The Birth - Wait, NOW?

I'm going to have to jump forward in time, since time is passing by too fast and I don't want to forget things...

The next day Putiputi, Beau and I were given a tour of the Newborn Intensive Care Unit (NICU). It's something I really wanted to do, but I was surprised by the effect it had on me. It was deeply sad and sobering. Here I'd been lying in my bed a few floors up, gnashing my teeth at the thought of cooling my heels for two more weeks, and now I was in this ward with all these babies hooked up to tubes and needles and oxygen with blue lights and beeping machines. It was awful and I started crying right there. What a dick I am. I'll hold her in for two more weeks myself, even if I have to use duct tape.

Well, so much for that. The next morning I awoke at 6am, drenched. And not drenched in sweat. It was like my water had broken for a second time, which was weird...since it was...uhhh already broken and had been (sorry for the TMI) leaking non-stop for the past few days. So, there I was, now sitting in my own little mess. I was confused.

Then I felt a cramp...better known as a contraction, the weak kind. Hrm. I went to the bathroom and saw a small bit of blood. Uh oh.

*DING*

I rang for the nurse and informed her of the now increasing (though still weak) contractions and my personal jacuzzi. She was all laid-back, told me it was no big deal, changed some sheets, and had me sit back down. She said she'd call the doctor though, just in case.

Days later I learned that this same cool and collected nurse had been racing up and down the corridor in a mild freak-out after my ring. She had just put on that poker face for me.

Then a young Indian woman walked in, announced that she was the doctor and asked to check me. A few very intimate moments later she said, "Two centimeters. Right. And your baby is breech and eight weeks early. I'm going to take you down to the delivery suite and we're going to have a c-section right now."

RIGHT NOW?

And in a blur of minutes, Beau was called to get his ass over to the hospital pronto (he was in the hospital dorm room), and I was being wheeled to "theatre" (surgery). By now, the contractions had gone from bad period cramps to, well, CONTRACTIONS. And they were coming REAL close together. But the weird thing was...they were also alright. Okay, I don't mean like, that they tickled or that they weren't a big deal, cause they fucking sucked, but I guess I was expecting something excruciating. But do note: I'd only been going through them for about an hour. Looking back, I know if I was one of these women who had to endure those things for 8, 10, 12+++ hours, I might just have to stab someone.

This was when things got comical. Prepping me for surgery (and Beau all dressed up too), and having me sit up on the gurney, a myriad of staff began materializing before my eyes, one by one, introducing themselves and what their role would be. The contractions were now full-on and VERY close, and all my concentration was on trying to breathe through them instead of screaming or holding my breath. Then people starting coming up to me (notably, the anesthesiologist), with consent and release forms. And they were explaining them to me, asking me questions, and handing me a pen to sign with DURING THE CONTRACTIONS. At the peak of the contractions, all I heard anyway was the echo of Charlie Brown's teacher...WAU WAU..WA WAU WA....

Are you fucking kidding me? I was so cross-eyed and exhausted and in pain, I would have signed a consent form to join Al-Qaeda at that moment. I could hardly hold the pen and signing something someone is holding up in the air isn't exactly easy anyway.

A couple of times someone would pause and say, "Oh, I guess we'll wait for this contraction to end before we continue."

Yeah, thanks.

I remember being quite frightened because I knew the anesthesiologist was about to prick me in the back and the contractions were coming so close together that my whole body would shake, and that somehow he'd prick the wrong part of my spine and that'd be it. Shit, I'd already signed the consent form, he could leave me a drooling stupid mess and I couldn't do a thing about it.

I felt several pricks and then a longer one and he was done. Then my toes started to tingle, and that was a good thing. It wasn't long before the surgery then began. I was awake, but there was a sheet up. I couldn't see much, but I really didn't want to. I thought puking at the birth of my daughter might be in bad form.

Almost immediately, I heard the doctor say, "It's a girl," which I already knew, but was still kind of cool. Beau, who all along had steadfastly stated he was not going to be anywhere but right at my head, eyes averted, at the birth, (back when we assumed it was going to be a natural one), now couldn't help himself and was stealing glances at the surgery. Jiffy Pop's butt came out first, and then began a bunch of tugs and twists as they tried to pry her loose from my body.

I know, ew.

Beau said that it was "actually pretty cool" after all. I looked down at just the right moment to see her being lifted up and away from my body. At that second, I saw one giant blue eye peering straight at me.

And then she was gone.

The doctors then went on with closing me up, and I remember my thought at the time was, "How can she hold a needle and thread to sew me up with such massively bloody hands?" She seemed to be covered in blood. I know, again, ew.

I then heard a very short cry from somewhere behind me, and then I began to cry.

Several minutes more, and then a woman approached me with Jiffy Pop wrapped all up and held her right up to my face, so close that I couldn't really see her, though I tried. The lady said, "Give her a kiss before we take her away," and I did. Then she was gone again.

It would take the doctors twice as long to stitch me up as it did to pull her out. I had started this whole business at 6am that morning, and she emerged at 7:55am. I guess I don't get to ever brag about the great pain of childbirth if my contractions lasted less than 2 hours.

During that whole time, I had two men as bookends on either side of my head. One was a Kiwi, and one a Scot. I'm not sure what their true roles were there in surgery, though one claimed he was basically just there to keep everything happy and running smoothly. So, I guess he was either a boss, or a circus clown. They were both really funny though, and as the woman surgeon continued to stitch me up, they were chatting amiably with me, mostly about movies, comedies in particular. (At this time, Beau was gone, following the baby to Intensive Care).

The three of us were laughing, quoting and imitating certain movies and characters. I asked the Scottish man what he thought of the comedian Mike Meyer's impersonation of a Scot, like in all the Austin Powers movies, or my favorite, in "So I Married an Axe Murderer." He said the Scots LOVE it and think it's awesome, especially since it's pretty authentic since Mike Meyer's mom is Scottish.

I was having so much fun talking to these guys, I was almost sad when it was over. They both told me the same -- what a great time they'd had. One said, "Yeah, most mothers just want to talk about their baby and NOTHING else."

Oops. --guilt-- I hadn't really asked ANYTHING about my baby. I kind of assumed she was being taken care of 'til I could see her. Erm, bad Mom!

After she was born, Jiffy Pop had a little trouble breathing, but in a very short time she started breathing on her own. That same day, she was moved from the critical room in NICU to the 7th room in NICU. the last one babies end up in before going home. Yay! Beau said, "She moved in with all the big kids."

It was awful to see so many wires coming out of my tiny baby -- for this or for that, or that stupid blue light for jaundice, but they took (take) VERY good care of her 24/7, so it's hard to complain. She weighed in at 4lbs, which they said was a good size for how early she was.

And she's been kicking ass and taking names ever since. :)