The Birth pt 2

Okay, the pitocin. I was able to put it off for a stint, but I had been kept awake for 24 hours and lost my resistance. Pitocin, without a doubt, is a terrible experience. And I didn't have the stamina needed to sustain it. After three hours of fast-paced, hard irregular contractions that raked my body with pain, I caved and got an epidural. Meanwhile, they cranked the pitocin all night and by morning I was suffering in an immobilized state. They inserted a catheter into me because I could no longer get up to pee and I still was able to feel it going in.

When the nurses changed shifts, my fetal monitor had slipped. The nurse freaked out at the new erratic numbers and started rolling me around and the OB came in and wanted to attach a monitor to baby's head, up my cervix, which was only 5 cm after all that. At this point I said simply and loudly, "No. Just get him OUT. I want a cesarian."

And that's what happened. It was quick, I was scared, the Dude was left behind with no instructions and I was wheeled out of the delivery room and to the OR. I had to lay in a crucified Jesus pose while I was hooked up to things, given more anaesthesia and prepped for surgery. My midwife came and sat with me, offering comfort and eventually the Dude was given a place beside me.

There was pressure. I held the Dude's gaze the entire time, and it was the only thing keeping me calm. I love that man, I really do. He had no interest in watching the procedure. He was there for me. The curtain draped over my face quite a bit, my torso being so short, and it was yet another minor indignity.

We heard, "It's a boy! And he's peeing!" John was proclaimed a healthy baby, 9 pounds 13, and scored a 9 out of 10 on his Apgar. All the concern over him was unwarranted. The placenta looked in good shape, I'd had a lot of fluid and the cord was great. I cried when I heard him cry. The Dude was crying and we had a son.

He doesn't look a thing like a newborn. He instead looked about 2 weeks old or more. His neck was strong and he could already hold it up some. He latched to my breast within 40 minutes of the birth. Slightly overcooked, but seemingly healthier and stronger for it. My body sustained him well, but never seemed to be able to transition out of the pregnancy.

The recovery was a little rough. We paid a little extra and got a private room since we'd be there awhile. Unfortunately, the sleep deprivation was constant. I was woken up frequently by staff to give me meds, take my vitals or talk to me about various things. And this was on top of Jack (Which is my preferred nickname for my son) waking up and needing us. Rather than go into a lengthy sleep, he began a cluster feed immediately and I was nursing all the time while the Dude changed diapers.

Eventually I developed hives. They spread all over my body and itched horribly. I was given Benadryl, which worked, but they still came back. I was exhausted. I found nursing challenging with my incision and the pain meds were only enough to take the edge off, not eliminate it. I needed help up for everything. I could barely walk. The Dude was in and out a lot running necessary errands and fielding phone calls and texts, getting me drinks, and getting himself food since they would only feed me.

I was discharged after two days, hives in full effect, pain constant and feeling highly depressed about my chances of taking care of a baby. The Dude talked to my aunt and she came a little early to be with me. My father-in-law, now in town, took us home and I was helped into bed. My hives spread to my face and my lips looked like bees had stung them.

My aunt arrived and after more Benadryl my hives subsided. It was a battle for another day or two to keep them away. I developed more nursing issues after that. My milk didn't come in. I was only getting colostrum and Jack was going hungry. After losing 12% of his body weight, he was put on formula and I had to start pumping to generate more milk.

But this proved difficult. I was still exhausted and needed to nap, eat, tend to my body and the manual pump I had was not very efficient. The Dude went out and bought an expensive electric one. It works great, but I only got to use it once.

Last night I developed a fever of 38.6 C (Almost 102 F). It started with uncontrollable shakes and chills. After a couple hours I was heating up. My midwife said to go to the emergency room, and my father-in-law came over and drove us to the ER while my aunt stayed with the baby.

We were there till 4:00 a.m. The woman beside me, separated by only a curtain, was not given much chance to last the night and her family surrounded her as a priest gave her Last Rites.

They took blood and urine and I was sent home with an appointment for an ultrasound for 1:00 pm, which my father-in-law also drove us to. I wrote part one of the story before this appointment. The ultrasound was 45 minutes behind schedule and it was both an abdominal and a trans vaginal. I was uncomfortable.

After going through the ER again I was informed I had Endometritis, an infection of the uterus. I'm now alone in a hospital room away from my family for up to two days. I've cried a lot today. I'm tired. I'm low. I'm afraid of losing my milk. It'll be hard to pump in this room. It's from 1930, the whole ward is outdated and sorta scary and what few plugs there are are inconveniently located. The Dude fought the staff to get me a private room, and that is sustaining me right now.

That and the knowledge that it's either this line of treatment or I pretty much suffer indefinitely. Jack is in good hands, the Dude is home and finally getting some needed sleep and I guess now is the time to rest, myself.

So now I sleep. Tomorrow brings antibiotics, hospital food, pumping efforts, and complicated trips to the bathroom.

42.6

Tomorrow I throw in the towel. I have an appointment with my midwife at the hospital. We'll do a non-stress test and she'll examine me. If my body is still unfavourable (That is my cervix is clamped shut like Fort Knox) then we'll ask for a C section. I'm so over this.

We chose tomorrow instead of Tuesday, when I would be officially 43 weeks along, because the OB on tomorrow is someone my midwife feels better about. Good enough for me. I'll take a recommendation like that. It's super unusual for a woman with a midwife to come in and ask for a surgical birth, but then most women don't go to 43 weeks.

I hate being an anomaly. I just wanted to go into labour and push the baby out and recover like a normal person. Now after a lengthy gestation that has sucked the life out of me and freaked out the hospital staff every time I go in for a test, I have to face a surgery.

And I'll have to explain why I don't want to be induced. I see no point to attempting that without being dilated at all. It's like trying to force open a closed door. It'll likely stall or fail after putting me and baby through a lot of pain and possibly distress and has a good chance in resulting in an emergency cesarian. I don't want to endure that. I have no more stamina left. Get this kid out.

I feel the kicking and movement, I've seen the tests showing a thriving fetus that's growing larger and larger, with a normal heart rate and enough fluid. But I can't sustain this. No more. I can't make myself spontaneously go into labour. This is out of my control. I've gained somewhere between 35 to 40 pounds. Carrying it around is killing me.

I went swimming days ago and the weightlessness was indescribable. Getting out of the pool actually hurt when I had to resume lugging my ass around again.

I really wanted a natural birth. There are risks for inductions, there are risks for C sections and there are risks for going over 43 weeks in pregnancy. At this point, there are no ideal options. I accept this. I am resigned.

And I have to remember my mother, who birthed me surgically after a failed induction and went on to be the sort of woman and mother I would want to be. What I wouldn't give for her to talk me through this. She would understand. She would empathize. I have to remind myself how my child enters this world is a temporary experience. I'll have a whole childhood to look forward to. I am weighed down by disappointment. I think the only cure now is seeing my baby. Who now looks like it'll have an April Fools birthday. Go figure.

Bon Jack

I can't believe Canada lost Jack Layton. He was passionate, he was the sort of man who you really could believe in. I think he was the best chance we had for the sort of Canada I wanted to live in. I voted for his party. I'm a Green at heart, but I was won over to NDP because of Jack.

I mean, this man really cared about social justice. He wanted fairness for people at all levels of the spectrum. He was tireless. I mean, the guy campaigned through cancer and only a month ago said he needed to take a break. How far gone he must have been for it to have taken him so quickly after that announcement.

The man was a politician, but unlike so very many I've seen, he didn't seem like he was in it just for personal glory and prestige. With all the causes he championed, the sort of issues ordinary people needed leaders to care about, I was able to have some faith that Canadian politics would rise to the levels I dreamt of, where people and not corporations, the environment and not special interest groups, evidence and not ideology, progression and not stagnation would have a chance to thrive.

Who will speak for us now? I don't know. Elizabeth May perhaps, who now is considered as unimportant and irrelevant as Jack used to be less than 10 years ago. Like Jack said, optimism is better than despair. I'll choose faith. This country is capable of beautiful things; not glory, but true humanity and thus greatness. We'll get by, and someone will rise to speak on behalf of those who can't buy political leverage and need a voice in parliament.

But today, I grieve. I had no idea how much I was emotionally relying on Jack Layton to weather what I've been seeing as a dark blot in our political history. Today I mourn.

Breathe Me

In my last post, I was saying how I figured I'd spend my tax refund on my Mexico trip in November. Pfft. Probably not. It'll likely get spent on Smokey. Little tub's breath smells like a motherfucker. I think he's having tooth and gum pain. Dollars to doughnuts he'll need a tooth pulled in the near future. What can you expect from an animal who's spent the past 16 years of life with questionable oral hygiene? I haven't exactly been brushing his teeth. My poor sucky kitty. Worry for him sometimes keeps me up at night. He's at my feet right now meowing at me.

I ordered in Chinese food tonight. The Dude left me with some of his spaghetti sauce in the fridge, but I was in the mood to be self indulgent. It's better than the ice cream I ate last night.

Ridiculous. But really, I've just given up thinking and worrying about certain things, like cooking. I've taken on other domestic tasks in turn. If the Dude and I were to part, I'd go back to eating three servings of Kraft Dinner a week, and he'd manage his finances into a living in a cardboard box condo. Funny how much you grow to rely on each other.

Though I miss him when he's gone, this is a good opportunity for me to enjoy unrestricted use of the apartment. The TV is mine. I can play the Wii. It's completely silent and I'm peeing with the door open. I can play any music I like, and my tastes are generally very mainstream top 40. The music I like that doesn't fall under that category tends to be on the depressing side.

Exhibit A: Hero, Regina Spektor.
Exhibit B: Breathe Me, Sia
Exhibit C: 9 Crimes, Damien Rice

I've always liked depressing stuff. It feels authentic and in its own strange way, uplifting. The melancholy makes me feel comfortable. I think I like songs and stories that evoke a feeling that feels true. And that makes me happy. But it has to have a sweetness to it. It can't be aching hollow pain for the sake of pain. Movies like, say, Requiem For A Dream are enough to make me want to throw myself in front of a bus.

If I were to sit here with the Dude and listen to sad songs and watch sad movies, I think he'd get concerned for my mental health. But as it is, I'm indulging in some sweet, sweet sadness. It feels calm and soothing somehow. It doesn't have to make sense.