As you already know, my honey live-blogged TheFinalist’s birth. It was one heck of a party with a smashing total of 56 comments! While y’all were partying in one way, I was partying in quite another!
Here I was the day before.
What stands out to me at this point is how much pain I was in. We were stir crazy enough that Matt took us to Subway to kill time after that whole to-do list was completed. I sat on the porch that evening crying, praying and visiting with Matt to keep my fears at bay and my sanity intact. We talked about how pretty the sky was that evening and about the impending storms of two different kinds. We talked of the beautiful clouds and about how we still couldn’t see past our apprehensions and doctor’s orders of the next day to the joy that would be our newest blessing. As I sat crying about IVs, epidurals, and catheters he asked me, in complete seriousness if I was having a Garden of Gethsemene moment. I knew to receive my blessing I would not be able to avoid my cup. We dwelt on the verses 2 friends gave to us: Be still and know that He is God. And to remember that He does not give to us a spirit of timidity, but of power, of love, and of self-discipline. He pointed to the time and suggested we try to remember the 5 o’clock hour of this day when were looking at another clock with the same time 24 hours from then. And to try to envision the child we would be holding.
After not sleeping well in the night, I gave up and got out of bed at 3 something. Which wasn’t as terrible as it sounds since our alarm was set for 4am anyway. We dressed little people, grabbed granola bars for them, and headed out into the quiet, dark pre-dawn. As I was buckling BigMan I realized I was standing in a fire ant hill. Matt rescued me, buckled BigMan, got his own bites, and then we both fought off ants in the van. We arrived at Nana and Papa’s house – a welcome port in the still-building storms. The only home along that road with lights on, coffee brewing, toys waiting, and smiles at the ready. We kissed heads, hugged necks, left instructions, diapers, and parts of our hearts behind and drove down the road ahead of us.
The car was palpably quiet as we drove away. And we embraced it for a few minutes. As we neared the city, the rains began. They quickly became so heavy our focus shifted from the child ahead and the children behind to the storm in between. There was little talking during this time. I was thankful as we took our hospital’s exit that the trip had been a safe one. At which point, the minor sporadic false contractions gave way to the intense undeniably real ones. It was more back labor than I had ever had before and with the pain came nausea. We parked, gathered our necessities, and Matt asked while helping me out of the car, “Is this the big one Elizabeth?” We reached our floor and were met by smiling nurses who expected a quiet induced shift change. They had read my file, knew my history, and listened to my every word. Without hesitation she dropped protocol, delayed the questioning, readied my antibiotic IV (which went over with less pain than I’ve ever had before) while I changed and prepared to check me. Three centimeters and 90% effaced is where we started at 6:15am. With the four previous pregnancies it took several hours to get to 4 centimeters, once there, however, it took approximately 20 minutes to be complete. I’ve never heard the words “You’re five centimeters now.” The next words spoken have always been, “Try not to push until the doctor gets here.” Knowing this, the nurse ordered an epidural right away, began the baby warmer, asked me questions, and completed her shift change all at once. We noticed right away that the baby’s heartbeat was dropping after the contractions. She gave me oxygen, changed my position, and reassured us.
Before the epidural
The anesthesiologist arrived. He explained that my spine was just off-center and that could account for my previous epidural attempts having failed several times before getting it right. We prayed for one try. I didn’t think I had it in me to try more than once. The delivery versus several epidural tries are a tie for me. One try and in. However, it only took on one side of my body. Which was still enough of a relief that I could ask questions about the blog and care about what Matt was reading to me. When the dust settled, I had met my new nurse, one antibiotic bag was in, and all was quiet. As the nurse walked out she looked at the clock, smiled broadly, if a little mischievously, and said, “You get the second IV bag at 10:30a. If you can make it that long. See what you can do about that, okay?”
Epidural Relief
And then we waited. My parents arrived. My husband blogged and read to me all your sweet and funny comments. The baby’s heart rate settled into an overall more calming pattern. My doctor came, checked me (still at a 3), broke my water, started a little pitocin, and reassured me by letting me know that he’d already done his rounds at the other hospital since I “go so fast” and that he’d be around the rest of the day. Leaving me with a smile and, “Just give me about 10 minutes to be here, okay?” Awhile later I remember looking at the clock at about 10a and saying, “I really hope we can get that second bag in the IV and then, really, I’m okay with being done. Let’s do this already.” At 10:30 she changed the antibiotic bag and we breathed a sigh of relief. Matt and I discussed that the day before we were hoping to have had the baby by 3ish or 5ish so that we could go home on Saturday. The nurse smiled and said she still thought there would be no problem making the 3:00 deadline we had hoped for. She left the room saying, she’d be back to check me in a few and that she would bring the anesthesiologist to give me one last bigger dose in the epidural before the birth.
Steady as they come
Within10 minutes of the last of the antibiotic bag dripping out, my contractions changed again. I noticed my blood pressure was dropping. Matt was concerned and asked if we should tell someone. “Eh, wait.” I said. “We’ll see how the next one goes.” With the next one, my moans turned to a near scream. But when it subsided, I still asked Matt to “Maybe wait, maybe it’s just the epidural, the anesthesiologist is, afterall, on his way.” On the third one, I asked him to get the nurse. He stepped to the door to get her. On the fourth one I told him, not so calmly or quietly, that I had to push. Once again, they listened. This part gets hazy for me. It’s that otherworldly place you go when you have no epidural or the one you have is no longer working. It’s that place where you’re vaguely aware that there are other people on the planet and that they might possibly be telling you to do something, but you can’t really hear them. Or care to. It’s the place where you hope they get the doctor, but even that is barely considered as all you can think about is bearing down with all you have. Regardless of what they tell you. I was somewhat aware that there were lots of people in the room. Missing from the room were my nurse and my doctor. Matt was to my left holding my hand. The anesthesiologist, who didn’t get the medicine in time, was sitting on the edge of my bed to my left saying something reassuring like, “Even if your doctor doesn’t get here in time, there are lots of us here, and we can all catch a baby.” My nurse made it just before the doctor, she checked me, and calmly announced to everyone, no one, anyone but me, because I didn’t really have to be told, “She’s complete.” Followed by, “Can you breathe like this?” I tried, but didn’t really care, because I had pushing to do. And didn’t care who was in attendance. I’m not sure how loudly I was yelling. When I asked Matt about it later he smiled and simply said, “You did great, little lady.” “But how loud was I? Because I was loud, wasn’t I? I was screaming, wasn’t I?” He smiled and said, “You might’ve been a little loud. But you did so great. I was so proud of you.” In the midst of the pushing, my doctor came in, put on gloves and watched as I finished what was begun. When Matt cut the cord he was shaking so much it was endearing. He was so overcome with adrenaline and emotion. It never changes. Even when there’ve been 5 of them.
Relief
And then I held him. And all the fears, pain, and apprehensions that had clouded my ability to think of him clearly fell away. He was beautiful. And here. In my arms. And nothing else mattered. Matt kissed my mouth, held my hand, and looked at this beautiful baby with me. They weighed him, took those precious prints, and gave him back. And, thus, started a whole new chapter in the Parker Fairytale.
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