Dutifully and optimistically we made our weekly pilgrimages
to Tripler Army Medical Center, waddling approximately 8 miles each time
because that hospital is insanely confusing (who decided to divide the place
into Oceanside and mountainside?! Honestly, it’s an island; every side is Oceanside.)
At the 40 week visit, we had a scare for low fetal heart
rate, but we were sent home after babygirl perked up and tested out. 5 days later she started moving around a
little less and we just didn’t feel good about it. After dinner, we
optimistically threw our go-bag in the car (more on that later) and in the
process greatly alarmed our already tense pit-bull who was convinced we were
moving out without her, never to be seen again.
We sat for hours with other rotund women on uncomfortable
chairs in a fluorescent – lit waiting room while some ridiculous Eddie Murphy
movie from the 90’s played on the TV at a volume that demanded attention. By the time we were called in to be assessed,
I was ready to go home to just take a nap and see if that made me not pregnant
anymore.
Around 10 PM, we got called back and strapped up to a
monitor for my contractions and for baby’s heart rate. After watching the lines dance up and down
for 30 minutes it was determined that baby’s heart was beating faster than it
should. The resident came to talk to us
and stated, “It’s not alarming, but if you are open to it, we would like to
admit you and start an induction tonight.”
For all my big talk of wanting baby out, suddenly, I was terrified. PIC was celebrating that it was finally
happening and we were going to meet our little girl… which I almost ruined by
telling the resident I would rather just go home and not have to ever labor. That’s still an option at this point, right?
We sat and listened to the consent process (basically, I
give the doctors permission to help me deliver a baby…which naturally begs the
question, what is the protocol if people don’t consent? As I had forced myself to accept – labor is
pretty much a given.), got an IV and were issued a pink hospital gown with
holes in places strategic for breastfeeding and just modest enough to make you
feel covered if you lay perfectly still in a hospital bed and only have people
you know very well in the room.
This rather unflattering picture of me was taken immediately after donning the official hospital gown. Admission! |
Depending on the state of my cervix, we would have two avenues for initiating labor: mechanical or medicinal. Mechanical is used when almost no change has already happened – a small balloon on a tube (known as a foley bulb if you care… it’s the same thing as a foley catheter, just a different orifice. Thank goodness for Dr. Foley!) is inserted and then inflated and the pressure on top of the cervix tricks the body into thinking it is a baby head causing the assault. Medicinal is used when the cervix has already begun to change – it is a synthetic version of the hormone the body naturally produces in labor.
Of course my cervix had done nothing, so we got to do the
“fun” one. I was warned it would be a
painful procedure… essentially someone has to reach in, pull the cervix forward
and insert something through it. None of
these are pleasant sensations.
I am not sure when it started, but my mechanism for coping
with stress is to chatter incessantly. When I got my belly button pierced (over
6 years ago now, but my parents know about it now that it has been closed for 5
– so I can mention it in a blog post!) I ranted to the piercing artist about
the ridiculous standards set by our society that I feel the need to punch
painful holes in my body in order to feel beautiful. He was unmoved… appropriately, I suppose,
given his profession. During my first tattoo, I explained the necessary
autoclave procedures for the equipment to ensure that I didn’t acquire a life
threatening infection. The two
individuals lucky enough to accompany me on these endeavors informed PIC that
they would pay him for sound bytes from labor.
Luckily, he was too distracted to comply, but I believe he did make
mental notes for sharing later.
I employed this same method during balloon placement – it
was less than ideal for 2 reasons: 1. You don’t really want someone with a grip
on your internal organs giggling at you. 2. It was probably distracting. I apologized to him for my noise. I told him if he takes issue with it, he
could blame my parents. When I was a small child and said things sometimes they
laughed and thus reinforced my belief that I was funny. There was no going back.
What the balloon lacked in pleasantness, it made up for in
efficiency. Almost immediately I started
to contract. They were pleased with my progress and got some hormones flowing
through my IV. Let the labor begin.
At this point, I had been having contractions for over a
week– and they had never hurt! So obviously I was just a unique specimen who
had evolved beyond the pain of birth. I
was a maternal glowing warrior. Nothing could hurt me! As one OB had put it
when I expressed my confusion to her – maybe I was just built for having
babies. Another line for the resume!
That changed.
Quickly.
It started as about 2/10 pain. Then 3, then 4. Think really bad period cramps. For guys reading this looking for a point of
reference – like needing to have a bowel movement: one of those ones so big it
gives you cramps. But it won’t go
away. So its like needing to have a BM
in the middle of a long run. In a public place.
A very clear sensation that something needs to get out, but no easy way
to accomplish that.
Ironically, this experience also gave me a point of
reference of what it is like to be a male.
With the balloon in place, I was still able to get up to go to the
bathroom. When I finally decided it was
time, I had the nurse unhook all my tethers and gathered my bathroom entourage
(made necessary by the IV / IV Pole / 2 different monitors strapped to my
stomach/ general limitations caused by my shape) and stood up. I still had the tube from the balloon dangling
between my legs. I was not anticipating
this sensation and expressed to the room at large “so this is what it feels
like to have a penis”. Apparently it
was the first time they had heard that particular observation.
After returning to my bed, I settled into an oxymoronic
comfortable pain. I was able to fall asleep.
I drifted off, once again reassured in my ability to get through this.
Of course, this delusion was quickly shattered by a nurse
who came in and told me that my contractions had spaced out a bit and decreased
in strength. Time to crank up the
medicine and yank on the balloon. Nah, that’s ok… this level of pain is
working for me currently, let’s just see if it makes the baby come out without
making it worse.
Cue immediate low back pain.
Severe low back pain. I placed
two tennis balls under my low back to help provide counter-pressure which gave
some small degree of relief. I explained
my discomfort to the nurse and asked for a heat pack for my back. She helpfully responded that “back labor is
the most painful kind of labor” and then got me a heat pack and said “you poor
thing” as she helped me get it situated.
She was, however, impressed by how much she was able to pull
on the balloon. Generally, it comes out
after the cervix has been dilated to 4cm.
This tends to take anywhere from a few hours to 6 hours. Mine had been
in place for only 2 hours – but apparently it was “loose enough” that she
thought it could come out. From what I
understood, during the process you dilate and sometimes you dilate enough that
it will just fall out on its own without any prompting in a painless
unnoticeable little plop.
This nurse had a different opinion. “Let’s just give it a
gentle tug and see where we are at.” Painful tug. “Oh, I think it could
probably come out now.” Painful tug. “Let me know if it becomes too painful.”
TUG THAT WAS PAINFUL ENOUGH TO MERIT CAPITAL LETTERS and also caused the rest
of the uterus to hurt in solidarity.
Me: “That hurts.”
Her: “It tends to be a little uncomfortable for everyone at
this point.” (Still pulling)
Me: “THAT REALLY HURTS”
Her: “This is a sensitive point for everyone I think it can
come out.”
Me: “WHY ARE YOU STILL PULLING? IT REALLY HURTS AND I DON’T
WANT YOU TO ANYMORE”
Balloon comes out, end
scene.
Ironically, at the next cervical exam, I was only at 3 cm. …
So ostensibly, it wasn’t ready to come out, but apparently my cervix is no
match for an ambitious nurse who felt it was “time”.
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