Birth Story

Okay. Everybody ready? Got popcorn? Coke? Comfy? Here we go.
TL/dr: Birth was a shitshow, but Succotash is perfect, and we are all home safe.

Sunday, 10/6: After a solid couple of days of blood pressure readings in the 140s and Erika presumably still on a beach in the Caribbean, I call the OB answering service. I am told that yes, those BP readings mean we need to induce today. Today! We are excited! We go out for a tasty brunch, we get MIL squared away with Dog Guac, we assemble our hospital supplies, we dance to "Sweet Child of Mine" on Alexa, and we get in an Uber. At the hospital, we skip over triage and are shown into a labor and delivery room. There is a baby warmer in the corner. It all feels very real. We settle in.

Sunday night: My cervix is tight as a drum. We are given cytotec to get things started. We order in Tex Mex. My BP is constantly monitored, and so is Succotash. He is great. We watch a TV program in which I appear as a talking head, which is a weird thing to do in a labor and delivery room. Then we both sleep. Not too bad.

Monday: I forget when the foley bulb is introduced, if it's Sunday or Monday. Upon reflection, probably Sunday. Regardless, there's a foley bulb. It sucks. And it goes on for a very long time. I text with doula, and we decide she will join us after bulb comes out, when they start Pitocin.

Around noon, after 12 hours of foley, they pull it out with a disconcerting pop, and start Pitocin. Doula arrives. Contractions intensify, but I can still deal with them. Doula is godsend, really helps with pain control. Spend time with peanut ball, spend time sitting on yoga ball. This goes on for many hours.

Monday evening: Doula heads out to get a bite to eat. I continue on yoga ball. About five minutes after she leaves, I feel a sort of downward thump. "I just felt a thump," I say to Mr. G. I climb into the bed and find myself sitting in puddle. Mr. G brings me paper towels, because my water just broke. I inform the nurses and text doula. Exciting! OB comes in to check on me, and I am seized with a simply astonishing contraction. Holy shit. I vomit. Yes, I would like an epidural please. Thank you. We have passed the 24 hour in labor mark.

It takes some time for the anesthesiologist to come. I am stunned by how painful the contractions are. I vomit over and over and over again. Doula does her best. Then we get it, it's much better. More hours pass. I try to sleep and fail. Incredibly, I am still vomiting. My body knows it's in pain even if my brain doesn't.

Monday night: Mr. Guac asleep, I keep begging doula to hit the pain med button on my epidural. Tremendous pressure moving through my body. Epidural feels like it's doing nothing. Doula tells me not to fight it. I twist and writhe and push on my side. Eventually OB and nurses turn up. They hold up my feet, they shout encouragements, warm compresses are applied to my perineum, I scream bloody murder, they ask if I want to feel his head and I shout "NO I JUST WANT HIM OUT I WANT HIM OUT." After thirty minutes of hardcore pushing, Succotash is put on my chest and I am amazed and stunned and the doula takes very graphic pictures and Mr. Guac is beside himself and everything is wonderful. It's 3:42 am Tuesday the 8th - about 36 hours of labor. OB stitches me up (secondary tear, not too bad) while I hold the baby. He's a real baby. We have a real baby. After six years, all those shots, all that heartache, he's real and he's here and he's amazing.

Tuesday morning: We are transferred to maternity by maybe 8 am. Succotash nuzzling my breast, I'm desperate for a shower, etc. People keep coming by to check my belly, check my pad. Everyone seems to think everything looks fine.

Tuesday 10 am: I mention to a nurse that I passed a clot. "How big?" she asks. I don't know. She says if I pass another one, to show it to her. I'm soaking through pads at a steady clip. At one point, I get up to go to the bathroom and my socks fill with blood. I throw them away in the bathroom and hobble back to bed. I'm lightheaded. I ask the nurse if I can take a shower as I still have vomit in my hair. She isn't sure, helps me to bathroom. Blood streaking down my legs. I pass several clots with wet thumps. She tells me I have to get back in bed. "I need a second," I say, leaning on the bathroom sink. She gets me back into bed, Mr. Guac is holding Succotash, nurse looks in toilet bowl. Shit hits fan.

Tuesday 11 am: Twenty people mob the room. One doc is barking orders. I'm told to relax my legs, open my knees. An OB puts her hand inside my body without epidural or any kind of pain relief and manually pulls clots out of my body. I scream. Everyone is talking all at once. She does it again, saying "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I have to." I scream, more clots scooped out of me. It is the worst pain I have ever known in my life. Worse than labor. Worse than pushing. Someone jabs my leg with morphine, it makes no difference, she does it again, I scream, Mr. Guac shouts "WHO IS IN CHARGE HERE?" OB who is doing manual sweeps tells him calmly what's going on.

I've lost 1.4 liters of blood, which I learn later is about 1/4 my blood volume, and I need a transfusion. It's possible I have retained a piece of placenta and that's why I'm bleeding so profusely. They take blood, type it, another IV is put in, my body is swarmed with people, the transfusion is hooked up, and then I am wheeled away to the OR for an emergency D and C, Mr. Guac running after me, Succotash left with nurses.

Tuesday noon: Before being put under I tell OB if necessary hysterectomy is okay, but please leave ovaries so I don't go into instant menopause. She assures me that won't be necessary. I am knocked out.

Tuesday, sometime later: I come to. D and C went okay, they removed what they think is a piece of retained placenta from behind my fibroid, the one I used to joke Succotash liked to use as an ottoman. I am shivering uncontrollably. I don't know if it's from shock or what. Mr. G has had to fend off my parents and his mother and everyone who wants to know about the baby.

Tuesday night: Mr. G and I collapse in exhausted and terrified sleep around 8 pm. Succotash is in the nursery being cared for by nursing staff, and is fine, though I am distraught that I haven't seen him in hours, and we haven't started nursing or anything. I feel like I abandoned him, even though I know it's irrational.

Wednesday the 9th: Our first real day with Succotash. I am still shivering and have periodic uncontrollable crying jags from, I assume, a lethal combo of hormones and PTSD. But the baby is perfect, and we work on getting my colostrum going. My parents come in the afternoon and want to make pleasant small talk, but I am unable to do it. We hope to go home Thursday. Mr. G sleeps at home Wednesday night to be rested, I am brought Succotash to feed him during the night and rest very little, but I'm okay with it.

Thursday morning the 10th: My blood pressure is 164/94. What the everloving FUCK. How is this possible? I am kept past checkout for observation.

Thursday afternoon: Deep breathing exercises to get BP down in between crying jags of desperation to go home and just be with my new baby.

Thursday night: Discharged. At last. We take an Uber home. Doorman takes picture of the three of us in the elevator. Succotash angelic and asleep in his car seat, Mr. Guac looking beside himself with joy, and I look like I almost died on Tuesday.

But now we are home. Succotash's name is Charles Gage Hyman Howe, he weighed 7 lbs 6 oz at birth, he is a champion nurser but is also cool with some formula on the side. MIL is here helping out, which has been amazing, I only flipped out at my parents once, and tomorrow we venture out into the world for our first pediatrician appointment.

I did not think it was possible to love a human being as much as I love Succotash.