, and (thanks to the time of day) drive almost another hour back to the hospital.

As I was rushing out of my midwife's office, a giant ball of stress and fear and disappointment, she said the most important words anyone has ever said to me:

"Try to put everything else aside, and start focusing on how exciting it is that you're about to meet your daughter."

With those words, everything shifted.  Not completely.  But enough that I was able to go into the experience of my daughter's birth without focusing on what it wasn't.  Instead, thanks to my midwife, I was able to focus on what it was.

I'd been emailing WP and calling my parents with updates, but it was finally time to call my friend, Lesley, who was on call to come to my house and keep me company when I was in labor.  New plan!  Lesley hopped in her car and was at my house before I was, ready to drive me to the hospital.  We loaded up my stuff, and drove straight into rush hour traffic.

It was after six by the time we got to the hospital, where we were met by my midwife, my birth doula, and WP.  

I got settled in the triage room, put on my lovely hospital gown, and everything was going along smoothly (although my blood pressure was a little high-- no surprise) until the anestheliologist came in.  When my midwife had called to schedule the C-section she was told that it had to have been six hours since I last ate.  Which it was.  

But the anestheliologist was insistent that it had to be eight hours.  Which it wasn't.

So the C-section was pushed to 9:30 pm.

At first I was annoyed, but it actually turned out to be a good thing.  The whole afternoon had been such a stressful rush into the unexpected, that it was nice to have those extra couple hours.  I hung out in the tiny Labor and Delivery triage room with WP and Lesley and my doula, Laura, and my midwife, Debbie, and we chatted and laughed and listened to my birthing mix and admired my slideshow of relaxing images and time flew and I was able to process, at least a little, that this was really happening.

I was about to meet my daughter. 

Finally, a little after nine, I walked down the the operating room.  My midwife, Debbie was allowed to come in, and my doula, Laura, came in as my birth partner.  So I had two people there holding my hand and stroking my hair and helping me stay calm as I climbed on the table and leaned over to get the epidural.

The only hard moment-- and it was really hard-- was when I was flat on the table before the surgery began.  The hustle of people, the bright lights, the utter exposure, was overwhelming and awful and brought me to tears.

"This just got so... medical," I said to Debbie, finally losing it for a moment.

But the moment passed, and very quickly Debbie (who was taking pictures with my iPhone) was giving me the play by play as the doctors went to work.

And then, suddenly, Violet was in the room.  I heard her cry, and I remember asking if she was alright, but by this point the epidural was making me extremely woozy.  I think the anesthesiologist overdid it, because I never felt the pressure and pulling they said I would feel, and I couldn't feel my hands.  So of course I started to obsess about how if I couldn't feel my hands I wouldn't be able to hold my baby.

While I obsessed about my hands, the nurses were exclaiming about how huge Violet was.  I could hear them guessing her weight and then not believing it when she was only (only!) nine pounds, nine ounces.

And then, soon, Violet was all wrapped up and Laura was holding her next to my head so I could see her and talk to her while I was getting stitched up.

Of course, Violet was beautiful.  Her face was purple and puffy and perfect.

The next hour is an epidural-induced blur, and that's probably the worst part of my birth experience.  I was so out of it that I can't remember every moment.  I was too drugged to feel the overwhelming rush of emotions I was expecting to feel when Violet came into the world.  I was just trying to keep my eyes open, to at least be present if I couldn't be all there.

But before long I was in the recovery room, where my hands were finally working well enough to hold Violet.  My post-partum doula arrived as the nurses and doctors were trying to figure out how someone with blood pressure as low as mine was could still be alert-ish and functioning.

I didn't feel like I was functioning particularly well, but my blood pressure was so low that they kept bringing in different blood pressure cuffs and (according to WP and Lesley, because I don't remember this part) specialists were consulted and residents were swarming and NO ONE WOULD GIVE ME ICE CHIPS.

At that point, the only thing I cared about-- other than holding Violet-- was ICE CHIPS.  

I wanted them.  And until my blood pressure came up, the doctors wouldn't let me have any.

Seriously uncool.

But eventually my blood pressure recovered enough that Laura was allowed to scoop ice chips into my mouth, so I held Violet and sucked on ice until we were finally able to be wheeled to a room.

My post-partum doula, Julie, had arrived by this point and was already helping me get breastfeeding off to a good start.  Which is pretty much what the next twenty-four hours were about.

My boobs. 

Which, fortunately, Violet took to like (what else?) a champion.

Everything was blissful and wonderful in a sleepless kind of way until twenty-four hours later.  When, in the middle of the night, I let the nurses take Violet to the nursery for her assessment (I'd been keeping her exclusively in the room until this point) so that I could get just a few minutes of sleep.

And then everything went to hell.

But that's Part Three of the story...

 

Violet's Birth Story... Part One, Anyway

In a few months, the incision from my C-section will be  virtually invisible.

Already, I can hardly see it.

And yet it is and will always be the dividing line between my old life and this new one. Between the old me and the me who is Violet's mother.

Of course, I never planned on having a scar, because I never planned on having a C-section.  I planned to have a natural birth with a midwife.  I planned to labor at home with a doula for as long as possible, then go to the hospital just in time for the main event.  I wanted to minimize even the opportunity to consider an epidural, much less get one.

So I read books, and did yoga, and listened to meditations, and prepared a birthing mix on my iPad (with a slideshow of relaxing images).  I talked to my friends about their birth experiences.  I watched The Business of Being Born, and its sequels.  I got not one birthing ball, but two.  I bounced.  I did squats.  I scouted the places in my house to lean on and hang on to when I was deep into labor.  I congratulated myself on my foresight in building a bench into my shower when I remodeled the bathroom.

I was READY.

For everything but what actually happened.

What actually happened is that six days after my due date, I hauled my giant, swollen body into my car and drove myself across town to Beverly Hills for an appointment with my midwife.  I'd been having lots of Braxton Hicks, and my midwife was planning to check my cervix, which I assumed would be somewhat dilated, indicating imminent(ish) labor.

Silly me.

My appointment began with an ultrasound, which I was excited about as I hadn't had an ultrasound since twenty weeks.  I figured if I couldn't see my baby on the outside just yet, at least I could catch a glimpse of her in blurry black and white.

And, indeed, I caught a glimpse.

Of a giant.

Now, ultrasounds are notoriously unreliable at predicting a baby's size.  I knew that going in.  So when the ultrasound technician said, "She's a good size," I didn't think much of it... until I looked at the bottom of the screen and saw that her weight was estimated to be over ten pounds.

Yikes.  Even if the estimate was off by ten percent or more... that's a big baby.  

Then the technician asked if I'd been leaking amniotic fluid.  Which I hadn't.  But apparently my giant child had been drinking it all up or something, because there was barely any in there.  Just a little pocket around where the umbilical cord connected to the placenta.

So not a lot of good news there.

Then I went in to my midwife appointment, and the not a lot of good news continued.  Because my cervix was not, in fact, dilated.  At least, not enough to indicate that I'd be going into labor imminently.  Or even imminently(ish).

A realization was dawning.

Big baby.  Very little amniotic fluid.  I was clearly not going to be pregnant much longer.  

As my midwife talked me through the ultrasound results, I felt myself growing numb. This was not at all what I had anticipated.  Not at all what I was ready for.

What about labor?  What about my birthing balls?  My birthing mix?  My meditations?  What about that moment, after hours of grueling labor, of reaching down for my baby and placing her on my chest?  What about bonding?  What about the sense of empowerment I was hoping for?  

I mean, I built that goddamn bench in the shower!

As I sat there on the table, wrapped in a paper gown, my midwife talked me through my options.  There were really only two.  Either I was going to have a C-section or I would have to be induced.

"When?" I asked.

"Tonight," came the answer.

Oh.

Okay, then.

Tonight.

At that point, I knew only what I didn't want.  Which was an emergency C-section.  

I've known too many people who have labored and labored and ended up having a C-section when something goes wrong or when doctors conclude natural birth won't be possible for whatever reason, and then they're exhausted and terrified and traumatized.

I didn't want my birth experience to end that way.  I wanted it to end with a healthy baby and a mom who didn't have any regrets or trauma.  

But I was having a hard time giving up the idea of being in labor, of delivering my baby the way I had planned to, and prepared for.

Could I, as WP had done, get induced and still manage a natural birth?  Even with the more intense pitocin contractions?  Would I be foolish to even try?  Did my big baby and low amniotic fluid mean that if I tried to give birth vaginally, pain medication aside, I was headed down the exact path I wanted to avoid?

Maybe.  But c'mon!  I had a plan!  I wanted to follow the plan!

I was spinning.

Spinning, that is, until my midwife reviewed the ultrasound report and noted that the circumference of the baby's stomach was significantly larger than the circumference of her head.

That's bad.

Basically, it can mean that once the baby's head is delivered, the rest of her could get stuck.  Which quickly becomes a very dangerous emergency situation.

As far as my midwife was concerned, labor was no longer an option.  And when your midwife votes for a C-section... 

That was that.  

I was having a C-section.

And there was no time to waste...

.

And thus ends Part One of Violet"s birth story!  

I can't seem to sit down for more than thirty seconds at a time, but I'll be working on Part Two, which includes fun stuff like lumbar punctures!  Unfortunately, not on me.  Yes, Violet had to get one.  Awful.

But that's a story for another day! 

Until then, here's a picture of my little Champ:

 

Here She Is! She's Here!

Wow.

Champ (otherwise known as Violet) is ten days old now. The days have been blissful, exhauasting, terrifying, beautiful, emotional, nerve-wracking, and joyous.

I promise I will write a birth-story post soon (the short version: after a midwife appointment last Thursday afternoon that revealed a shortage of amniotic fluid, a VERY large baby, and no signs of me going into labor anytime soon, I had a quickly arranged C-section that night), but at the moment Champ (whose nickname has proven more apt than I could have imagined) is due for another nursing session in an hour and my parents are putting the finishing touches on what promises to be a delicious breakfast of eggs benedict and fruit.

Yes.  I am lucky.

As if I didn't know that already.

A Lunchtime Head-Shaker

So here's a thing that happened today...

WP and I took a lunch break at a restaurant near our office.  After a very productive lunch, as we waited for the valet to bring my car (it's LA), I was standing in the hot sun for several minutes, and my back started aching.  So I leaned-- gently, mind you-- against the SUV that was parked right behind me.

As in, lightly rested my back against the flat back of the SUV.

Almost instantly, I heard, in the nastiest possible tone: "Uh, excuse me.  Could you stop LAYING ACROSS MY CAR?"

Yeah.

Laying across.  His car.  

I turned to find a young actor I sort of semi-recognized.  Who, for some reason, was just standing outside the restaurant.  Not getting in his car.  Not going anywhere.  Just kind of standing there.  

I was too stunned to react appropriately, but WP fiercely informed him that I am NINE MONTHS PREGNANT, thank you very much.  At which point he DOUBLED DOWN and said, in just as nasty a tone as the first time, that that didn't mean I could LAY ACROSS HIS CAR.

For REAL!

He looked at my belly and DOUBLED DOWN!!!

I mean, this is a young man with a mother somewhere whose soul just curdled with shame.

You're thinking, "This must have been a FANCY SUV!  A Bentley perhaps!  A MASERATI!"  

But no!  It was, in fact, the most basic of all SUVs.  

So then you think, "But it MUST have been coated in GOLD!"  

And again, I say, no!  No gilding.  

Just a regular ol' SUV.  

Oh, how I wish I had taken my giant, swollen belly and climbed up on the hood of his car and shown him what LAYING ACROSS A CAR really looks like.

Instead, I will look forward to the inevitable day when that mean, little semi-recognizable actor appears in my office for an audition. 

And I will say, "Oh, I recognize you.  You wouldn't let me rest my aching back against your car when I was forty weeks pregnant."

Obviously, he won't be getting the part.

He may be the best actor in the world.  

But WP and I have a firm No Assholes Policy.

.

Ha!  Thanks, Actuary, for the grammar heads up.  But meany said "LAYING," so I'm sticking with it!

Still Pregnant!

I realized the other day that even with the incessant discomfort and sleeplessness and heartburn... I'm going to miss being pregnant.

The last thirty-nine and a half weeks have been such an incredible time.  Until recently, I've felt amazing.  I'm more at ease in my body than I've ever been.  I've experienced more kindness and generosity and support than I ever would have expected.  I've just been really happy.

Not that I don't expect to be happy once Champ arrives.  I can't even imagine how happy I'll be when I finally get to see her little face, feel her skin, hold her tiny hands.

But I'll also be scared.  Once she's out here in the world, there are so many dangers, so much unpredictability.  

Right now, she's always nearby, safe and sound.

More than anything else, I'm going to miss feeling Champ moving around in my belly and knowing all is well.

I'm likely to have only a few more days of that feeling.  Champ will be here soon.  Very soon.

And then the real adventure begins... 

 

Hello Again...

Just checking in to say all's well!

I really am sorry for disappearing.  I just can't make myself sit down and write in a coherent fashion, and whenever I try I seem to have computer problems that make me give up before I can even begin.

But Champ is doing great.  I'm 38 weeks pregnant, which is full term, so she could pretty much come any day now.  There's still a lot to do, but the important stuff is done.

Tonight, I had sit-downs with both my birth doula and my post-partum doula.  They're both lovely, smart, caring women, so I know I'm in good hands.  And I see my midwife tomorrow morning-- we have weekly appointments now.

My ankles are starting to swell more, and my fingers get puffy when I'm hot.  It's harder to sleep.  I pretty much have to pee constantly.  And I definitely have more frequent Braxton Hicks contractions.

But I'm not expecting Champ for at least a week.

It's so strange to think she'll be here, out in the world, one day soon.

I just hope she waits long enough for me to finish the blanket I've been knitting for her.

Because once she's here, somehow I don't think knitting will be my priority!

Oh, Goodie! A Goodie Bag!

Look what was sitting on my desk when I got to the office this morning!

A gift for Champ from WP!  

It's chock full of all the things I'm going to need for Champ, but would never think of. Like baggies for disposing of dirty diapers.  And gripe water.  And Boudreaux's Butt Paste.  And pacifiers.  And Aquaphor Healing Ointment.  And a bottle brush.  And a Sophie The Giraffe teether.  And a bunch of other adorably cute baby things.

Although my very favorite part is the monogrammed bag.

Champ has a pretty cool monogram, don't you think?

THANK YOU, WP!

The Nursery!!!

My dad and step-mom came to visit last weekend, and believe me when I say that two people have never worked harder.

They spent two and a half solid days putting things together, taking things apart, taking other things to Goodwill, moving things, washing things, ironing things, organizing things, repairing things.  Anything there is to do with any kind of thing, they did it.

Consequently, I am... knock on wood... officially ready for Champ to arrive!

The nursery is set up!

Champ's clothes are washed.  The stroller has been assembled.  The car seat is in.  The diapers are clean and organized.  (I'm using gDiapers-- check them out.  Environmentally friendly and super cute!)

Even her blankets are clean and organized.

There are still some pictures left to be hung, and some shelves to get in order...

But in general... if Champ came early (I'm 35 weeks now!  Yikes!) there would be no crazy, hectic rush just to get the basics in order.  The basics are all ready, and waiting for her arrival.

The real questions is... am I ready?

TIme Warp

Sorry I've been so absent lately.  

My only excuse-- other than that I've been working a ton-- is that I'm tired.  Bone tired.  Muscle tired.  Brain tired.  All over everywhere tired.

It started at exactly thirty weeks, and it just keeps goin'.  I'll be thirty-four weeks on Tuesday, and happily my workload is soon going to become... well, not less.  Just more flexible.  I haven't been able to do a lot of napping for the last couple of months.  Starting next week, I should at least be able to take a half-hour nap when I need one.

Which I look forward to with a longing I can't even describe.

Even this weekend, which wasn't ALL about work for the first time in ages, was totally napless... for happy reasons.

Saturday, during what would have been my naptime, I had a (wonderful and reassuring) birthing instructor come to my house for a two hour birthing class.  And Sunday's nap time was filled with a three hour infant care class.

I now know all about the many stages of labor, how to breathe during all of them, what to expect immediately after the baby's born, how to give baths, take care of the umbilical cord, and get tricky clothes over baby's head.

You'd think I'd feel more comfortable with the impending birth of my child... but mostly I'm just terrified that she's coming so soon!  Six weeks!  Not enough time!  I have waaaaay too much to do!  

Aaaaaahhhhhhh!

And breathe.

I know it's all going to be fine.  

The nursery is thisclose to done.  I only have one more box to unpack from the remodel.  Work is going smoothly (knock on wood, fingers crossed).  WP can handle anything I can't, so nothing's going to slip through the cracks.  

Everything is going to be fine.

I just wish I had a few more weeks.

Remember when I felt like my pregnancy was going so slowly?  Remember how I wanted it to go faster?

Well.  I'd like to feel a little of that now.  

Instead, I feel like things are moving at the speed of light, and Champ is going to be here in two blinks.

And as much as I want to meet her, and see what color her hair is, and find out if she's as feisty as I suspect she is...

Later would be better than sooner.

Of course, a month from now, when I can't breathe anymore and my reflux is even worse than it is now (everytime I cough I almost puke-- not cool)... I reserve the right to change my mind.

And that's not a complaint-- I really have loved being pregnant.  More than I ever imagined.

So maybe I can eek out eight weeks instead of six and a half?

What do you think, Champ?

This one's pretty much up to you...  

The Kind Of Mother I Would Like To Be

I would like to be the kind of mother who sees and supports the best in my daughter.

The kind of mother she can laugh with.

Who encourages her.

Who honestly knows her strengths and weaknesses, but doesn't dwell on either.

I would like to be the kind of mother my daughter wants to spend time with.

The kind of mother she wants to share with when something amazing happens.

And the kind she wants to call for comfort when the other shoe drops.

I would like to be the kind of mother who exposes my daughter to a wealth of experiences; a multitude of people, places, and things.

Who teaches her tolerance and kindness and generosity and openness and compassion.  

I would like to be the kind of mother who doesn't judge-- my daughter or others in front of my daughter.

I would like to be a positive force in my daughter's life.  A refuge.

I would like to be the kind of mother who teaches my daughter that there is nothing she cannot do.

That happiness is important.

That she is valuable.

That she is special and unique, and that she deserves love and kindness.

And that, except on rare occasions, fear is just something to get through-- not something to stop her.

I would like to be the kind of mother who accepts my daughter, exactly as she is.

I would like to be the kind of mother who puts my daughter first.

Who considers her feelings.

Who listens to her.

Who hears her.

Who treats her with respect and love, even when I don't understand or like her choices.

In short, I would like to be the perfect mother that I know my daughter -- and every daughter -- deserves.

Most of us don't get that perfect mother... and I'm sure, in many ways, I will fail.

But this, at least, is a good place to start.