Shit, it's been...I was going to say how many days since I last posted, but I'd need to know today's date in order to figure that tricky little 'cipher'n.
Thank you for all your wonderful comments regarding the previous post. I didn't stick the photos up in the hopes of garnering plaudits for my spawn, but rather I wanted to just post something and that's all I really had at the time. I can assure you that I am not one of those people that thinks her child is the most beautiful in the world and chooses to pass that belief on to everyone that crosses her path. Sure, she's cute, but none of you have seen her when she's drunk on milk and does her patented Infant Possessed eye movements. She rolls her eyes either back in her head or to the upper right, breathes heavily, and grunts like a rooting pig. I keep telling her she won't ever get no mans that way, but she persists.
So I promised you all a statement made by one of the midwives at the hospital which nearly left her without a head or attached arms. That comes toward the end of my story, but I promise I will tell you. I've let it go so long that I doubt anyone remembers or cares any longer. I like to recount it though to upset myself again, so I'll mention it anyway when I get to that stage.
Post-delivery I was fortunate to have some tearing and as such needed to be stitched up. As soon as there was mention of snatch stitching AND a swift snatch injection, I sucked on the gas & air like a hooker sucks on...nevermind. Prior to the commencement of the stitching, a midwife asked if she could put a suppository up my welcoming back passage. We all know of my history of having British healthcare providers shoving stuff up what is so eloquently referred to as the "back passage". Naturally I gave the midwife the go-ahead, as nothing was left holy at that point anyway. The Dude chirped, "Old pro at this Pru, aren't you?", which even in my hazy state I wondered what the midwives would make of this statement. Either they could have interpreted it to mean that I regularly underwent procedures in which suppositories were administered, or they thought that The Dude and I were quite experimental sexually and my back passage was well acquainted with fruits, vegetables, and small plastic instruments.
P. was sitting and bonding with The Dude in the corner of the room, something which I forgot as the procedure continued. By the time the midwives were done sewing me up, one of them said, "In a moment you can hold your baby again". I was completely floating with pink elephants and fluffy clouds at that point and had forgotten that I even had a child. I had to look over at The Dude and P. to verify that childbirth was the reason I had just endured labour, delivery, and snatch stitches. Up to that point, I suppose my drug-addled mind thought that I was there for the fun and games.
There wasn't any sleeping that night/morning, as P. wasn't too keen on the tit, but also wasn't satisfied with hunger. UK hospitals have a policy of keeping babies roomed with their mothers, which initially seems like a good idea. It was fantastic the first night, as I was able to spend some alone time with the little flat-nosed creature with minimal discomfort and the sleep-deprived craziness that would soon plague me.
Times changed quickly by the second night. P. still wasn't feeding and was also diagnosed with jaundice, finding herself relegated to an incubator for phototherapy treatment. I was calm about the jaundice after being assured that that most babies were afflicted, particularly premature babies. The cause of my hospital-induced insanity started from that point, as P. needed to eat sufficiently in order to flush out the jaundice and she wasn't feeding properly. She would latch on (though not correctly), but would fuss so much that one feed would take about an hour to an hour and a half. This usually would only require patience on the part of mother and child, but phototherapy is only helpful of the baby is exposed to the UV rays for an extended period of time. Obviously if your baby is feeding 6-7 times a day and taking over an hour each time to eat, that cuts into phototherapy which then leads to the baby needing to be in phototherapy for an even longer period.
The breastfeeding issue was attempted to be dealt with by numerous midwives. On any given shift there were about 8 on duty, and in all likelihood I saw most of them at least twice per shift. Every time P. was going to feed, I would buzz them so they could guide both myself and P. as to how to do this breastfeeding thing properly. Theories ranged from her prematurity to laziness on her part, and methods went from gentle coaxing to outright brutality with her head grabbed and shoved against my boob quite forcefully.
Sometimes P. would appear as if she was getting the hang of it, latch on, and suck for about 10 minutes. After that brief amount of time she would pull away and scream. Any further attempt to get her back on failed, and I would often be left crying in my bed while she cried in her cot beside me. Midwives would come in, advise me in the same ways they had previously, not understanding that I had tried all of it before with no success.
By day 4 P. was able to escape the phototherapy as her bilirubin numbers improved. Ordinarily mother and child would be able to be discharged at this stage, but as feeding was still problematic we were kept in. It is also around this time that I had what I thought was a breakthrough - a successful feed that lasted for 40 minutes. I was in absolute, toe-curling, mind-numbing pain for its entirety, but I thought that's what happened when she was latched on successfully. When she was done feeding, my nipple emerged from her mouth as flat as a pancake. I wanted to rip off my entire boob the pain was so great, but I felt such a sense of accomplishment for finally feeding my baby the way they are meant to be fed.
The next day saw my nipples sore and raw, and every movement that caused a brush of fabric against them was agony. The midwives tried to get me to breastfeed her again, but on the rare occasion she chose to latch on I wanted to throw her across the room as a reaction to the pain. The midwives coaxed me to continue, but I started sobbing after a 10 second attempt so I nixed that plan immediately.
This also marks the time when it was discovered that hey - she STILL had jaundice after all and as such would need to be back in phototherapy. Because breastfeeding was so not on, the midwives decided that she should be cup fed. For those not familiar, breast milk is expressed (well, in my case anyway) and poured into a small cup. The cup is tilted toward their mouths and they - in theory - lap up the milk like a cat. As you might presume, not only is this messy, but it is also very time consuming. P. would waste at least half of the precious breastmilk (when you have sore as fuck nipples and you pump 6 times a day, you better believe this shit is like gold dust) and take about 40 minutes to drink 30 mls. At first I was pleased to not have to struggle with attempting to breastfeed and the requisite breakdown it would lead to, but cup feeding was no joy.
I think I could have dealt with a lot of this better had I not felt so isolated and alone. I was stuck in a room of my own at the end of a corridor whose rooms had no occupants. Most nights I had to keep my windows shut so P.'s body temperature wouldn't dip whilst receiving phototherapy, so I didn't even have the comfort of the sounds of cars driving by or birds chirping. The Dude had to leave by 9.30pm every night, and at around 8.30pm I would start to panic because I knew his departure was impending. On two nights I was so inconsolable that he was going to ask to stay overnight as he believed I would hurt myself. There is no precedence for this, but I was about 20 kinds of crazy so I'm not surprised he thought something would happen. He buzzed some of the midwives, who would have just come on shift, hoping they could convince me that I was not a terrible mother and that breastfeeding was not the only answer. Unfortunately for the both of us, that never happened. Usually it was a well-intentioned midwife who would come in, pat my knee, and tell me that motherhood was hard. Who knew? I would sit there with snot pouring out of my nose and my face puffy with tears, listening to their drivel and wishing for their slow demise.
This happened for a few nights, and my reputation as the ward's crazy person spread to the morning staff as well. A couple of times I was greeted with, "I heard we had a rough night last night, eh love?", as if I had merely shed a few tears, wiped them away quickly and resolved to just get on with it. Every day from the second lot of phototherapy I was told that it could be the day we would go home. When it was found not to be the case, I would start to panic again and dread 9.30pm when I would yet again be alone and struggling.
By day 6 it seemed as if we might be going home. P.'s jaundice was dissipating to a satisfactory level, and with cup feeding supplemented by formula (also administered by cup), the midwives were happy that we could successfully feed her and avoid P.'s starvation. One midwife brought me a bottle of formula with a teat at one stage, and that set me off on a secret mission in which I decided to forgo the use of the cup and utilise bottles instead. A pediatrician, Dr McDreamy, came to visit P. to check and see if her jaundice had cleared up enough to allow her to go home.
Lest you think I had the hots for the pediatrician and anointed him with that nickname, I will say that it is in fact The Dude who decided this guy met the profile of a McDreamy. I think I even caught him gazing longingly at McDreamy with lust in his heart whilst McDreamy rambled on about bilirubin levels. The Dude has good taste though, I must admit. McDreamy was the kind of guy that could give you bad news (which he did), and you still want to hang out with him because he is just that damn cool. He was oozing with charisma as well, and I'm a sucker for a guy that can charm anyone. Damn you McDreamy, damn you.
So anyway, McDreamy got ready to tell us that we could pack up and get the fuck out of dodge, when he decided to listen to her heartbeat, you know, for kicks. He then told us that he detected a heart murmur, which of course meant that more tests would need to be done to test its severity. Cue me slitting both wrists with a shard of glass from the phototherapy lights, as I knew that tests meant processing time, which meant at least another day in my own personal ring of hell.
We were able to get her an ECG immediately after McDreamy's consultation, but naturally no one was around to interpret the results. I spent that night alone in my room with P. as per usual, smuggling in bottles of expressed milk and formula and convincing myself that she was a goner. The next day she was taken to the NICU for an echocardiogram, which, I can tell you, virtually assured me of her impending demise. It did not help that the echo took place in a room that is reserved for parents either grieving the death of a baby, or attempting to cope with having a very sick baby. In case that was not enough to make me paranoid that this was the end, there was a plaque on the wall to say that the room was created for parents by the Stillborn and Infant Death Society. Yeah, thanks for that.
The echo showed that P. does have a heart murmur, caused by a Ventricular Septal Defect (VSD). It seems that it is not something to be worried about at this stage, as it could resolve itself in time. She is to have an appointment with a pediatric cardiologist between 8-10 weeks, so prepare for me to be batshit crazy around that stage. Oh, the glories of being a worrier.
Anyway, post-echo we were able to go home. Before discharge, I was asking some of the midwives what I could do to encourage this breastfeeding thing, as I thought that I would be more comfortable attempting it again at home as opposed to in my time spent in the hospital. Here it comes ladies...the moment you have all been waiting for. One of the midwives, a woman I actually liked up to that stage said -
She said...brace yourselves...
"I think you just need to relax."
Oh no she didn't. Bitch told me to relax. See, you can't get away from it once you leave infertility behind you! It's not bad enough that you have to deal with that during years of infertility, oh no. It follows you to parenthood as well. It seems the remedy for being unable to breastfeed is the same as infertility. Somebody write this shit down.
I was pleased to be escaping that godforsaken place anyway, and that just cemented my desire to do so. Just motherfucking relax...pfft.
There is my sordid tale of my time spent in hospital. I'm pleased to have made it out without any grey hair or committing homicide on midwives hellbent on getting women to breastfeed regardless of their resulting instability. I plan on my next post being about my thoughts on culture and breastfeeding, and I swear if I get any pro-breastfeeding to the point of fanaticism comments, I might disembowel someone. You know, someone who deserves it.
8/04/2006
The many moods of Little Ms P
I need a good few days to work through my next post given the emotions are still quite raw. Just thinking about it makes me anxious, and lord knows I've got enough issues at the moment. So, until the summary of doom goes live, here are some updated photos of Little Miss P. Yes, I have become one of those people. My most sincere apologies.
A rare moment of peacefulness. Any similarity to an Anne Geddes photo is purely accidental. Believe me. I know all that's missing is P. dressed as a beet or something.
I like to pretend this is a laugh. I'm sure it's just gas, or else she's squeezing out one of those delightful, noisy yellow poos that she's so fond of.
P. and her friend Brian. I don't know what he did to piss her off, but she's giving him hell for something. Our current caption is, "Brian! You ignorant fool! You shall suffer for this!"
Given it the old two fingers again. Punk 4 lyf and what not...
Ok, that's it. I'm done posting photos until she's 16 now. I promise the next post will include the offensive midwife comment. Brace yourselves.
A rare moment of peacefulness. Any similarity to an Anne Geddes photo is purely accidental. Believe me. I know all that's missing is P. dressed as a beet or something.
I like to pretend this is a laugh. I'm sure it's just gas, or else she's squeezing out one of those delightful, noisy yellow poos that she's so fond of.
P. and her friend Brian. I don't know what he did to piss her off, but she's giving him hell for something. Our current caption is, "Brian! You ignorant fool! You shall suffer for this!"
Given it the old two fingers again. Punk 4 lyf and what not...Ok, that's it. I'm done posting photos until she's 16 now. I promise the next post will include the offensive midwife comment. Brace yourselves.
7/29/2006
In the beginning
If you were to tell me two weeks ago that I would today be posting P.'s birth story, I would likely think you were cruel and unusual for forcing me to face the prospect of labour and delivery. To say I was terrified of the gore and mind-numbing pain it would produce would be a vast understatement.
Luckily, I hadn't much time to ponder these issues. I woke up last Tuesday at 3.30am to pee for the third time that night, and as I have not yet abandoned my infertile sensibilities, I looked at the toilet paper when I wiped. I hadn't expected to see anything, but this is now an ingrained behaviour that I can never see myself abandoning, so hats off to you infertility! There were spots of blood on the toilet paper, which confused and frightened me. There wasn't enough blood for it to be the mucuous plug (or "show"/"bloody show"- as if this is entertainment to be viewed for all ages), so naturally I was imagining certain fetal death.
I walked into the bedroom to tell The Dude, unsure if I should start the conversation with, "Uh, I'm bleeding" or "I need to call the hospital", knowing both would throw him into a frenzy of wide-eyed panic and anxiety. I decided to go with the rather ominous "I'm bleeding", and as predicted he shot out of bed and started to fret while I tried to remain calm and rational.
I called the hospital, and the midwife advised me to simply go back to bed and check the bleeding in a few hours' time. If I was still bleeding, I was to call again and they would advise me further. The Dude, somehow assured by this, went back to bed and had a fitful sleep. I, on the other hand, knew something had to be wrong and got no further sleep. At 6.30am I checked again and this time there was a lovely mass which could have only been the mucuous plug. I phoned the hospital again, and despite their reluctance to go along with my assertion that I had indeed just lost my plug (ew), they instructed me to come in.
Once at the hospital, we just sat around for a few hours while the baby's heartbeat was monitored. I had a lovely internal exam that took me back to the heady days of my liaisons with WHYBAML and the much-loved wand, and damn...was that shit painful. Who knew? As I tensed at the insertion of the speculum, I thought how utterly screwed I was going to be in labour if I was uncomfortable during a routine pelvic exam. The doctor told me that my cervix was closed, and that the huge clot of blood and stuff that I passed earlier may or may not have been the mucuous plug. Uh, yeah. Labour does some fucked up stuff to your body, but with my limited knowledge I doubt there are many occurrences of big ol' clots that aren't mucuous plugs. I'm just saying...
At about noon I was taken up to one of the labour and delivery wards for even more monitoring. The Dude and I sat up there either waiting to be sent home, or told that this ship was about to sail. I started to have mildly painful contractions which originated in my lower back, though at the time I didn't acknowledge them as such given my complete and utter cluelessness. Hours passed with the contractions slightly picking up in frequency and severity, though labour still seemed as if it could be ages away.
The Dude was sent home at 9.30pm under the advisement that labour was unlikely to occur until sometime the next day, if at all. Imagine my surprise when the contractions soon became immensely painful, with the most powerful of them acting as the force which broke my water. I was writhing in agony when all of a sudden there was an exodus of fluid. Now, I once read that the volume of fluid you lose when this occurs is vastly less than what is generally shown on television or TV. Liars. I could have had my own paddling pool and invited the neighbourhood round for a swim with all the fluid that came out. I was simultaneously repulsed and fascinated with this physiological occurrence and was afraid to call the midwife to clean up the mess that was forming a puddle on the floor.
They never tell you that the stuff keeps coming out with each contraction. I would view this as important information, but apparently having constant streams of amniotic fluid running down your legs during contractions is pedestrian and expected. Now you know. This also becomes rather humiliating when you need to use the bathroom two doors down and you leave an amniotic fluid trail in your wake. The midwife actually had to get a mop and follow me to and from the bathroom since it was located off the main corridor in the ward. For health and safety reasons I don't imagine it would be wise to have expectant mothers slipping on other womens' amniotic fluid. Every time I left the bathroom I had to call a midwife to clean up after me. Yeah, it was a proud moment.
The contractions continued to worsen, which found me in my little isolated corner of the room, alone, writhing as if possessed with every one. The midwives offered pain relief in the form of two tiny pills which did exactly fuck all. I'm not convinced they were any more than the strength of Advil, and I'm not sure what pain they were supposed to kill. I gave it another 45 minutes and then asked to go upstairs to the ward where they could administer proper pain medication.
It may be that the midwife offered me a wheelchair and I refused, since I'm in the habit of being stubborn and believing myself to be tougher than I really am. However, I ended up walking up to the next ward, which was not an entirely wise move on my part considering I had 5-6 contractions on the short trip there. I had to ask the midwife to stop periodically, while I propped myself up against the nearest wall and braced down. Of course there were people walking by while I was doing this, but the pain was too great for me to realise that I was squatting while leaning against walls wearing a hospital gown and fuzzy socks. Funny how little pride or modesty labour allows you.
Once we got to what would become the delivery room, it was decided that The Dude should make his way back to the hospital despite only having left a few hours before. I started on the gas & air as soon as I arrived, and it was divine. When The Dude arrived 30 minutes later, I was ready to start pushing despite the protestations from my midwife. I quite boldly told her that I was now at a point that not pushing was certainly not an option, and to my amazement she conceded.
When watching birth shows, I always rolled my eyes at those whiny women who insisted that they had to push, against the advisement of their caregivers. I would often think "Suck it up bitch - get tough!", believing that you could control the need to push if need be. I admit I was wrong. To all those women, I apologise. I don't think it's an urge to push, I think the baby decides to push its way out regardless of what you want to do. I never felt that pushing was within my control. For me, P. was going to find her way out, whether I assisted her or not. Sure, it would take a little longer and prolong the delivery, but she would have found her way out.
I pushed for 20 minutes or so before she was born. I was coping well with the delivery aspect of things until she crowned and I felt the delightful "ring of fire" that I didn't know about until Molly mentioned it post-delivery. When the midwife excitedly told me, "Her head is right here - it's nearly out!", it took every diversionary tactic I had to focus on something other than a melon visibly emerging from my vagina, stretching it beyond recognition. With one more push, she was out.
The feeling of your baby's entire body sliding out of your own is inexplicable. Throughout all of the labor you know the end result is a baby, but you don't think of what the actual moment of birth will be like. One minute this being is inside of you, relying solely on you for its health and wellbeing, and the next, it has entered the world and a separate life has begun.
P. Was put straight on my chest with her cord still attached, and despite going through the trauma of birth she was amazingly serene. She looked up at me with her big blue eyes, studying my face intently. I would like to say that it was at that moment I fell in love, but I was in such amazement that my embryo Enid was now a real, live, breathing baby that I didn't have the capacity to realize that this was my daughter or that I was now a mother. I stared back at her, as much in awe as she appeared to be with me.
From the time my water broke to when Piper arrived, only 4 hours passed. This would lead some to classify mine as an "easy" labor, which I find irritating. Is any labor ever easy? It's childbirth for fuck's sake, and that shit ain't easy regardless of the circumstances. The day following the birth a series of midwives would tell me how lucky I was to have such an easy time of things. At the time the memory of toe-curling, near vomit-inducing contractions were fresh in my mind, and the painful snatch stitches would indicate to the contrary as well.
The real fun began after the birth, culminating in many a lonely night stuck in a small room with a screaming baby with jaundice that wasn't feeding properly. I'll cover that traumatic period in another post or two, along with relating a little comment from a midwife which almost lead to her being bitchslapped into next week. Trust me, the statement is priceless.
Luckily, I hadn't much time to ponder these issues. I woke up last Tuesday at 3.30am to pee for the third time that night, and as I have not yet abandoned my infertile sensibilities, I looked at the toilet paper when I wiped. I hadn't expected to see anything, but this is now an ingrained behaviour that I can never see myself abandoning, so hats off to you infertility! There were spots of blood on the toilet paper, which confused and frightened me. There wasn't enough blood for it to be the mucuous plug (or "show"/"bloody show"- as if this is entertainment to be viewed for all ages), so naturally I was imagining certain fetal death.
I walked into the bedroom to tell The Dude, unsure if I should start the conversation with, "Uh, I'm bleeding" or "I need to call the hospital", knowing both would throw him into a frenzy of wide-eyed panic and anxiety. I decided to go with the rather ominous "I'm bleeding", and as predicted he shot out of bed and started to fret while I tried to remain calm and rational.
I called the hospital, and the midwife advised me to simply go back to bed and check the bleeding in a few hours' time. If I was still bleeding, I was to call again and they would advise me further. The Dude, somehow assured by this, went back to bed and had a fitful sleep. I, on the other hand, knew something had to be wrong and got no further sleep. At 6.30am I checked again and this time there was a lovely mass which could have only been the mucuous plug. I phoned the hospital again, and despite their reluctance to go along with my assertion that I had indeed just lost my plug (ew), they instructed me to come in.
Once at the hospital, we just sat around for a few hours while the baby's heartbeat was monitored. I had a lovely internal exam that took me back to the heady days of my liaisons with WHYBAML and the much-loved wand, and damn...was that shit painful. Who knew? As I tensed at the insertion of the speculum, I thought how utterly screwed I was going to be in labour if I was uncomfortable during a routine pelvic exam. The doctor told me that my cervix was closed, and that the huge clot of blood and stuff that I passed earlier may or may not have been the mucuous plug. Uh, yeah. Labour does some fucked up stuff to your body, but with my limited knowledge I doubt there are many occurrences of big ol' clots that aren't mucuous plugs. I'm just saying...
At about noon I was taken up to one of the labour and delivery wards for even more monitoring. The Dude and I sat up there either waiting to be sent home, or told that this ship was about to sail. I started to have mildly painful contractions which originated in my lower back, though at the time I didn't acknowledge them as such given my complete and utter cluelessness. Hours passed with the contractions slightly picking up in frequency and severity, though labour still seemed as if it could be ages away.
The Dude was sent home at 9.30pm under the advisement that labour was unlikely to occur until sometime the next day, if at all. Imagine my surprise when the contractions soon became immensely painful, with the most powerful of them acting as the force which broke my water. I was writhing in agony when all of a sudden there was an exodus of fluid. Now, I once read that the volume of fluid you lose when this occurs is vastly less than what is generally shown on television or TV. Liars. I could have had my own paddling pool and invited the neighbourhood round for a swim with all the fluid that came out. I was simultaneously repulsed and fascinated with this physiological occurrence and was afraid to call the midwife to clean up the mess that was forming a puddle on the floor.
They never tell you that the stuff keeps coming out with each contraction. I would view this as important information, but apparently having constant streams of amniotic fluid running down your legs during contractions is pedestrian and expected. Now you know. This also becomes rather humiliating when you need to use the bathroom two doors down and you leave an amniotic fluid trail in your wake. The midwife actually had to get a mop and follow me to and from the bathroom since it was located off the main corridor in the ward. For health and safety reasons I don't imagine it would be wise to have expectant mothers slipping on other womens' amniotic fluid. Every time I left the bathroom I had to call a midwife to clean up after me. Yeah, it was a proud moment.
The contractions continued to worsen, which found me in my little isolated corner of the room, alone, writhing as if possessed with every one. The midwives offered pain relief in the form of two tiny pills which did exactly fuck all. I'm not convinced they were any more than the strength of Advil, and I'm not sure what pain they were supposed to kill. I gave it another 45 minutes and then asked to go upstairs to the ward where they could administer proper pain medication.
It may be that the midwife offered me a wheelchair and I refused, since I'm in the habit of being stubborn and believing myself to be tougher than I really am. However, I ended up walking up to the next ward, which was not an entirely wise move on my part considering I had 5-6 contractions on the short trip there. I had to ask the midwife to stop periodically, while I propped myself up against the nearest wall and braced down. Of course there were people walking by while I was doing this, but the pain was too great for me to realise that I was squatting while leaning against walls wearing a hospital gown and fuzzy socks. Funny how little pride or modesty labour allows you.
Once we got to what would become the delivery room, it was decided that The Dude should make his way back to the hospital despite only having left a few hours before. I started on the gas & air as soon as I arrived, and it was divine. When The Dude arrived 30 minutes later, I was ready to start pushing despite the protestations from my midwife. I quite boldly told her that I was now at a point that not pushing was certainly not an option, and to my amazement she conceded.
When watching birth shows, I always rolled my eyes at those whiny women who insisted that they had to push, against the advisement of their caregivers. I would often think "Suck it up bitch - get tough!", believing that you could control the need to push if need be. I admit I was wrong. To all those women, I apologise. I don't think it's an urge to push, I think the baby decides to push its way out regardless of what you want to do. I never felt that pushing was within my control. For me, P. was going to find her way out, whether I assisted her or not. Sure, it would take a little longer and prolong the delivery, but she would have found her way out.
I pushed for 20 minutes or so before she was born. I was coping well with the delivery aspect of things until she crowned and I felt the delightful "ring of fire" that I didn't know about until Molly mentioned it post-delivery. When the midwife excitedly told me, "Her head is right here - it's nearly out!", it took every diversionary tactic I had to focus on something other than a melon visibly emerging from my vagina, stretching it beyond recognition. With one more push, she was out.
The feeling of your baby's entire body sliding out of your own is inexplicable. Throughout all of the labor you know the end result is a baby, but you don't think of what the actual moment of birth will be like. One minute this being is inside of you, relying solely on you for its health and wellbeing, and the next, it has entered the world and a separate life has begun.
P. Was put straight on my chest with her cord still attached, and despite going through the trauma of birth she was amazingly serene. She looked up at me with her big blue eyes, studying my face intently. I would like to say that it was at that moment I fell in love, but I was in such amazement that my embryo Enid was now a real, live, breathing baby that I didn't have the capacity to realize that this was my daughter or that I was now a mother. I stared back at her, as much in awe as she appeared to be with me.
From the time my water broke to when Piper arrived, only 4 hours passed. This would lead some to classify mine as an "easy" labor, which I find irritating. Is any labor ever easy? It's childbirth for fuck's sake, and that shit ain't easy regardless of the circumstances. The day following the birth a series of midwives would tell me how lucky I was to have such an easy time of things. At the time the memory of toe-curling, near vomit-inducing contractions were fresh in my mind, and the painful snatch stitches would indicate to the contrary as well.
The real fun began after the birth, culminating in many a lonely night stuck in a small room with a screaming baby with jaundice that wasn't feeding properly. I'll cover that traumatic period in another post or two, along with relating a little comment from a midwife which almost lead to her being bitchslapped into next week. Trust me, the statement is priceless.
7/25/2006
All hail the hamburger
Jealousy is a dangerous thing. After reading about OvaGirl's impending delivery of her little boy, someone inside me stirred. Not content to wait until 15 August, she of the chunky labia decided that labour waited for no baby. My uterus was no longer accommodating enough, prompting her to think, "Well, fuck that, I'm blowing this joint*" in the early morning hours of Wednesday, 19 July, exactly one week short of my 28th birthday.
Piper made it to a whole 36w1d of gestation, contrary to the 35 weeks mentioned on the blogs of a couple of dear friends. I have only just been released with her from the hospital today, thanks to a nasty case of jaundice, breastfeeding conundromes, and a heart murmur. I plan on recounting my labour and delivery story, as well as my prolonged hospital stay tale shortly, but at the moment I'm just glad to be home with the baby I never thought I'd have.
Here is a picture of my badass, stubborn daughter at two days old. Pardon the incubator and blue tinted photo, but it was taken whilst she was undergoing phototherapy. Additionally, please ignore the bulldog face. What can I say...my birth canal was a rough old place and the poor kid just barely made it out with a nose. This is what she thinks of the situation:
Now that is punk. Cool sunglasses and the old two-fingered "V" (British equivalent to the finger) for all the haters out there. This girl is hardcore already. How could I not be in love?
*C'mon now...you surely must rely on me for giving a fetus a foul mouth. If I'm not going to do it, who is?
Piper made it to a whole 36w1d of gestation, contrary to the 35 weeks mentioned on the blogs of a couple of dear friends. I have only just been released with her from the hospital today, thanks to a nasty case of jaundice, breastfeeding conundromes, and a heart murmur. I plan on recounting my labour and delivery story, as well as my prolonged hospital stay tale shortly, but at the moment I'm just glad to be home with the baby I never thought I'd have.
Here is a picture of my badass, stubborn daughter at two days old. Pardon the incubator and blue tinted photo, but it was taken whilst she was undergoing phototherapy. Additionally, please ignore the bulldog face. What can I say...my birth canal was a rough old place and the poor kid just barely made it out with a nose. This is what she thinks of the situation:
Now that is punk. Cool sunglasses and the old two-fingered "V" (British equivalent to the finger) for all the haters out there. This girl is hardcore already. How could I not be in love?
*C'mon now...you surely must rely on me for giving a fetus a foul mouth. If I'm not going to do it, who is?
7/05/2006
Say No to Tights
Because I can only complain about pregnancy so much without driving everyone away, I'll deviate slightly just this once. Ok, I lie, because this post is born of one of my biggest pregnancy pet peeves - elevated body temperature.
Us lucky southern UK folk are in the midst of a heat wave, which in English terms, means that it has gotten to about 90 degrees or so over the past few days. I grew up in Central Pennsylvania, home of the endless 100 degree summer with 800% humidity, I should be used to this, right? However, air conditioning doesn't exist here, at least not in the circles I move within. My office has been doing its best impression of the fiery pits of hell, and succeeding quite admirably I may add. I hope no one mentions a fan, as yes, I have two pointed at me at all times and they do absolutely fuck all. My mom actually said to me the other day (when I was complaining endlessly about the heat), "Do they have fans there?" Hell no! We just done got 'lectricity last week maw, how we's gonna get one of them thar fans?
My body cannot take this. I've nearly expired every day this week and taken my fat ass cankles with me. I sit, slumped over in my chair, listlessly typing random drivel in the vain hope that I'll look like death enough to be sent home. No such luck as of yet. It doesn't help that this brings the fuckwits out of the woodwork that say things like, "Wow. You must be hot." or "Ha. Don't you look uncomfortable." Yes, thank you very much for noticing. Now my attention has also been called to the issue even more, and I realise how truly miserable I am. Cheers, asshole.
So anyway, on with the non-pregnancy stuff that I mentioned earlier. My hatred of the heat at all times in my life has lead me to have some weird sensory issues that are coming to a bit of a head at the moment. First of all, I have a slight tights/stocking phobia. I hate them. I cannot stand the feeling of them on my legs, and will do all I possibly can to avoid wearing them. Unfortunately I have some ugly ass legs that would really benefit from some covering, but I can't force myself to wear tights.
I love skirts, but if they necessitate tights-wearing, I'm out. I also hate the web crotch situation that so many of them have, where the crotch just sort of stretches 3 inches lower than where your crotch is actually located. You can go up a size or two to avoid web crotch, but of course you then have to hike them up every 2 minutes and thus look like a really classy broad. What is worse than simply wearing tights is if you are wearing them and they get wet. The mere thought is enough to make me want to crawl out of my skin. Ugh. One day this winter I was walking to work in the rain and I passed a woman wearing tights and her legs were soaked. I had to cross the road lest I vomit at the sight and further thought of the sensation of wet tights on bare legs.
For some reason, in this weather women have still been wearing tights. The idea of sweaty legs under tights is just as bad, if not worse than the concept of rain-drenched legs in tights. As I said, my legs may possibly be the most hideous, pale, veiny things to assault one's vision, but my hatred of tights is insurmountable. I will make you look at these things if it means I don't have to have convulsions at the thought of putting on tights.
I'm fearful, as this issue with hot and/or wet legs (ooo la la) under clothing might be extending to trousers now as well. I have lived in the one dress and one skirt that I can fit in all three days this week. Yes, I had to do a spontaneous load of laundry last night, but it meant my legs were bare and my crotch could breathe today, rather than forcing the poor things into a pair of non-breathing trousers or jeans. Yesterday, the female caretaker at work was telling me how she had to wear polyester trousers as part of her uniform, proceeding to tell me in vivid detail how little polyester breathes (go figure) and how uncomfortable she has been in the heat. The combination of "polyester" "legs" and "sweat" almost pushed me to stick my ears in the nearby fan to end the aural misery of this tale.
The point to all this rambling is that I would like to know what your weird sensory issues are, if you have any. It is also entirely possible that I am a freak that deserves to be tortured with the idea of wet tights and sweaty, clothed legs. So please, do tell. Oh, and I better not get any wet tights in the post.
Us lucky southern UK folk are in the midst of a heat wave, which in English terms, means that it has gotten to about 90 degrees or so over the past few days. I grew up in Central Pennsylvania, home of the endless 100 degree summer with 800% humidity, I should be used to this, right? However, air conditioning doesn't exist here, at least not in the circles I move within. My office has been doing its best impression of the fiery pits of hell, and succeeding quite admirably I may add. I hope no one mentions a fan, as yes, I have two pointed at me at all times and they do absolutely fuck all. My mom actually said to me the other day (when I was complaining endlessly about the heat), "Do they have fans there?" Hell no! We just done got 'lectricity last week maw, how we's gonna get one of them thar fans?
My body cannot take this. I've nearly expired every day this week and taken my fat ass cankles with me. I sit, slumped over in my chair, listlessly typing random drivel in the vain hope that I'll look like death enough to be sent home. No such luck as of yet. It doesn't help that this brings the fuckwits out of the woodwork that say things like, "Wow. You must be hot." or "Ha. Don't you look uncomfortable." Yes, thank you very much for noticing. Now my attention has also been called to the issue even more, and I realise how truly miserable I am. Cheers, asshole.
So anyway, on with the non-pregnancy stuff that I mentioned earlier. My hatred of the heat at all times in my life has lead me to have some weird sensory issues that are coming to a bit of a head at the moment. First of all, I have a slight tights/stocking phobia. I hate them. I cannot stand the feeling of them on my legs, and will do all I possibly can to avoid wearing them. Unfortunately I have some ugly ass legs that would really benefit from some covering, but I can't force myself to wear tights.
I love skirts, but if they necessitate tights-wearing, I'm out. I also hate the web crotch situation that so many of them have, where the crotch just sort of stretches 3 inches lower than where your crotch is actually located. You can go up a size or two to avoid web crotch, but of course you then have to hike them up every 2 minutes and thus look like a really classy broad. What is worse than simply wearing tights is if you are wearing them and they get wet. The mere thought is enough to make me want to crawl out of my skin. Ugh. One day this winter I was walking to work in the rain and I passed a woman wearing tights and her legs were soaked. I had to cross the road lest I vomit at the sight and further thought of the sensation of wet tights on bare legs.
For some reason, in this weather women have still been wearing tights. The idea of sweaty legs under tights is just as bad, if not worse than the concept of rain-drenched legs in tights. As I said, my legs may possibly be the most hideous, pale, veiny things to assault one's vision, but my hatred of tights is insurmountable. I will make you look at these things if it means I don't have to have convulsions at the thought of putting on tights.
I'm fearful, as this issue with hot and/or wet legs (ooo la la) under clothing might be extending to trousers now as well. I have lived in the one dress and one skirt that I can fit in all three days this week. Yes, I had to do a spontaneous load of laundry last night, but it meant my legs were bare and my crotch could breathe today, rather than forcing the poor things into a pair of non-breathing trousers or jeans. Yesterday, the female caretaker at work was telling me how she had to wear polyester trousers as part of her uniform, proceeding to tell me in vivid detail how little polyester breathes (go figure) and how uncomfortable she has been in the heat. The combination of "polyester" "legs" and "sweat" almost pushed me to stick my ears in the nearby fan to end the aural misery of this tale.
The point to all this rambling is that I would like to know what your weird sensory issues are, if you have any. It is also entirely possible that I am a freak that deserves to be tortured with the idea of wet tights and sweaty, clothed legs. So please, do tell. Oh, and I better not get any wet tights in the post.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)