birth stories · Mama · Uncategorized

Part 2: Jolie Charlene

I can’t believe I actually had the gall to this a summary.  This is legit longer than any actual birth story that I have read! For the 3 (optimistic estimate) of you who are actually still reading this, my apologies.  I have deceived you.

I clearly had to make a Part 2, though, bc how depressing would it be to end my birth story summary (lololol) with the words, “I saw a very blue, eerily quiet baby.”  Bad Mom Award Winner Forever.

I think about 20 minutes passed, of which I have absolutely no memory as I was flying high on the aforementioned anxiety medicine. Shaine was with Jolie in a different room so there’s no one to tell me if I started belting show-tunes or challenged the cadaver-nurse to a sword fight or whatever.  My best guess is I slept.  Eventually, they wheeled me into a room that blessedly held no trays full of knives and torches and other such instruments and I lay there for a few minutes until someone wheeled her in.  My baby.  My Jolie.

She’s in this little cradle thing and I reach my hand out to her and she actually (honestly, not making this up) reaches her little hand back out to me and it’s this wonderful, miraculous moment that I will never ever forget.  I ask the nurse if I can hold her, as I have literally not even touched her at this point, and she goes, “um, you’re kinda shaky.” Which is an understatement.  The uncontrollable flapping has ceased, thanks be to God, but now I’m trembling from head to foot, teeth chattering and all.  But still. Give me my baby, lady! She tentatively hands her to me and right away Jolie starts making this fishy-gulping movement with her mouth and I say, “I think she wants to nurse,” to which the aforementioned emotional robot/nurse replies, “She’s never going to nurse right now.  She’s way too groggy.” A statement I flatly ignore, pulling down my robe, and bam! Contact is made, baby nurses, and continues nursing for the next hour or so.  Casey 1, Robot Nurse 0.

The more I think about this birth, the more I realize how truly awful it was.  I spent the next 3 days in a recovery room with a handful of other newly made mothers, none of whom I saw even once as we were all separated by curtains. I was not once cleaned, given a way to brush my teeth (I couldn’t really walk due to the c section so I couldn’t get to a sink), or had any of the multitudes of sticky hospital pads attached to me removed.  When I was finally released to go home, I was still covered (covered) in dry blood from the labor and my husband had to get in the shower with me and scrub it all off as I had limited mobility from the C section.  The first night I spent in the recovery room they did not want to leave Jolie with me (still not sure why) so I told them to bring her to me every time she cried so I could nurse her.  I hate myself now for not being more assertive about keeping her with me.  This hospital was seriously over-crowded so who knows how quick they were to bring her me when she cried.  She could have cried for hours and I never would have known.  Also, there was no point in separating us if the reason was to let me rest after all the trauma as I can never sleep after I’ve had a baby and so I just laid there, alone (there was nowhere for Shaine to sleep and he was exhausted, having barely slept for 2 days), obsessing over the fear that someone might steal my baby.

I know, I know, it could have been worse.  We’re both alive.  I suppose I could have given birth in a pig pen underneath a bucking rodeo bull, but still.  It was hardly ideal.  Jolie has always had this grit about her, like she could survive anything.  Maybe her terrible entry into this world has something to do with that. Anyway, that’s my birth novella. Stay tuned for birth 2, which thankfully does not occur in a Soviet-era Russian hospital (aka Sacramento, CA).

jo birth

One hour

bb

One week.

1yr

One year

2yr

2 years

3yr

3 years

4tr

4 years

5yr

5 years

6yr

6 years

7yr

7 years

8yr

8 years

So so so so so worth it.  My special angel.  My gift from God.  My Jolie Charlene.

birth stories · Mama

Jolie Charlene

Part 1

mama1

So, I was 23 when I had my numero uno and Shaine was one week shy of 21.  (yesiliketorobcradles.  Ask me again, pls.) We were basically 2 and 5 years old and were like, alright! Let’s have a baaaaaabyy! Woo hoo!  Well, not exactly, but, looking back now it kinda feels like that.  I was about 38 weeks and his mother, brother, and mom’s boyfriend flew in from OKC to CA to be with us, bc, surely I would be having this baby any day now.  Surely.  Welp.  Maybe not.  Let me tell you, having your in-laws travel thousands of miles to meet their first grandchild and then failing to deliver said grandchild adds no pressure to the whole experience what. so. ever.

So, the due date comes…and goes.  My in-laws come…and go.  Shaine’s time off work comes…and goes.  My sanity comes…and goes.  (We planned things well, didn’t we?) Baby girl still happily crushing my innards all the while.  A week past my due date and I go in to get the stress test where they check the baby’s heartbeat and level of amniotic fluid to make sure everything’s still a-ok.  Well, I guess her heartbeat was a bit lower than they wanted it to be so, a call to my husband and off we go to the hospital to finally evict our little baby squatter.  On the way to the hospital, ish got real.  Not as in I started to actually go into labor.  LOLOLOL, please. Don’t be ridiculous. No, ish got real like I realized, (maybe, unnervingly?) for the first time that I was actually about to become a mother.  Up to this point, I had ZERO experience with babies.  I didn’t really even have any experience with little kids besides my brother who is autistic and a Martian and in no way prepared me to deal with other, non-martian children (yes, I am allowed to say that.  He’s my brother, for crying out loud.) I looked at Shaine at one point on the drive down and said, “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.” To which he replied, like the sage that he is, “You better get ready.”

We get to the hospital and I’m checked into a broom closet that will surely, surely only be temporary (it wasn’t), and the doctor (nurse? midwife? janitor? I can’t remember) asks me about my birth plan.  Of course, OF COURSE, I was going have a completely drug-free, vaginal birth! Did I look like one of those women who selfishly drug their babies? And, no, the fact that this birth would be induced with large amounts of torturous Pitocin made absolutely no difference whatsoever.  Why should it? Pe. Shaw. This convo is taking place literally (and you should know I only use literally in its correct usage as a rule) as a woman down the hall is screaming and I’m all “what’s going on with her?” and the doc says she is having a natural labor also and this does not faze me AT ALL.  I’m just like, oh good for her!

Fast forward to an hour later and I’m hunched over while an anesthesiologist is prepping my back, praying that the needle will just freaking get in there and GIVE ME THE JUICE! At one point the nurse mentions the so-recently hated, currently-beloved and coveted-above-all-riches epidural might not work and she officially becomes my Most Hated Person for the next 20 min or so.

Hallelujahx5billion, the epidural does take, the nurse, along with every person who has ever wronged me in my life, is pardoned in my mind, and all I say for the next 3 hours, over and over again in my mind, is thank You, God, thank You, God, thank You, God.

I could bore you with the next 20 or so hours of nothingness (sleep, watch TV, pee in a bag, sleep, watch TV, pee in a bag) but let’s fast forward to the next day when I’m finally getting ready to push (still in the broom closet! I’m not even joking about this.  I mean, it probably wasn’t an actual broom closet but I’m positive it was not meant to be used as a labor and delivery room. It was literally (again, correct usage) the size of a broom closet and how my husband, mom, and sister all slept in there with me overnight defies logic (though it’s seriously the sweetest thing ever, right? I think they slept on the floor!).

(Side note apology: that paragraph belongs in the run on sentence Hall of Shame.  How many parentheses did I manage to squeeze in there?  So sorry you had to suffer through that.)

I push through a few contractions.  A few more.  A half hour goes by.  An hour.  2 hours.  The world turns.  10 women in China deliver babies effortlessly.  I push. I push. I push.  Nada.

Suddenly, a horrid buzzing noise goes off on the baby monitor and every doctor, nurse, and cafeteria worker in the hospital crams into my minuscule room at once.  An oxygen mask is pushed on my face and one of the multitudes of doctors tells me the baby’s in distress and I need to get a C section NOW.  I look over at my husband in shock and he is kneeling on the ground, praying his heart out, God bless him.  The crowd files out to get the OR room ready and I just start to bawl.  This was so NOT how my labor was supposed to go.  This was so NOT how I was supposed to meet my baby.  I was supposed to give birth naturally, easily.  This was supposed to be the first of many, many children I would give birth to naturally and easily.  My husband and I had wanted a large family.  We calculated that, God willing all went smoothly, we could manage to have at least 12 (!!!!) children before I went through menopause.  I knew you couldn’t have 12 children if you had c-sections.  I think I’d heard the max was 4.  I felt like such a failure.  I felt like I had let my husband down, like I was this lemon that he was stuck with the rest of his life when he should have married a baby machine instead.  Of course, he didn’t feel that way and was amazingly sweet and wonderful and affirming, but I was crushed.  I was also exhausted.  My body had been in forced labor for over 24 hours and I hadn’t been allowed to eat anything in all that time.  I was beyond done.

Enter Dr. Crazy Pants.  A doctor I have never seen before bursts into the room at some point during my breakdown, thrusts her giant hands inside me, and shouts (really! shouts! and laughs! I’m not making this up!) that a woman “my size” will never give birth naturally.  My mom kinda gives her the stink eye and says something like, cool it, lady.  This is a girl who wants a large family. To which Dr. CPants hoots, What?! Why?! I’ve got 2 and that’s too many! Then she whisks me away to OR.

I’m not 100% sure how C-sections go for those who are not in emergency situations, but for me they somehow fixed it so the epidural affected my whole body rather than just below my hips.  For some reason, this amount of epidural didn’t sit well with my system and my head and arms started flapping uncontrollably, which was as wonderful as you can imagine.  Dr. CPants is still there, haunting me, and has now started shouting, “LAWD JEEEESUS! LAWD JEEEEESUS!” I’m unsure whether she is cursing or praying but, honestly, neither explanation is very comforting.  They’re prepping me and pulling the big sheet between my face and horror show that will soon be behind it, when I feel a panic attack coming on.  I’ve only had one other panic attack in my life (while being forced to run the mile in high school on a 110+ day which I still maintain is straight up child abuse), but the feeling is unmistakable.  I’m trying to distract myself, to think of anything but the fact that my body will be cut open in less than 2 minutes so I desperately try to strike up a conversation with the closest person to me, who (I think?) is a nurse.

“Are you reading anything these days?” I ask in a scary, high pitched voice, pretending to be totally casual.

“Huh?” she says and looks at me like she’s suddenly realized I’m not a cadaver.

“Books!” I squeak.  “What books are you reading?” The panic in my voice is obvious.

“Uh…” Still looking at me like she can’t figure out how the cadaver is talking. “Medical books, I guess…” She throws me this little scrap of human conversation then goes back to sharpening knives or whatever else device of torture she’s planning on slicing me open with.

Thanks be to God, Shaine (who unlike some ppl actually has the skill of speech) is allowed into the room.  He takes one look at me and sees I’m spiraling.  “Tell me about the Hobbit!” I yell, right off, like the truly insane person I am. And Shaine, just like the absolutely heavenly creature that he is, says, without any weird looks or eyebrow raises or anything, “Once there was a wizard named Gandalf…”

Oh my gosh, I’m loling writing this right now because I’m realizing what a crazy, awkward, nonsensical birth story this really is.

I don’t know how far he got into the story bc I actually did have the dreaded attack once the smell of burning flesh hit my uncontrollably flapping head.  I remember someone showing me a very blue, eerily quiet baby then I think they gave me some anxiety medicine bc everything’s a little blurry after that.

To be continued…

birth stories · Mama

Birthin Babies

(Remember what I said about no g’s at the end of words in summer?  I was serious about that.)

So, my new hobby is scouring the internet for mom blogs and reading every birth story I can find.  Can’t imagine why.  And because I’m nothing if not a copy cat, I’ve kinda been feeling like I want to write my birth stories down too…buuuut, the problem with that is all my stories happened at least 2 years ago and I’m for sure not going to remember all the gory little details that I know you all are just dying to read (emiright?).

My solution is this: I’ll write a summary about each of the births! Yay!  I’m a genius, right? No one could see that coming, could they?  And then AND THEN when little bb boy is born, I will write his birth story down with every last mind-numbing detail that no one but me and maybe my mother could possibly ever care about.  I should add a disclaimer here, though, that, as I’ve made it my life’s motto to not undertake any task unless it be on a spontaneous whim (a very efficient way to live, btw), it’s entirely possible that I’ll have the boy (did I mention I’m having a boy? oh, 1000x? ok) and then be all, “meh, blog smlog,” thus maintaining my reign as World’s Biggest Flake.  We will see.

Alright, let’s get started! I think, in an effort to be a legit blogger, I’ll just put the links (links prove you know what you’re doing) below and you can click on the one you want to read.  Good?

Jolie Charlene

August 19, 2008

new

more to come…