Actually, I begged and begged to be a guest blogger. And for some reason, I was told I could, wheee! I blog here if you find this post in the least part entertaining. If you don’t, well, don’t leave me any mean remarks. My feelings are easily hurt.

Now for the entertaining part…I contemplated telling you about the week I started dating my husband. But that involves bath rugs, lots and lots of alcohol, and more bath rugs. Then I thought I would tell you about how my daughter clogs the toilet every.time.she.goes.poop, but really, that’s not that exciting.

So I will totally copy one of the last posts before us guest bloggers started, and tell you some funny stuff from when my youngest was born. And please tell me some of you had the same things. Otherwise, I am going to think my nurse was weird.

I went in for my scheduled induction at 6:00am, and by 9:30am, I was all epiduraled-up and was ready to push. Seriously. I arrived 4 centimeters dialated anyways, and they cranked that pitocin up. I think there was a party on the floor for the nurses that afternoon or something.

So the nurse comes in to get me ready. She looks down there, and sees the head crowning. She asks what happened last time, and I told her I had a 4th degree tear, and it hurt like hell.

“I’ll take care of that”, was the last thing I heard before I saw the bottle of baby shampoo being not so delicately squirted on my girlie parts. The only thing I could think at that point in time? Was that I was going to be farting Johnson & Johnson Baby Shampoo bubble farts for the rest of the day. So she lubed and lubed and squirt and massaged. All the while my friend and I cannot look at a bottle of baby shampoo the same anymore.

The nurse called the doctor, and my OB came in and said it’s time to push. She got ready; scrubs and gloves on, light position just right. Then another nurse ran in – “there’s an emergency in room 9.”

And then she let the curse words fly. Seriously, I had never heard a doctor cuss as much as she did then. Off she went, and I was told not to push or sneeze or a smallish child might come flying out.

About 10 minutes later, the doctor came back in and got all ready – again. And yes, it happened again – she was called away to another emergency in another room. And I was once again told not to sneeze.

At last, around 11:00am (it was my second, I am lucky I remember my middle name let alone the exact time she was born) Audrey Rose literally came flying out. Shampoo bubbles and all.

(ed: Amy is wonderful! Go say “hi” to her! Also, come see me at “and the pursuit of happiness” – my post should be up around 1030 EDT. Loves ya, Dawn)

Lotus is asking for birth stories, and as that woman loves my BEWBS, I have to give her what she’s asked for.

I wrote the longest birth story in the history of birth stories, for you, for today, I’m reposting the last part, or the “good part” if you will. If you want the whole thing, click at the beginning or the birth story tag and have at it.

(The birth story series starts here.)

Scout had his last day of work, we celebrated by going to Target and buying … whatever we wanted. Like two drunks on a final bender.

I woke around 430 to pee. I wandered to the bathroom in the dark, realizing I was rather awake. I felt a cramp. Oh please.

I started writing the times of these cramps. I breathed a sigh of relief. It really was. It really was labor. I was too excited to go back to sleep.

I called and cancelled my appointment. Gleefully, I told them I was already in labor.

Scout woke and I told him we were skipping the appointment – that I was already contracting. I think he questioned if we needed to go to the hospital right then.

Midmorning we went for a walk. Scout would occasionally ask, “Contraction?” I’d sarcastically ask, “How’d you know?” It was obvious, because when the contractions hit, I’d have to slow my steps.

We spent the day tallying contractions. I took a bath, washed my hair, used my salt scrub. I took care of myself. We watched Scrubs. We ate. We lounged in bed together. Maybe once an hour I’d have a strong contraction, and this would be my mental commentary:

“I want drugs. I’m never doing this again. I want drugs. I’m never doing this again…..”

I paged the midwife line around five. I didn’t want to go to the hospital yet. I told them I’d been having contractions all day and just wanted to check in. She said to check back in when I was ready, or to call in the morning for an appointment. She was nice and helpful and wished me luck.

In the next four hours, things were moving along. More often than not, the contractions were the metallic, painful ones. They were strong, and it hurt to inhale during one. If I could have always been exhaling, I would have felt better.

At nine, I called again. I was ready to go. The midwife gave me instructions, and we were ready to go. We petted and loved on the cat curled at the end of our bed. She had no idea how much everything was going to change, and it strangely hurt to leave her. She was my comfort object, curled on the bed with us.

I talked to Mrs. Deacon all the way to the hospital. She kept track of my contractions, and would naturally take over the conversation every 5 minutes, when I wasn’t able to talk, and it helped to focus on her voice.

We got to the hospital around 10pm and met our nurses. They were lovely. I got my ghastly maternity hospital gown, changed into it, leaving my bra on (which was somehow important to me) and got settled into bed. The lights in the room were dim and they stayed that way through the entire labor and delivery. A small detail, but one I really liked. When a contraction came, the nurse Leah checked me. Oh my God it hurt. I whined and “ow”ed my way through it. She apologized the whole time, and when we were done I told her it wasn’t personal that I complained, and she laughed. We talked about my birth plan (“No C-section”), she told me they were impressed I was overdue, that they had mostly inductions at this point. She seemed really happy with my point of view of weighing my options when it came to drugs – she thought it was better than demanding the epi over the phone before I showed up. She and I clicked well.

Oh, and she’d asked me how dilated I thought I was, I had no idea – I was at a four and she was way impressed with that. This was around 10:30.

And then she asked the question that would change our entire experience for the better.

“Do you want me to call one of our volunteer doulas for you?”

I hemmed and hawed, until she said, “I love ‘em all,” I said what the heck, give one a call for us.

The mEdwife showed up and that song and dance happened. While it was going on, I knew the doula showed up, but I was having a hell of a contraction and was too busy focusing on a bird in the painted in the border on the wall.

When she introduced herself, I should have known this was going to save us.

Her name was Angel. (I can’t make this stuff up.)

Leah was still trying to get my paperwork done – we were almost there – she said I needed to sign my release, Alex’s release, the HIPAA form and a tally sheet. I told her I’d do it when I was sitting on the birthing ball by the bed so I could write on something.

I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, came back, got on the ball and had a contraction that had me shrieking all over the place. Angel sat by me and started gently coaching me. She told me that it was excellent to vocalize, but that high pitched vocals were going to send the signal to my body to be tense, low pitched vocals would send the signal to my body to relax. On my next contraction, she said, vocalize a low vowel sound. (I felt like I was in Voice class all over again, but this all made perfect sense, I just never thought my grad degree would be helpful in labor.)

The next contraction hit, and the lower vocals did help. I got sent back into bed anyway, which sucked, because the ball was more comfortable.

By 12:30, I was already in transition – only I didn’t realize it because I thought transition started at 8, so I didn’t realize I was already there when I measured a 7. I went pretty much internal for an hour and a half. I “ah”d a lot. The contractions during transition really didn’t always let up. They were continuous, but the same intensity as the strongest ones I’d had all day. They weren’t fun, but they were something I could deal with. Angel coached, “Just get through this one… just this one.” Which Scout later asked if that really helped, and I had to say, it really did. I was monosyllablic girl – “ice” or “ow” or eventually “push-ee” when I felt like it was getting to push time. At some point, Angel was going to go get the mEdwife and I grabbed her hand tighter and wouldn’t let her leave me. I had her in front of me and Scout behind and I needed the protective feeling from both of them.

It was pain, but it was okay pain. I knew things were moving along, I knew things were okay. I could talk to Alex. We were doing well. I started to really mumble about pushing and Angel was listening but still telling me that it wasn’t time.

I was curled on my side in the bed, when I spoke my first complete sentence in over an hour. “I need to push NOW.” Angel said she would page the mEdwife, and what she needed me to do was take a deep breath and blow it out my mouth. I knew what she was doing was getting me to redirect that force to push and send it the opposite direction. I took a deep breath, and as I got ready to blow it out, my body totally took over – I heaved the hugest push ever, my body uncurled and shot out straight. Simultaneously, Angel dropped my hand and ran for the door, as Scout dove to the foot of the bed thinking he was going to catch the baby with all the power behind that push.

I don’t know what she said to them, but Scout said the room was suddenly filled with people who looked like they were prepping for battle, they were throwing on gowns and snapping gloves and mEdwife sailed to the end of the bed, putting my leg up on her shoulder so she could check progress. It was 224am.

With the next contraction, she had me push. Or more appropriately, I pushed and she sat at the ready and let me do what I needed to do. I curled into Scout’s chest and he gave me a wall of support to push against.

The next contraction, she told me she could see Alex’s full head of hair and did I want to touch it. I felt his head and waited for the next contraction.

Next contraction, I could feel the resistance. I backed way off pushing. After it was past, mEdwife supportively (for reals) told me she knew it hurt, she was sorry, they were trying to get the lidocaine, but if the next contraction came, to please go ahead and push hard – it would likely be the last one.

Next contraction. I pushed. (skeeve alert the rest of this paragraph, skip if you need to) You know how it feels when you cut yourself shaving? One of those nasty behind the ankle cuts. You see stars, and feel a little sick, even though the pain isn’t really all that bad? That’s exactly what that push was like. Scout said he could see Alex’s eyebrows. I just stayed curled up. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to see, and I didn’t have time to ponder because the next contraction came, I pushed, it was 247am, and we had a baby.

I wish this was more clear in my mind. I know he was born, I was surprised at how fast it was there at the end. They put him on my stomach, Scout cut the cord, they rubbed him dry on my stomach, bundled him in a blanket and gave him to me.

We had our little bud. He was here.

As soon as he was born – the pain was gone. The labor pain, the sciatic pain … all of it.

I looked at Leah, and said, “I need to sign my release, Alex’s release, the HIPAA form and the tally sheet.” She cracked up laughing. I said, “I was paying attention to what you said, I was just a little busy!”

After everyone cleared out of the room, it was just my little family and Angel. She told me she knew how TIME it was for me to push, that she hated trying to redirect me, but she HAD to do it because she HAD to get the person in charge. I knew this, and I understood this, even in the moment it was happening. She told us she could feel Alex working so hard to get in position to be born, under her hand that was on my stomach, gently stroking circles. She told me that I’d done something that no one could take from me. That I could draw on the strength of this experience anytime.

We know that without her, the night would have been much different. It’s incredible to me, that someone who was such an accidental part of the night, and for only four hours of our life could have such an impact. But anytime we tell Alex’s birth story, we always tell about the Angel we had by our sides.

It was a long day, and a long two weeks, but in the end, even though it wasn’t exactly as I pictured, I was still right. This was something I could do. I faced my marathon and I made it to the end. The little girl who was scared to catch a ball faced up to a challenge and came out intact.

And with one hell of a prize.

(Ten Steps for Creating Breast Health)

(The birth story series starts here.)

Scout had his last day of work, we celebrated by going to Target and buying … whatever we wanted. Like two drunks on a final bender.

I woke around 430 to pee. I wandered to the bathroom in the dark, realizing I was rather awake. I felt a cramp. Oh please.

I started writing the times of these cramps. I breathed a sigh of relief. It really was. It really was labor. I was too excited to go back to sleep.

I called and cancelled my appointment. Gleefully, I told them I was already in labor.

Scout woke and I told him we were skipping the appointment – that I was already contracting. I think he questioned if we needed to go to the hospital right then.

Midmorning we went for a walk. Scout would occasionally ask, “Contraction?” I’d sarcastically ask, “How’d you know?” It was obvious, because when the contractions hit, I’d have to slow my steps.

We spent the day tallying contractions. I took a bath, washed my hair, used my salt scrub. I took care of myself. We watched Scrubs. We ate. We lounged in bed together. Maybe once an hour I’d have a strong contraction, and this would be my mental commentary:

“I want drugs. I’m never doing this again. I want drugs. I’m never doing this again…..”

I paged the midwife line around five. I didn’t want to go to the hospital yet. I told them I’d been having contractions all day and just wanted to check in. She said to check back in when I was ready, or to call in the morning for an appointment. She was nice and helpful and wished me luck.

In the next four hours, things were moving along. More often than not, the contractions were the metallic, painful ones. They were strong, and it hurt to inhale during one. If I could have always been exhaling, I would have felt better.

At nine, I called again. I was ready to go. The midwife gave me instructions, and we were ready to go. We petted and loved on the cat curled at the end of our bed. She had no idea how much everything was going to change, and it strangely hurt to leave her. She was my comfort object, curled on the bed with us.

I talked to Mrs. Deacon all the way to the hospital. She kept track of my contractions, and would naturally take over the conversation every 5 minutes, when I wasn’t able to talk, and it helped to focus on her voice.

We got to the hospital around 10pm and met our nurses. They were lovely. I got my ghastly maternity hospital gown, changed into it, leaving my bra on (which was somehow important to me) and got settled into bed. The lights in the room were dim and they stayed that way through the entire labor and delivery. A small detail, but one I really liked. When a contraction came, the nurse Leah checked me. Oh my God it hurt. I whined and “ow”ed my way through it. She apologized the whole time, and when we were done I told her it wasn’t personal that I complained, and she laughed. We talked about my birth plan (“No C-section”), she told me they were impressed I was overdue, that they had mostly inductions at this point. She seemed really happy with my point of view of weighing my options when it came to drugs – she thought it was better than demanding the epi over the phone before I showed up. She and I clicked well.

Oh, and she’d asked me how dilated I thought I was, I had no idea – I was at a four and she was way impressed with that. This was around 10:30.

And then she asked the question that would change our entire experience for the better.

“Do you want me to call one of our volunteer doulas for you?”

I hemmed and hawed, until she said, “I love ‘em all,” I said what the heck, give one a call for us.

The mEdwife showed up and that song and dance happened. While it was going on, I knew the doula showed up, but I was having a hell of a contraction and was too busy focusing on a bird in the painted in the border on the wall.

When she introduced herself, I should have known this was going to save us.

Her name was Angel. (I can’t make this stuff up.)

Leah was still trying to get my paperwork done – we were almost there – she said I needed to sign my release, Alex’s release, the HIPAA form and a tally sheet. I told her I’d do it when I was sitting on the birthing ball by the bed so I could write on something.

I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, came back, got on the ball and had a contraction that had me shrieking all over the place. Angel sat by me and started gently coaching me. She told me that it was excellent to vocalize, but that high pitched vocals were going to send the signal to my body to be tense, low pitched vocals would send the signal to my body to relax. On my next contraction, she said, vocalize a low vowel sound. (I felt like I was in Voice class all over again, but this all made perfect sense, I just never thought my grad degree would be helpful in labor.)

The next contraction hit, and the lower vocals did help. I got sent back into bed anyway, which sucked, because the ball was more comfortable.

By 12:30, I was already in transition – only I didn’t realize it because I thought transition started at 8, so I didn’t realize I was already there when I measured a 7. I went pretty much internal for an hour and a half. I “ah”d a lot. The contractions during transition really didn’t always let up. They were continuous, but the same intensity as the strongest ones I’d had all day. They weren’t fun, but they were something I could deal with. Angel coached, “Just get through this one… just this one.” Which Scout later asked if that really helped, and I had to say, it really did. I was monosyllablic girl – “ice” or “ow” or eventually “push-ee” when I felt like it was getting to push time. At some point, Angel was going to go get the mEdwife and I grabbed her hand tighter and wouldn’t let her leave me. I had her in front of me and Scout behind and I needed the protective feeling from both of them.

It was pain, but it was okay pain. I knew things were moving along, I knew things were okay. I could talk to Alex. We were doing well. I started to really mumble about pushing and Angel was listening but still telling me that it wasn’t time.

I was curled on my side in the bed, when I spoke my first complete sentence in over an hour. “I need to push NOW.” Angel said she would page the mEdwife, and what she needed me to do was take a deep breath and blow it out my mouth. I knew what she was doing was getting me to redirect that force to push and send it the opposite direction. I took a deep breath, and as I got ready to blow it out, my body totally took over – I heaved the hugest push ever, my body uncurled and shot out straight. Simultaneously, Angel dropped my hand and ran for the door, as Scout dove to the foot of the bed thinking he was going to catch the baby with all the power behind that push.

I don’t know what she said to them, but Scout said the room was suddenly filled with people who looked like they were prepping for battle, they were throwing on gowns and snapping gloves and mEdwife sailed to the end of the bed, putting my leg up on her shoulder so she could check progress. It was 224am.

With the next contraction, she had me push. Or more appropriately, I pushed and she sat at the ready and let me do what I needed to do. I curled into Scout’s chest and he gave me a wall of support to push against.

The next contraction, she told me she could see Alex’s full head of hair and did I want to touch it. I felt his head and waited for the next contraction.

Next contraction, I could feel the resistance. I backed way off pushing. After it was past, mEdwife supportively (for reals) told me she knew it hurt, she was sorry, they were trying to get the lidocaine, but if the next contraction came, to please go ahead and push hard – it would likely be the last one.

Next contraction. I pushed. (skeeve alert the rest of this paragraph, skip if you need to) You know how it feels when you cut yourself shaving? One of those nasty behind the ankle cuts. You see stars, and feel a little sick, even though the pain isn’t really all that bad? That’s exactly what that push was like. Scout said he could see Alex’s eyebrows. I just stayed curled up. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to see, and I didn’t have time to ponder because the next contraction came, I pushed, it was 247am, and we had a baby.

I wish this was more clear in my mind. I know he was born, I was surprised at how fast it was there at the end. They put him on my stomach, Scout cut the cord, they rubbed him dry on my stomach, bundled him in a blanket and gave him to me.

We had our little bud. He was here.

As soon as he was born – the pain was gone. The labor pain, the sciatic pain … all of it.

I looked at Leah, and said, “I need to sign my release, Alex’s release, the HIPAA form and the tally sheet.” She cracked up laughing. I said, “I was paying attention to what you said, I was just a little busy!”

After everyone cleared out of the room, it was just my little family and Angel. She told me she knew how TIME it was for me to push, that she hated trying to redirect me, but she HAD to do it because she HAD to get the person in charge. I knew this, and I understood this, even in the moment it was happening. She told us she could feel Alex working so hard to get in position to be born, under her hand that was on my stomach, gently stroking circles. She told me that I’d done something that no one could take from me. That I could draw on the strength of this experience anytime.

We know that without her, the night would have been much different. It’s incredible to me, that someone who was such an accidental part of the night, and for only four hours of our life could have such an impact. But anytime we tell Alex’s birth story, we always tell about the Angel we had by our sides.

It was a long day, and a long two weeks, but in the end, even though it wasn’t exactly as I pictured, I was still right. This was something I could do. I faced my marathon and I made it to the end. The little girl who was scared to catch a ball faced up to a challenge and came out intact.

And with one hell of a prize.

(Ten Steps for Creating Breast Health)

(The birth story series starts here.)

You remember meconium? That black, sticky tar that would.not.come.off? That’s how these emotions feel in my heart.

I’m actually apprehensive to write this. I can’t figure out how to do it. I want to get it out, I’d like to be thorough, I’d like to not have you eyeroll and leave halfway through. I can’t figure out how is best. So I’m just going to go for it. It will be graceless, it will not be tactful. And at one choice point in time, I will use the C word. Yes. THAT C word.

My midwife team had been very laid back my entire pregnancy. We walked into our appointment when I was at 40 weeks 3 days and the following things happened:

OMG I was overdue!

My exam was so rough that I thought she was cutting into me. I arched back and away from her on the table.

I still feel physically violated by her complete lack of care. I really do.

She followed up the physical digs with statements like, “you aren’t dilating” and “I’m not thrilled with where the baby’s head is, it’s not down far enough.”

I wish I would have had the strength to tell her to go “examine” herself.

Real time post here.

OMG! I was STILL OVERDUE! Clearly we should all hold hands and panic!

We walked into our appointment at 41 weeks and the mEdwife’s (Medwife = midwife gone medical on you.) first statement was, “Did Medwife 1 talk to you about induction?”

Um, wtf? Hi, how are you doing today?

She proceeded to tell me I would come in on Tuesday to have my membranes stripped. (TOLD ME). That my induction was scheduled for 600pm the following Thursday, and they would start pitocin the following morning.

She continued to repeat these things during the exam. I continued to say, “Yes, that’s a nice plan B if I’m not already in labor by then.” Her response might as well have been, “Yeah whatever, your body clearly is defective since it didn’t go into labor on your made up from thin air due date.”

Fucking bitch. (Oh, just wait for it, the C word is yet to come. I won’t let you down.)

I spent the weekend trying to screw my head on. Trying to talk to Alex. I had a horrible weekend.

I spent Monday (41/3) in bed. I prayed. I talked to Alex. I told him we could do this on our own, but that it was up to him. That we could do this our way our their way – and their way would commence at 820 Tuesday morning. I told him I was scared. I told him I needed him.

And he told me to not worry.

He was right.

He got labor started on Tuesday morning at 41/4.

(This part I will tell tomorrow.)

At the hospital, they didn’t even give us a water birth room – I was overdue and all.

And lucky us! We got the mEdwife from Friday! Oh goody. She entered the room and decided to break my water – because I was overdue and all. I didn’t want her to. I didn’t have a choice. Which since one intervention tends to lead to another – this was NOT kicking off well.

If I had 1 minute with her now, I would tell her the following:

Fuck you, mEdwife 2. Fuck you for bringing all of your fears into MY labor. Fuck you for not trusting me. Fuck you for not separating your own agenda of covering your ass, worrying about insurance, worrying about malpractice. Fuck you for not being able to settle your own issues and for pushing them off onto me. You almost singlehandedly destroyed my confidence to do this. You didn’t trust me. I was a number to you. You let me down. You didn’t give me care. You didn’t treat me like a person. You didn’t look out for me, you looked out for you. You suck. (Oh wait, I’m still working toward the C word.)

She wouldn’t let me out of bed because she didn’t like Alex’s heartbeat. Mind you she wasn’t paying any real attention when she was out of the room, because when it dropped *I* had to page *HER* to come see me. When his heartbeat was better, she let me get on the birthing ball once, but then decided that clearly sticking me in bed to labor on my side was better. Then she decided that the internal electrode was the way to go.

Then when I told her no, I didn’t want an IV she said, with a threat in her voice,

“Well, I’d hate to have to call Dr. McScalpel to do a C-Section.”

You motherfucking CUNT!

(I feel a little better now.)

So they did the IV. They messed up the IV and I sprayed blood all over the floor. My eyes were closed, I knew there was a problem, I chose to not open my eyes (I don’t do needles). Scout was behind me praying I didn’t look.

I had an oxygen mask.

Oh, and I had asked about drugs. My choices were: epidural (which I’ve explained why I didn’t want), Nubane (which would only relax me between contractions – which I didn’t need), getting in the tub – which she ended up not letting me do because of the heartrate, and the birthing ball – which I couldn’t do – for the same reason.

So, she effectively took away any form of pain management available, short of the needle in my back. We really believe that the reason she wanted the IV so bad was because she’d already decided I was a C-sec case.

And when is the one time that you’d really like some drugs? That’d be lidocane at the “point of entry”, if you will. She didn’t have it ready. They couldn’t find it. Yeah. Thanks for nothing, biatch.

As point of joke – All of this mothershagging hell was due to me being “overdue”. My biophysical profile indicated I was between 38 and 40 weeks – so according to that, the most I could have been was 40/5 when Alex was born. The nurses also think that according to his size that there is no way he was almost 2 weeks overdue. All of the stressing the mEdwives did in regards to the due date apparently was pointless because my due date calculation was apparently more correct than theirs. (Mine was 5 days later than theirs). Again, we women do know ourselves, our bodies… and what were doing what day in July 06.

I started thinking about writing my birth story as soon as I read the first paragraph of this post. She put it so perfectly for me. She gave words to the experience that I had not been able to find.

This post is all about the “disappointing and enraging”. I have needed to get this out. I feel better now. I am sitting on the floor of Alex’s room, I am holding his warm baby self to my chest, his feet are planted firmly on the ground. His cheek against mine. His heart against mine. I am healing as I write this. This was the story of how other people tried to change our story. Tomorrow I can tell the real story. Tomorrow, I can tell the story of his birth. Tomorrow I can tell you how Scout and Alex and I all met.

(Ten Steps for Creating Breast Health)

(The birth story series starts here.)

Dudes, I’m not athletic. I don’t understand how my body is supposed to work when it comes to physical activity.

I cover most of my illustrious sports history here.

I was in college in a PE class for Elementary Ed majors before it clicked with me that to throw a ball, I needed to think about the process while I was doing it, just as if I were doing an algebra problem. Oh. I just thought it was supposed to be automatic.

I think we all have things we know we can do with our bodies – I can’t do contact sports, water ski, or run a marathon. Childbirth, I felt like, was something I could do. It was MY marathon, if you will.

Regarding labor and delivery, I was more scared of the doctors and their decisions than the process itself. And really, since I’d had such reliable and correct analysis and care from a variety of docs (sarcasm), who could blame me. I considered having a home birth, but at the time I didn’t know anyone else who had and I was el-cheapo – My hospital delivery for Alex and I would cost 120 dollars – midwife at home would be … I figured more than that.

I should also tell you – the idea of a C-section terrified me. I could have typed that in all caps but it wouldn’t capture for you the fear that settled over me anytime I thought of it, it would also just be visually annoying, like Carrot Top was suddenly telling this story. Once I told someone that if a C-Sec was the only way I’d be able to have babies, that I didn’t need babies. Yeah. So once I found out I was pregnant, I set about creating the “safest” environment to be pregnant in. For me safe = NO KNIVES. (Oh dammit, go away Carrot Top.) Epidurals may or may not increase C-sec risk. According to what I found it varied depending on when they were administered during labor and this and that and the other thing. I crossed it off my lists of things I wanted and looked about finding other forms of pain management – I wasn’t planning on using anything, but I hadn’t been in labor before so I really couldn’t say what I was going end up with until I was in the middle of it.

I found the touchy feeliest hospital in the area (bypassing the “okay” one just down the street and going another 20 minutes to this one) – It bragged about being set by scenic wetlands, and we felt comforted on every visit, because clearly, wetlands make for excellent medical care. I went with a midwife group instead of the OBs. I had chiropractic care for my crippling sciatica – and the chiro told me that their research showed that women who had chiro care tended to have short active labors, with less pushing time – whatever dude, just pop my spine back into place, I’ll be back in three days when I can’t walk again. We thought about a doula, but Scout and I were both so laid back about everything that we didn’t feel like we needed one. (Read = I was too lazy to figure out how to set one up for us.) I gained 35 pounds, so not great, but not bad. We did the hospital visits, the prenatal online class, the prenatal class, we made our birth plan (which was “I don’t want a C-Section”), we signed consent for a Waterbirth, because it sounded cool and Scout thought it could make our baby into Aquaman, I was mentally ready for labor and delivery, all was well.

I was ready for my marathon. I trusted my body for the first time ever to do something physical. Bring it bitches. Let’s roll.

Then I went to my weekly appointment when I was at 40 weeks 3 days and all mothershagging hell broke loose.

***

If you want to get a feel for what the last 4 weeks of pregnancy were like – head back to here and give the archives a skim. Really, just skim, there’s some crap in there and there’s some relevant stuff. I don’t want to go all link happy on you tomorrow – even with the crazy bright blue fixed. I don’t want to annoy you.

Tomorrow’s post – all the black vitriolic anger and details about the last two weeks of pregnancy. Grab a drink and settle in for a day where we can all bitch about what “they” pulled on us while were trying to deliver our babies.

And finally, after I spew all of that, I will tell the story of what ACTUALLY happened, finally able to leave out the anger and focus on what went right and leave that anger aside.

(Ten Steps for Creating Breast Health)

(The birth story series starts here.)

Ten years ago today our godson was born.

C. had gotten up the morning of the 9th, rushed to work (no breakfast), rushed to her OB appointment (no lunch) and got sent over to the (teaching) hospital for induction.

How many bad things do you count in that paragraph?

She was induced sometime that afternoon. We arrived shortly after 5am the next morning, just after she’d received her epidural – she’d had pitocin contractions for 12 hours before getting someone to give her the drugs. She wasn’t dilating.

Midmorning they broke her water. There was meconium in the fluid so they shut off her pitocin, started her on a saline wash in her uterus, eventually pushing the pitocin harder than before. They had her jacked up and down on so much shit. She was exhausted.

She hadn’t eaten for 30 hours, hadn’t been out of bed all day. By 4pm she was dilated to 4. At 4:45 she paged the nurse to come check her. The nurse was refusing saying she wasn’t supposed to do it till 5. C was adamant – something was going on. CHECK ME! The nurse was snotty but did it anyway – C was dilated to 9 – she looked at the nurse, the nurse admitted, “you’re better than any woman I’ve ever seen.”

They kicked us all out of the room and commenced pushing. At the time I didn’t know that it was a little early for pushing. His shoulder was caught, she was exhausted, I don’t know how she did it, but she did and he was delivered at 710. He was well over 9 pounds – and this was after the docs thought he’d only be 7.

For her second child she had an elective C-section – and you know what, I don’t blame her one tiny bit. If I’d been fucked with by a teaching hospital like she’d been, I’d probably have signed up for a quick surgery over 40 hours of doctor induced starvation while trying to birth a baby too.

This was powerful stuff for me to watch. I was going to do everything in my power to keep this from being my experience.

(Ten Steps for Creating Breast Health)

(The birth story series starts here.)

My mom had the largest influence on my perception of childbirth. She’d had endometriosis and told about laying in bed and focusing on the second hand sweeping around the face of the clock in the hot midwest summer, trying to focus on anything but the pain, filling super duper diaper sized Kotex by the hour as her body recovered. She knew cramps. That being said, her birth story of me was very brief:

I knew at the end of it that I would have you. I knew that this was only a matter of hours, not a matter of weeks of pain. I knew there was a reason for this pain – it was bringing me you.

That was it. She had some V@lium and had a baby. I was always skeeved about the episiotomy and she said that with all the counter pressure from my head pressing down that it wasn’t really all that bad. But this is from the woman who watches it when she gets shots – so, you know, whatever.

The details of the labor was that she was in labor for about 30 hours from first twinge to screaming baby. I chose to lay on my side and not move. Once I flipped off my side, I was delivered in one push, so quickly they couldn’t even roll the mirror up so she could watch. Once I was ready to be born, I got on with it.

Um. Nothing has changed in my personality in the last few decades.

The biggest drama of my birth is that I was NOT a boy. I was supposed to be.

With this kind of backing, I never really considered having anything other than a natural childbirth (I rebel against the word “natural” here – like having drugs is “unnatural,” but for the sake of an easily recognized term, I will use it.) My mom had me without drugs, so I could labor without drugs.

Mom taught first aid for several years, the books had childbirth photos – I used to stare at those for hours. I spent my entire life being fascinated by the pregnancy, labor and birth process – I looked to my own with interest to see what it was really like. I was curious about it rather than afraid – and this is all because of my mom’s take on what it was like to have me.

(Ten Steps for Creating Breast Health)

My cycle has been completely crazy since I got my first period. Never have I had a regular cycle. In high school, I spent nine months without a period, and then spent agonizing days in the hot midwest summer, curled in bed waiting to die. Just like mom, so many years before. I went on the pill before my sophomore year of college to regulate my cycles. I had it in my head that the pills were helping to cure whatever it was that was wrong, rather than just giving me a synthetic cycle and not fixing anything.

I asked my new OB a question about it – told him my cycles were always off and he said, “Oh, you have polycystic ovarian syndrome.” He explained how the ovaries would develop many eggs in the cyst sacs but wouldn’t necessarily ovulate, so no ovulation, no hormones to spark the period 14 days later. I asked about the implications for getting pregnant, he said, “Oh, you’ll need to take Cl0mid to spark ovulation.” He said this casually, like “Oh, do you want fries with that?” I put a couple facts together and said, “So what’s the chance of multiples?” He said (looking rather … surprised that I’d caught this so quickly) “Oh yes, the chance of multiples goes up (spouts some statistic).”

Oh goody. Okay, so I never really thought fertility drugs were the way for me. I’d always assumed that getting pregnant might not happen for me, so this news wasn’t crushing for me, it was just a confirmation that I might be buying myself fancy new toys rather than baby clothes.

Scout did the math and we decided I was actually more likely to get pregnant ON the pill than OFF the pill, and fully supported my choice to go off the pill. After all, if it wasn’t healing anything in my body, and my chances of getting pregnant were nil, we didn’t see much of a need for it. I could go get pills to spark a period every 3 months if I needed them. He always knew that we might not be having children, so that wasn’t something that I had to worry about being a deal breaker in our relationship.

Through the next 3 years, I saw 3 other doctors, all said my fertility was sketchy, only one ran actual tests to see what was up. I read everything I could find on PCOS and decided that the original diagnosis was crap because the only symptom I had was the strange cycle – nothing else fit. I worked on some fertility enhancement things (which I suppose might be an entire week theme of postings in itself) and my cycle started to regulate, went off again, got rebooted by some Pr0metrium and stayed more or less predictable. I learned how to keep track of my cervical mucus (yum, I know), and we managed to not get pregnant for three years when we didn’t want to be pregnant.

So much for all those really SMRT OB/GYNs, we’re the assholes who got pregnant on the first try when we were ready to be pregnant.

(Ten Steps for Creating Breast Health)