Or: The One With the Labor
I’m doing this in two more posts because I will never finish it otherwise. I don’t know what kind of moron thinks that they will have ALL KINDS OF FREE TIME after going back to work while wrangling a 10 week old in the evenings. Probably the same one who thinks that her regular pants will fit after she loses all her baby weight even though her stomach looks like delicious pizza dough.
(A really, really big moronnepper.)
I was in labor on my own, but not really. I probably would’ve been at home for another 10 hours or something ridiculous if my blood pressure wasn’t high. So that meant that I still had to deal with Pitocin.
And I was pissed, because I heard so many horror stories about Pitocin. For Example: Just kill yourself if you have to do Pitocin. Stuff like that. But as I mentioned before, it didn’t hurt all that bad (but you’ll see, I’m all about the drugs, doooode).
The Pitocin wasn't moving me along enough so they broke my water.
And OH MY GOD YOU GUYS.
It was so gross.
I mean really. I gagged. It was like this:
I'm not even kidding. The medical professionals needed actual rescue boats and life vests to even enter my room. And that was after signing extensive legal release forms because it was a total enter at your own risk situation. And seriously? Just when you thought there couldn't be more water?
THERE TOTALLY WUZ!
I don't even know how to describe it. Like, if someone shoved a swimming pool directly into your Lady Business, then pulled the plug, then tried to cover the plug with gum, which stopped the gushing for a while until POP! Another gush! That's the best I can do.
After having contractions for a few hours, the nurse asked me if I wanted any medication to help with the pain. To which, predictably, I said: I want my epidural thankyouverymuch. And she told me that I had to wait until I was at least 5 or 6 centimeters but would I like some morphine?
I’m not much for drugs. (aside from those drugs that facilitate the growth of multiple eggs and thickening of my uterus and caffeine. And Aleve. And DayQuil. And wine.) (OK, maybe I am for the drugs?) I will usually suffer through muscle aches and head aches and ridiculous cramps before I take anything.
I just pass on grass. I talk smack on crack. I wish death on meth. Etcetera.
And good thing, you know? Because OH MY GOD that morphine was, like, a little piece of heaven. Or maybe a big big piece of heaven. Or maybe I died and went to heaven and just imagined that I took morphine. I can totally see how someone could get hooked because my mood improved significantly after the morphine. Childbirth? EASY! Bring it on! I’ve got DRUGS!
So I’m in labor. But I’m all high, so I don’t care. One of the doctors asked me if I wanted my epidural, and told me I could have it any time. And for some reason (probably because I was all high) I told her that the nurse said I couldn’t have it yet.
Commence Argument #1. Oh my hell. The nurse comes back in and apologizes for “the misunderstanding,” and says that she didn’t think she said that I couldn’t have my epidural yet, and says that she should have made herself more clear so that I could understand what she meant.
Whatever, lady. I’m all high. You could tell me that my ass looked fat and I would probably just give you the thumbs up. You want to be passive aggressive toward me because you made a mistake? Well, that's fine. That's great actually! Now, bring me some ice chips while I ride this happy morphine high.
Eventually, I got my epidural. It was so easy that I felt like a total asshole for being worried about it for so long. I couldn’t feel anything below my chest and it was all that I thought it would be. And more. The combination of numbness and morphine high made for a fantastic night of sleep.
In fact, I slept so well, that I barely noticed when a posse of medical professionals came, spread my legs, and got elbow deep into my Lady Business. This happened approximately 497 times. I remember waking up a couple times to find the top of a head bouncing around down there, and just hoping that it was actually a doctor and not room service or maintenance.
There were a few scary and sucky times. I was pretty nauseated a few times, sitting with a barf bucket. I didn’t really think I was going to throw up but wanted to be prepared because who wants to throw up on themselves while numb from the waist down? Not me.
It was so annoying, because EVERYONE who came in the room while I was hovering over my bucket asked, “Are you nauseated?” No, I just like holding this under my face. I think it makes me look awesome.
I never did throw up, though.
There were a few times when all the alarms on my machines went off, and they had to come flip me over so that Olivia's heartrate would regulate.
Hands down, the worst part about labor was the shakes. And by the shakes, I mean THE SHAKES OMFG GAH! I had bouts of uncontrollable shaking. I wasn’t cold or anything but I couldn’t keep myself from making cold noises like “buuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrr” and “uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Even though I wasn’t cold, I kept asking my weirdo L&D nurse for blankets.
Which was the start of argument #2, because one of the nurses had to lay the smack down on weird nurse when I spiked a bit of a fever being under 10 blankets. I believe it went something like this: It is your responsibility to tell the patient that she cannot have more blankets because the shaking is part of labor and has nothing to do with being cold.
This argument was swiftly sidetracked by two things: my wiley cervix, and my piss poor platelets.
Argument #3: Centimeters – they are not inches. Tis for sure.
I was so excited when I was roused awake by my weird nurse to the news that I was dilated seven centimeters. Because, you know, all the hard work I was doing. Being high and sleeping. It was difficult.
But I figured that I’d be able to freely eat carbs again after just 3 teeny tiny centimeters and some pushing, which is just so freaking worth it when you haven’t had carbs in 4 months.
That, and, you know, the baby.
A few minutes later, another posse of hospital dwellers made their way over to the main attraction (my vagina) and declared that lo! Weird nurse is a liar! This bitch is only 3 centimeters! And I was all, “wouldn’t you know the difference between 3 and 7? I mean, I know it’s not inches or feet or whatever, but that is a big difference.” And they were all, “we’re going to have a meeting to discuss this because Pitocin and progress and blah blah blah.”
After much deliberation, it all remained a mystery. (I think weird nurse was right, though, because I did start pushing about 3 hours later.)
I think they decided that they didn’t care about my cervix because there was a more serious situation a’brewin. I had high blood pressure, swelling, slightly elevated liver enzymes and low platelets, and right upper quadrant pain.
Which is BAD BAD BAD, apparently.
Like, so bad, that a bunch of nurses and doctors come in your room and talk about what to do with you like you are not there while you and your husband look at each other and shrug. Bad like that. Bad like discussion of pre-eclampsia, and HELLP Syndrome, and emergency C-Section.
Total buzz kill.
(I am not trying to create some sort of awesome cliffhanger here. It was all fine and eneventful in the end. I mean, I MADE LIFE, so it wasn't wholly uneventful. You know what I mean...)
And how perfect! My lunch break is over, and now I have to stop stealing Panera's WiFi from their parking lot and actually return to work, where I am very busy and important and whatnot and stuff.
(Or where I am a total bitch slave. One of those.)
See Part 3, or The End of These Ridiculous Posts, here.