What's behind door #2?

The birthing, part Deux.

It was time to push. I felt sick to my stomach. Not over the excitement that I would soon be a mother, or over the fear that it would hurt. Nope. My paralyzing fear was that with a whole team of people watching me I would make a poo on the delivery table. My doctor and everyone else in the room was well aware of this fear, since in my loopy state I kept saying “I’m so so sorry. I ate Chipotle. I’m so sorry. You’re a really nice nurse and if I’d known, I wouldn’t have eaten the tacos.”

Typically I’m not the type of person who is easily embarrassed. Tyler has walked in our bedroom many times to find me shamelessly working something out in the master bath.  He HATES it, but in my defense, I feel that the sight of me going #2 is nowhere NEAR as traumatic as the smells he leaves behind.  I’d also been reassured by a friend that as soon as she made a poo during delivery it was whisked away so quickly nobody knew it was ever there. I imagined this team of people standing there in biohazard suits, tissues in hand, just waiting for the event. That gave me some hope, but it didn’t take the fear away. 

My doctor came back in the room after the dreaded 45 minute wait, and took the bottom of my bed away so she could sit eye level with my lady bits. Tyler, my sister Courtney and my mom were there. I think Tyler and Courtney each held a leg, but the memory is blurry – we were like 17 hours in at this point. My super nice nurse was there for a long time and even stayed past her shift in hopes to meet Kensie. Unfortunately the total pushing experience took longer than we hoped - almost 2 hours. Imagine trying to push a watermelon out of your lady parts for the ENTIRE duration of a full length movie. Such a treat. 

When the pushing started my doctor warned me:

1. Do not make faces, it wastes energy

2. Do not scream, it wastes energy  

3. Do not clench your bum cheeks, it wastes energy. 

Let me tell you what wastes energy: concentrating on NOT doing the 3 things that you want to do most while trying to get a human head out of your body. After about 15 minutes of pushing and concentrating on NOT doing these things, I heard my doctor say “oh look at all that dark hair!”. I saw my mom covering her mouth. My sister and Tyler both looked like they were REALLY regretting having to stare at my vag for this long. I was suddenly regretting the hours I spent making headbands for my unborn child who I was convinced would be bald. More than that though, I had this false sense that since we were only 15 minutes in, and we saw hair, I would be done with this thing in like 5 more minutes and the nurses and doctors would shower me with kisses and carry me on their shoulders as the greatest pusher of all time (#epickegelfail). At this point they wheeled the mirror over at my request so I could see what was going on down there. This was a great idea –at first. I felt so encouraged by the fact that I could see her, that I pushed with 3 times my previous effort for a really long time. 

The problem with this was that what I pushed out wasn’t a baby.

As I gazed into the mirror at a horrifyingly unfamiliar vagina, I noticed something even more terrifying roughly 2 inches south. Mr. Poo, apparently disturbed by all the commotion, was peeking out his front door to see what all the fuss was about. I guess out was better than in for him, what with the head crowding his space ‘n all. I tried to clench and stop him, but there was nothing I could do. As if in slow motion the small round poo rolled out. It fell sloooowly.  “Ohhhh noooo”, I shrieked. I could tell by everyone’s facial expressions that they were waiting to see how I’d react. They knew I’d been dreading this moment, especially in light of the Chipotle. 

The poo hit the table. BOOM.

In a panic I looked at Tyler and said “Get it! Geeeet it (girly whine voice)!” After all, he knew this was my biggest fear, and I would have done it for HIM. 

“WHAT?!” he said. “I’m not getting that. Gross! I don’t even have rubber gloves”.  

Final dagger through the heart. I lost it. I mean really lost it. I was hopeless. It wasn’t enough that a whole team of people was staring at the horror between my legs. It wasn’t enough that I couldn’t get this kid out.. ohhh no. I’d just pooped in front of them. I mean not like “oops I forgot to close the bathroom door” pooped. Like POOPED. Straight out the bum POOPED. And where the f- was the team of tissue wielding clean up specialists? At this point I couldn’t stop crying. My doctor gave me some tough love and basically told me to get it the f- together. The poo was then removed.

Kensie didn’t move from her exact location in the old birth canal for another hour. I pooped 3 more times. My nurse tried to encourage me after a while by telling me I was really doing a good job and making progress! (Apparently at this point I turned to her and yelled “YOU KEEEEEP SAYYYYING THAT!!!!”).

At about an hour and 30 minutes into the pushing a nurse came in and asked if I was wearing jewelry. I knew this meant they were considering a c-section.  I was ready for this to be over and started saying “Cut ME juuust CUT ME”. I didn’t think I could get her out. 

My doctor was apparently concerned too. At this point she looked me straight in the eye and said “do what you need to do, if you need to scream, scream”. 

I screamed. I yelled. I raised the dead. This, coupled with an advanced pilates style pulsing/pushing technique squeezed the little darling right out of me. 

What a relief. She was perfect. She was beautiful. All icky and bloody, but beautiful. They handed her right to me and I started crying. I couldn’t see her face, so I put my hands under her arms to support her, and the nurse turned her toward me. Right then she pushed down on my chest with her little legs and tried to stand up.

And then….

She pooed. 

Right on my chest.  

Black, gross, nasty poo. 

She wobbled her little head toward me with her squinty little newborn eyes as if to say “it’s ok mommy, look! I did it too!”

The pain was gone. Love was everywhere.

Do you like scary movies?

Then you’ll love childbirth. 

It’s a lot like a horror movie except at the end, instead of there being less people left alive in the room, there’s one extra.  I thought some of you who’d read my previous posts might be curious how the whole pregnancy thing played out, so here you go. I probably don’t need to warn you that both parts of this are equally honest and graphic. Not like “boo hoo I can’t see my lady bits” graphic. Like horror movie graphic.

DISCLAIMER: THERE WILL BE BLOOD. AND GUTS. AND OTHER STUFF THAT’S PRETTY GROSS AND MAY CAUSE YOU TO ABSTAIN FROM CERTAIN GROWN UP ACTIVITIES IN THE FEAR THAT THE BELOW WILL HAPPEN TO YOU OR SOMEONE YOU DO GROWN UP ACTIVITIES WITH.

Cool with that sort of thing? Fantastico. Read on.

Part I: “knock knock..who’s there?..cervix…cervix who?...your friggin cervix, and I’m here to take a long friggin time before I do my job and open up”

I was supposed to be induced the night of April 5^th, 2011 one day after my due date. Because I’m the type that over-reads/prepares/freaks out, I called my doctor in a panic convinced that the induction chemicals would somehow split my delicate womanly guts into pieces. I imagined them exploding and rupturing like an overfilled meat balloon or something… I don’t know. In an attempt to calm my nerves, my doctor decided to move my induction out a week and give Kensie a chance to come out on her own. Shortly after my appt. with the doctor I called both my mother and husband hysterical that I would have to endure another week of pregnancy.  I was pretty sure at the time it would kill me. 

I called the doctor and begged her to reconsider. She wouldn’t. “This is what you wanted” she said (#WTFwasithinking). I decided I needed to take matters into my own hands and coax this little nugget out. I filled up a bottle with milk and held it up to my loins convinced that she would smell the milk like a hungry raccoon and come after it. Ok, I’m kidding, I didn’t do that, but I thought about it, only with tater tots because let’s face it… they’re delicious. Seriously though, I walked the mall, I bounced on an exercise ball, put hot rags on my hoots, rubbed my acupressure points, etc etc etc. I was on a mission. The only thing I didn’t do was drink castor oil because I was afraid it would cause me to poop on the table while pushing. (#TragicIrony). It wasn’t until I was in line to order extra spicy chipotle tacos I that I felt the first twitch of something going on down there. And by twitch, I mean gut wrenching contraction that caused me to take a seat. I powered through those tacos anyway, death row style. (#HugeMistake)

I had contractions off and on for a few hours that evening, unsure if they were the real thing (#horrendouspain). By midnight I crawled on my hands and knees to the bed where Tyler was sleeping and politely asked him to stay awake with me in case the pain killed me. I was feeling a bit dramatic. Tyler was apparently feeling tired, so he went back to sleep. I immediately got into the bathtub and downloaded a contraction timer app on my phone cursing my husband’s name. He eventually came in, and when he realized I wasn’t wolf crying, he went into to total husband scatter brained freak out mode, and soon enough we were rushing to the hospital.

Next thing I knew I was in a hospital room leaning up against the wall trying not to hurl, preparing to make a big mistake. A kind nurse (#ManHandsMcGee) knocked on the door and asked nicely for me to lay down so she could “check my progress”. For those of you at home, this usually means a person will gently put their hand inside you… (#nonotapinkyorafingeraHANDaFRIGGINHAND!!!!) to check and see if your cervix is opening up. You will be anywhere from 0-10cm. A baby can’t come out until you’re 10, and if you’re not opening up at all, generally they send you home from the hospital to labor alone longer before you come back. My mistake was desperately begging Ms. McGee not to send me home. SO… when she checked me she kindly used her digits to quicken up my progress and take me from 1cm to 3cm. In case you’re wondering, it WAS NOT AN AWESOME FEELING. With some paperwork, and a nice gush of blood and mucus plug (#WTFisthatdisgustingclumpofsnotthatjustcameoutofme?!), I was admitted and moved to another room. Over the next few hours other kind nurses would repeat the same procedure until I was 5cm and ready for an epidural (#giveittomeNOW) and eventually Pitosin.  Again, if this is new to you, an epidural is basically a team of tiny magic angels that fly into your spine and take all the pain away. That is, until they decide to quit doing their job, but more on that later. Pitosin is this crazy chemical that helps your body get it in gear and opens up that cervix so a human head and shoulders can breeeeze right on through. 

After the epidural I was peachy keen.  I was peeing into a tube/bag and I couldn’t feel it. That was pretty cool. The only way I could tell I was contracting was by watching this little monitor beside my bed with numbers that went uuupppp and doooowwwn (#fun!). They put the pitosin in my IV. Shortly thereafter, my nurse, and eventually a team of nurses, started really freaking out that Kensie’s heart rate was dropping with each contraction (#notfun!). Real life horror movie terror set in. This little love of my life was inside me, raging to get out, and I was TERRIFIED my body would do something to hurt her before she got the chance. This fear was heightened by the fact that we both had a fever, and when the doctor tried to break my water, there wasn’t any water there to break. Apparently in the midst of taking that calming bath, downloading the contraction timer, and imagining myself on an episode of “snapped”, I’d missed my water breaking (#epicbathtubfail). 

 At around 2 in the afternoon (we’d been at the hospital around 12 hours at this point) I asked my sister, stepdad, mom and husband to leave the room so I could rest for the big event. They went to get lunch. Shortly thereafter I felt a gush on my legs. 

Thought one: what the french? 

Thought two: crap I totally peed the bed. My catheter must have come out. 

Thought three: the nurse said there’s a little balloon thing on the end that keeps it in though. 

Thought four: Did I just fidget and rip out the balloon with my kidney tube attached to it? Is it like hanging out of me like a snake? Sick.

Thought five:  Well this is embarrassing.

Thought six: Call Mom. Find your cell phone and call mom.

Mom came to the room and lifted up my sheet to realize that I hadn’t peed the bed. I’d bloodied the bed. There was apparently  A LOT of blood (#awesomelygross). This continued over and over throughout the day (#likethemoviecarrie). More and more and more and more blood loss. I was really scared. That was, until my epidural wore off and I was in so much pain I couldn’t feel any emotion (#Godpleasekillme). The contraction monitor said I was in the high 90’s. I’m pretty sure that’s a solid “A” on the pain grading scale.

(A pause to salute all women throughout the years who have birthed children without pain meds. I got only a brief tastelet of your pain, and I wish I could send you all flowers. Mom, I’m sorry I have a head. And shoulders. And that you had to feel them.)

Eventually a nice lady came in and dosed the crap out me and and the pain went away. I was so numb that when the doctor came in and announced that it was time to push, I couldn’t move my legs. They were full of cement. I had to sit and wait another 45 minutes for the meds to wear off before I could push. It was the longest 45 minutes of my life…