Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Thanksgiving Leftovers
Someone posted on Facebook today that it is pathetic to complain about having too many Thanksgiving leftovers. She noted people say they don't know what to do with all of the turkey.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Which One Is Which?
Detroit's Eastern Market
Friday, November 19, 2010
Today, Long Ago
Sunday, November 14, 2010
I'm One Month Old
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
On Maturation, Pt. 4
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Halloween
Introducing Poquito Tito
Other Noteables
Dr. Ziff said, when he congratulated me on the natural delivery and I said I didn’t deserve it because it was against my will, “Well, either way the result is the same.” L and I liked that.
Baby was weighed in the delivery room at 8 lbs 8 oz. He was weighed the next day at 8 lbs 10 oz which lead my nurse to believe his actual birth weight was 8 lbs 11 oz. His weight is recorded on our records as 8 lbs 10 oz.
I really didn’t cry during labor/delivery. Tears would squeeze out during a contraction but it wasn’t real crying. I find this interesting because I am a crier. I also didn’t swear or disrespect anyone in the process. I don’t find this contrary to my character but others do!
I didn’t get sweaty either. I always thought I’d get sweaty.
I wore my amniotic fluid/poop socks until 10:00 am the next day. Gross!
I was glad to feel my amniotic sac break. Of any part of delivery I wondered what that would be like.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I didn’t the night after Hip was born either. I wish I would have had my laptop during this time, there were a lot of interesting thoughts that I cannot remember now.
On Maturation, Pt. 3
“Stop!” said Dr. Iglar (who I didn’t yet know was a doctor) to the portly and bored Anesthesiologist.
That’s when I knew it. It was too late. So I cried out, “NOOOOOOOO!”
Dr Iglar stated calmly, “I need to check her.”
L helped me lay down on my side and Dr. Iglar said, “She’s a ten.”
For good measure I cried out again, “NOOOOOOOO! This is my WORST fear!”
Dr. Iglar bent down again and said, “It’s okay. You can do it.”
Rhonda, my delivery nurse begged me to move to the center of the bed ten times before I complied.
Dr. Iglar said, “If you need to push, push.”
Me, “I need to push!” So I pushed and my amniotic sac exploded and felt warm around my legs. I heard Dr. Iglar whisper to L that the baby had pooped. I knew this was a potentially serious complication but for some reason I wasn’t worried.
Rhonda gave me the run-down on how to push. I ignored her. I stared at a disgusting mauve flower on the worn wallpaper border that adorned the delivery room’s wall to ceiling intersection.
Me, to no one in particular, “I don’t want to feel my body tear in half!” I was making odd noises, panting and wailing. It didn’t sound like me but some injured forest animal.
Dr. Iglar, “You’ve done this before, you can do this.”
Me, “No, I haven’t. I fake pushed my last one out!” No one understood what I meant was that I really didn’t push Hip out, he just came out. And my epidural was so strong I felt absolutely nothing.
I pushed, barely. I was scared.
I pushed again, barely. “Just pull him out!” I begged several times to anyone who made eye contact with me.
“We can’t do that, “said Dr. Ziff.
“I can see his head, “ said Dr. Iglar.
“Don’t lie to me,” I replied sternly. Did I see Dr. Ziff crack a smile?
“You can push harder,” Dr. Ziff commanded.
I pushed a little harder. And then I realized that if I pushed really hard a few times than I could just get it over with.
I pushed really hard, twice. His head was out. Oh crap, now I’ve got to get his shoulders out, I thought.
Yes, there was burning. But I could do this. I had this in the bag. My confidence soared.
So I pushed two more times. He was out and on my belly. It was 12:47 am, Thursday. I was shaking and told Rhonda that I couldn’t hold on to him. The nurses briskly took him away.
“Why isn’t he crying?” I asked.
“He’s okay, it’s fine that he didn’t cry much,” said Rhonda.
Dr. Iglar told me I needed to push out the placenta, she was rubbing my abdomen. “Will it hurt? You can just pull it out,” I asked. Dr. Ziff rolled his eyes.
It didn’t hurt.
The most amazing part about the whole experience is this: the pain and contractions were gone immediately after delivery.
Dr. Ziff left after I thanked him and Dr. Iglar profusely. I don’t know what came over me but I was in a very thankful mood.
The on-call doctor arrived just in time to miss the birth; and to help coach Dr. Iglar on how to sew me up. Dr. Iglar was good to tell me how many stitches she had left when it was clear it was agitating me. I liked that. Before she left I told her that she did a really good job and how much I appreciated her. She was excellently patient and calm, which helped me through.
The on-call doctor and I had a conversation about narcotics and I insisted I was not drug seeking. This made her laugh and L explained to her that I was a therapist in drug rehab in the past. I had no used for narcotics in my recovery, however, and used only two ibuprofens.
Then it was only L, Rhonda, the baby, and me in the room. It was over. Done. Finally. I felt empty, physically. I felt full, emotionally. I could breath too.
I sat there holding my baby as Rhonda scurried around completing the chart. She said she usually does this as labor progresses but in my quick-moving case she did not have an opportunity. She also said it was in the top five quickest labors/deliveries she had ever been a part of.
L and I were relatively quiet. It was peaceful, maybe even spiritual. But I didn’t cry, because apparently I don’t when my babies are born.
I felt different. Older? Wiser? Something had changed in me.
And the baby smelled like poop.
On Maturation, Pt. 2
I told L to abandon everything and “HURRY UP!”
It was 10:30 pm.
On our way to the hospital, two miles away, at the first road light I realized my contractions were two minutes apart.
This is where my thinking about the past/future/anything else besides the exact moment I was in stopped. In mental health we call this being “mindful.” It is a good thing.
At the second road light I realized I had forgotten my ID. L offered to turn back. “NO WAY!”
Turning into the hospital campus L asked me if he should drop me off at the South Tower’s front door or park in the four-story parking structure with me. “DROP ME OFF!”
The doors were locked and I had to sit down for a minute. I rang the doorbell. The security guy asked what I wanted (wasn’t it obvious?). “I’m in labor.” He let me in. I got to the elevator just as Luke came running into the building. We traveled to the third floor—Triage.
At the intake counter I attempted to check in by sobbing out, “I forgot my ID.” “It’s alright, honey.” The stout desk worker said in s.l.o.w.m.o.t.i.o.n. They had me sign a million things, which I did. They made me wait a million minutes for a nurse to come and get me, which I did. I also commented, “You should really have chairs here.” through tears and the stout worker said, “We really don’t want people to wait here.” Too bad, I already had my body draped over the counter and was refusing to move.
The Triage nurse, Satan, asked me to sit on a hospital bed in the smallest curtained-off quarters I’ve ever seen. There, she began asking me millions of questions I had already answered by pre-registering. I didn’t say so, though, because it felt like the contractions were coming every minute. So, that’s what I said. She, in s.l.o.w.m.o.t.i.o.n , hooked me up to fetal monitors and to contraction monitors. L began insisting she call anesthesia for my epidural. She refused by saying something about needing blood work. L requested she call anesthesia no less than five times—“She’s going to go quick,” he said.
I couldn’t breath. I thought I was going to throw up. I couldn’t sit there and so I held myself up by arms. L rummaged around in a cart and gave me the sickly pink half moon barf receptacle.
A certified nurse midwife came and did an ultra sound without saying much, unless I don’t remember.
L helped me undress and re-dress in a hospital gown—the ones with snaps on the shoulders and open backs. He stuffed my stuff, including a novel (ironic), into a hospital bag.
Finally, another nurse came with a wheelchair and told me if I needed her to stop to just tell her. I needed her to stop once on the way to the delivery room. I hung onto the handrail on the wall through that contraction.
In the delivery room L began requesting anesthesia again. One of his upper classmates came in and I felt hugely relieved. Anesthesia, sweet anesthesia! He got to see all sorts of my parts throughout his short stay with me…should I be embarrassed if I see him again? He informed us that we had to wait for the Anesthesiologist. Damn him.
The nurses were putting an IV in which they did poorly much to L’s contempt. Then another nurse had to draw blood from the other arm because the IV was in poorly. She did this poorly as well seeming how it gave me a seven-inch bruise.
Suddenly a girl was bending down and talking to me. Who was this? Much later I realized she was a resident. When did the attending show up, Dr. Ziff? I’m not sure, but sure enough as I began to push he was down there too, with Dr. Iglar (the resident).
The portly Anesthesiologist finally made his presence. He began his speech, during which he sounded soooo bored that it was clear he has said these same things no less than one million times. L helped me swing my legs to the side of the bed and I bent over. The Anesthesiologist began swabbing my spine....
On Maturation, Pt.1
I spent the entire 10 weeks, seven appointments, pleading with my obstetrician over issues like epidurals (getting one ASAP), induction (could I please be induced ASAP), and the size of the fetus I was carrying (me: it is HUGE versus them: it is small).
There were other issues like insurance to figure out.
There were other health concerns like anemia and dehydration and poor weight gain to manage.
There were mental health problems, too, to work through like a depressed two year-old and trying to personally adapt to an entirely new reality.
There was a home/lifestyle/friends/clients to mourn.
There was healing occurring—one person from a serious spider bite and one other person from a decade of contentious relationships.
There was a house to unpack, arrange, and clean.
There were friends to make. And they had to be really good friends with whom we could trust our child.
There were neighbors to meet, church members to meet.
There was navigating the metro area: finding new places, finding a grocery store and a bank.
I hated every minute of it. Except the cider mill, the apple orchard, the parades, and the neighbor’s fire pit (and if I’m being honest this popcorn someone made at a crafting event I attended).
On the first day of week 39 the generally disagreeable obstetrician agreed to “strip my membranes.” I took Hip to a birthday party in the park after that. It was hot and I was uncomfortable but when hadn’t I been over the course of nearly a year? Each day, except Monday, that week I had serious and consistent contractions that lasted two to four hours. They always stopped.
The contractions were strong, now that I look back on it, Tuesday evening. I took several walks around the neighborhood that day.
Waking up with the sun Wednesday morning I committed to several accomplishments including grocery shopping, pumpkin shopping, house cleaning, healthy meal preparing, and Toddler Time at the library.
And we would walk the two mile round trip.
We left early and picked out several books and DVDs for Hip. Then Hip had to go potty and he peed all over the library’s family restroom. Seriously, it was everywhere. As we headed into the library’s activity room Avery’s mom, who thinks I’m cool for some reason, asked me how I was feeling. Without control over my apparent rage, I threw my purse onto the closest table and proclaimed, “Perfectly fine! Harumph!” Several ladies looked at me sideways and scooted their children further away nervously. Other ladies, who know me, laughed and offered encouragement. I must have looked pathetic that day because no less than three people offered me a ride home. I refused, and pushed Hip home. One mile.
I accomplished all I had set out to do that day.
It began to rain, hard, that afternoon. When we went to Whole Foods I realized we had only ever gone to Whole Foods on rainy days.
During dinner, contractions started again. This was usual and I paid little attention. Hip went to bed without issue. I began to watch Tivo’d television.
Contractions began to hurt, but not so bad that I had tears. I enjoyed, though slightly distracted, the shows. The contractions were not consistent—some four minutes apart, some nine.
Around 9:00 pm I noticed that the contractions were certainly getting stronger. I began texting my sister-in-law about how to know you’re in labor. She told me I was in labor but I didn’t believe her. I began discussing whether I was in labor or not with L. At 10:00 pm, at L’s insistence, I called the on-call number to my obstetrician’s office. The on-call doctor, not my doctor, called me back and said that I may or may not be in labor but there was no reason I should not head to the hospital to be checked. She said, “If they send you home, at least you know.” I liked her immediately and wished she was my doctor. She even indicated that she would have been willing to induce me.
My anxiety began to spike over what to do with Hip, who was sleeping peacefully. My decision to not go to the hospital was entirely founded on worrying about Hip. What would we do with him? Who could watch him? Who did we trust to watch over him? Should we wake him up? Should we take him with us? Would he be scared if he woke up without us?
After I hung up with the on-call doctor I had a very painful contraction—tears. But as soon as it was over it no longer hurt. I told L that I thought we should go to the hospital because my labor/delivery plan included avoiding pain and here I was having pain. Unfortunately I had not showered in a long time. L agreed to take the baby monitor to the neighbors (so they could monitor Hip without coming over here) while I showered and then we would go to the hospital. Once in the bathroom, 15 feet away from where I was sitting, I found myself on my hands and knees on the bathtub floor unable to stand. Realizing that a shower was going to be impossible I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, during a now short break in contractions, to put my clothes on. Everything was taking too long. I felt urgent.
