The story of Chris’ birth really starts by talking about poop.
I woke up Friday morning feeling uncomfortable “down there.” I was not thinking that it was labor; I was thinking it was the Philly cheese steak that I had eaten the day before. I waddled out to the computer to check my email, read the paper, and generally wait for the train to leave the station, if you know what I’m saying.
So the train left the station, and I was still feeling uncomfortable. I woke Dimitri up and told him that this might, MIGHT be labor. He laughed and told me that I just had to take a dump. I told him that I already -well- see how highbrow this post is turning out to be?
It’s only going to get worse from here. I feel that I should give you fair warning.
So I told Dim that my pains were coming frequently, but I didn’t start timing them because I thought that timing what might be the descent of a cheese steak was a bit embarrassing. I told him that we should, though, call his mom and put her on notice to take Bean in case the hoagie ends up being Bean’s little brother. Dim fed Bean breakfast and then got in a shower while I swayed back and forth on a big yoga ball.
During Dim’s shower, the pains really picked up in intensity and frequency. I realized that this definitely wasn’t constipation – this was labor! Hooray! Finally!
And then I realize – this fucking hurrrrts.
Bean knows something’s up. She’s anxious – padding around me in circles in her footie jammies asking me to pick her up. I apologize repeatedly between deep breaths; there’s no way I could manage to pick her up. The pain is worse than it was with Bean, and getting worse by the minute. Dim gets out of the shower and asks me how far apart they are. I snarl something at him while rolling my eyes – how could he expect me to look at a clock at a time like this? Owwwwwwwwww, that’s all I know right now. Fucking owwwwwwwww.
We throw Bean in the car in her jammies and head off to Sophie’s house. I realize silently that Sophie’s house is in the opposite direction from the hospital, something that really annoys me. They say that distracting a woman from her labor pains is sometimes helpful, but distracting her with the flaws in Las Vegas’ geography is not a good choice. I don’t consciously start the low moaning: I guess it’s automatic. Dim throws Bean into Sophie’s living room while I grab the dashboard and the center console and try to moo through the pains.
Dim hustles back to the car and does a good job of driving in a straight line at only slightly faster-than-legal speed to the hospital. I wasn’t looking at the clock, but the contractions had to be faster than five minutes apart. After one subsides, it feels like I can only get a few deep breaths before the next one washes over me. It occurs to me that not only am I having a baby today, but I’m having a baby, like, in an hour or two.
Wow. And ow.
We get to the hospital, and Dimitri (this idiocy can only be chalked up to nerves – I refuse to believe that my husband is actually this dense) asks if we should valet the car or park in the lot and walk back to the hospital. I manage a one-word response (which, surprisingly, was “VAAAAAAALET!” although I was thinking of a few others) and stagger out of the car. I hug the column outside the main entrance of the hospital and groan through another contraction while Dim handles the valet and grabs our bags. I really don’t want to let go of the column: it’s cool and concrete and didn’t ask me to walk across a parking lot in my condition– I like it. We’re friends. But I realize that the anesthesiologist is unlikely to give me an epidural in front of the valet stand, so I must try to trudge through the hospital lobby to the labor ward. The old lady at the desk asks me if I want a wheelchair, but I am unwilling to stop moving long enough to wait for one, and I politely decline and continue gracefully on my way. Actually, I think I shot her a death glare as I waddled past her, but Dim picked up the slack for me.
We get to the labor ward and – huzzah!- there’s another column to grab. Oh column, how I love thee. Dimitri answers this new lady-at-the-desk’s questions (So many ladies. So many desks. I don’t care. I have a column-buddy.) and a nurse comes to take us to a labor room. At this point, there is no delay between the contractions. There is no time for me to catch my breath or look at a focal point or practice the hee hee hew breathing nonsense that they teach you in the childbirth classes. There is only pain; wave after wave of pain that bashes against me while other people (who are not in pain, and therefore are jerks) stare at me and try to muster pity. I have to stop several times to grab a wall and moo at it while the worst of the pains batters me, but in the back of my mind I know that the more time I spend leaning is more time away from any sort of pain relief, and so I force myself to keep moving.
I guess that's good advice: no matter how bad things get, you can always find it in you to keep moving forward. The strength is there when you need it, it always is.
In the back of my mind, the intellectual, thinking part that was shrinking rapidly to make room for the growing primal, screaming, woman-in-labor part of my brain realized that my new son was waiting for me, and I had to suck it up and plod forward if I was going to meet him. It was enough to keep me plodding towards the labor room, even if I had to sound like a tortured bull to get there.
(more later)