Epilogue: BLESSED

We were released from the hospital on a Saturday afternoon. I felt like a freed prisoner after such an unexpectedly long stay in labor and delivery. We called in the familial troops again, and they came forward marvelously. I have never felt so grateful or indebted in my life, and it makes me tear up a bit just thinking of how blessed we were (and are!) to have them around. We still don't know what's up with the nose bump, but we're not particularly worried. So far he's developing normally, and he's an easy, happy baby. We'll keep a close eye, we'll test in July (accidental rhyme), and if it's something more dramatic than we're expecting? We'll deal with it. 

We love that baby Brooks. Welcome to the family, kid.

Chapter Five: QUESTIONS

This snuggly boy doesn't cry as much as they (hospital people) want him to, so after a quick skin-to-skin he's taken for some rubbing and some weighing and some Apgars. As he gets scrubbed down a bit, Joseph notes the little bump on his nose. What is that? It kind of stands out a bit. The nurse takes a look. Randall takes a look. He decides to call in a neonatologist for an opinion. 

In the meantime, we learn his metric weight. As the nurse goes to convert it to pounds, I turn to Joe and nearly yell, "This is your moment." For years he has practiced conversions in his head for fun; why, if not for this?? He beats the nurse's Google search but doesn't believe his own math: our baby is...smaller than five pounds? Four pounds and eleven ounces, to be exact. Whatever happened to the six pound measurement we saw at Monday's ultrasound?

By the time I've been stitched up (the real reason to want an epidural), my baby has been swaddled and photographed and snuggled by everyone in the room. I'm happy to share him, but I'm wondering if I should try breastfeeding him? Out of this entire saga, this is my single regret: I waited for someone to give me permission, not realizing until much later that his first feeding timeline was entirely up to me. And as a result, we didn't get around to trying breastfeeding for hours longer than I would have chosen. (Luckily, he has a natural talent for it.)

The nose theories begin when the neonatologist arrives. Her first thought is that maybe his nose spent some time smashed against my heart-shaped uterine wall. It feels unlikely to me (there's a bump, not a dip), but I don't have any better theories to offer. She decides to call in a couple doctor friends of hers: an ear-nose-throat specialist and a geneticist, both of whom work primarily with babies and children. We'll meet with them (plus a couple others) over the next two hospital days.

Fast forward a bit: we've moved downstairs to the mother-baby wing of the hospital. We've met new nurses and a lactation specialist, we've accepted homework assignments (apparently we need to name this baby), we've pumped and spilled colostrum (okay that one was just me), and we've learned nether-region care (...yikes). We are beyond exhausted, due primarily to having spent two restless nights in the hospital already, oh--and to giving birth. After seeing a few visitors, we send "Boy Facer" to the nursery for his next feeding and fall asleep as quickly as we can. I do not question for one second if this is the "right" thing to do, and suddenly it feels like a blessing that his first feeding wasn't from my breast. If he can have hospital milk once, he can have it again, right?

We make it through the night (feedings and medications interrupting every couple hours) and awake to a day full of nose-bump investigations. I won't realize until day three that most parents spend these days hanging out with their baby. We spend the first day either in separate places or recovering from separation (kangaroo care, always), only to be separated again. Every three hours, we're checking vitals, which is apparently a thing for tiny babies. How's his temperature? How's his glucose? Did he poop?

As the nurses monitor bodily functions, doctors and specialists theorize about and monitor the potential implications of this nose bump. Is it just a bump, or is it symptomatic of something bigger? If it were just the bump, maybe we wouldn't worry, but add in the echogenic focus from ultrasounds and his abnormally small size and my heart-shaped uterus and maybe something else is going on here. We just want to add as many pieces to the puzzle as we can while we're still in the hospital. Here are some of those pieces:

Can he breathe through that nose? Yes. Look at him, still alive.
What kind of tissue is inside there? Shrug.
Was the placenta normal? Let's send it for testing.
Does he hear normally? Maybe not. Come back for another test in a week.
Is his heart okay? Yes. EKG confirms.
Is his inner nose structurally normal? Yes. World's tiniest scope confirms.
Does he need surgery? Maybe. Come back when he's a year old.
Has his skull fused early? Nope. Lucky day.

Does he have a "syndrome"? Maybe. Let's discuss again tomorrow.

Ultimately we rule out lots of potentially related issues, but we're left with the lingering question of why that adorable bump exists. Does he have a genetic syndrome? The geneticist meets with us in such a caring way that I can tell she knows she's delivering "news." But since he has nothing immediately pressing or urgent required for his daily care, we are not concerned. The answer to the syndrome question is a probable yes, but the syndrome in question has few dramatic implications. Testing doesn't seem urgent (plus there's the added variable of the bump's development over time), so we schedule a genetics appointment around his six-month birthday.

Oh, and we've named this boy: Brooks. It reverberates as correct through my entire body when Joseph declares it his first choice. That name and this baby are both keepers!

(To read the epilogue, click here.)

Chapter Four: EXCITEMENT

It's 2:00 AM (again) by the time we finally start Pitocin. I've barely been on it when the nurse snaps an oxygen mask to my face. Apparently, this baby and Pitocin aren't getting along very well. After a few hours of pretending to sleep, I acknowledge that I won't be resting well until this baby is born, and I embrace my fate. We're up for the day! Fingers crossed that it's an exciting day (unlike yesterday).

Joseph has calmly and rationally supported me and my body at every juncture, but we've both known that I haven't really needed much help so far. When 6:00 AM arrives, so does Randall. And instead of doing the balloon plan that has been brewing for the last two hours, he opts to break my water instead. I'm cool with this. I casually ask if it's true that this usually starts labor pretty quickly?

It does! My next contraction is a real doozy compared to everything I've felt for the 24 hours prior. And it happens while I'm on the toilet, leaking so much fluid that I'm honestly shocked nobody warned me (how did nobody warn me??). I moan and groan a bit, realizing that I'll need to recalibrate my understanding of the word "contraction," and the bathroom door slowly swings open. Joseph is concerned, and he's come to help.

Now, this is a turning point for me, and for him, and for both of us (coincidentally, it's also the changing of the guard for our nurses). This is where it starts to feel real, and we both know it. He recognizes that he can now be supportive in a way that is helpful for actual birthing. I recognize that I will actually need his help. And we both realize that this baby is actually coming. Are we ready?

No!! We're not ready! We still have literally never talked about baby names. (My copies still aren't made, but now I've finally dropped the issue.) Joseph decides to tackle the baby names project while I breathe and moan through contractions happening every 7 minutes. He doesn't tell me what he's working on, bless his dang heart, and I don't ask. He will spend the next few hours reading every male name in the massive book we borrowed, recording the 12 or so names that he doesn't hate.

I, on the other hand, will spend the next few hours moaning. These new contractions aren't so painful that I can't handle them, but they're not a walk in the park like yesterday's were. I use the few coping skills I know from the four seconds of internet research I've done, and I make up a few coping skills of my own. I know I'm not allowed to eat anymore, but the nurse tells me I can finish my Lorna Doones if I want to. It's a small victory, but I'll take it!

I'll also end up taking a couple doses of Fentanyl, something I never saw coming but am very grateful to have available. Expecting labor to be long and drawn out (hey, I've known nothing but "drawn out" so far in this hospital room, okay?), I don't want to render my legs useless this early in the process. I learn that narcotics apparently affect me dramatically when I realize that I've had and hour and a half of important conversations with imaginary nurses. Occasionally, those conversations have slipped out of my brain via my mouth, which is a little embarrassing (but mostly hilarious). The only one I still remember is when she brought me a large handful of baby shampoos to take home with me and I was very grateful.

At the end of my last round of Fentanyl (what a trip, man), I buzz the nurse in to ask for more. She informs me that we need at least one Fentanyl-free hour before I start pushing, so it might be a good idea at this point to just get my epidural. I'm honestly shocked that we could be that close to pushing, but I take her advice. We call in the anesthesiologist, and--good news!--he's available right away. I experience about ten full-strength contractions (or so the nurse tells me), which is just enough to appreciate that pain relief once it kicks in. Joseph tells me about how the anesthesiologist "brandished" the epidural "drill bit" (his words); I brag about how I didn't even feel it (I crack me up).

I've been wondering when I should call in my mom, so we check my cervix again. I'm at an 8! Eight whole centimeters! That sounds pretty impressive after those 24 hours where I stayed stuck at one centimeter. We tell Mom to come on over, and I update Mariah as well (she'll be taking pictures). And then everything seems to happen very quickly, which are words I never pictured I'd say about this delivery until now.

Mom arrives. We chat for a few minutes, but soon the nurse is saying it's time to push. Mom coaches me a bit on technique (there's a technique??) while Joseph takes off his coat, something he does so rarely that it's a bit of a family joke. The nurse notices this and comments that "this means serious business." I will forever remember that as the moment I knew this baby was really coming. Isn't it strange how small actions can speak such volumes?

I spend the next 45 minutes breathing and pushing and breathing and pushing. Joseph and Mom are wonderful cheerleaders. Mariah and Randall arrive at nearly the same time, while I just keep pushing and breathing and pushing and breathing. I can see this baby's little head crowning, and I can feel the pressure of his descent, and then--before I even know what's happened--I have him on my chest. Randall tells me to stick my finger in his mouth and feel around a bit, make sure things feel "normal" in there. I think I'm crying, but they're obviously happy tears. This is so! darn!! EXCITING!!

(To read chapter five, click here.)

Chapter Three: WAITING

It's 2:00 AM by the time we get to labor and delivery, and we are admitted by the world's bored-est nurse. Should this be taking 20 minutes? I compliment her nails and she comes ALIVE (this cracks me up). We follow her to the room in which I will spend the next 36 hours without a baby. Just...let that sink in for a moment.

I undress; I robe up. The nurse hooks up monitors to my belly. She checks my cervix. Nothing has changed since we were with Randall earlier, so I am still at a dilation of 1 cm (biiiiiiig whoop). We start the first round of Cytotec to soften things up down there. And then: we wait.

I shiver because it's freezing in this hospital room (again, why are they all so cold??), and the nurse offers me a warmed blanket. Joseph and I are both exhausted, so we go to sleep as quickly as we can. I set an alarm so that I can wake up in a few hours to grade those tests.

After a few hours of sleep, I wake up and start grading like a madwoman. Joseph wakes up with me, bless his heart. While I create grades on paper, he enters grades online. Once I've finished B1's tests, my dad picks them up and takes them to my school. This is not the first time I've felt overwhelming gratitude for my support system, and it won't be the last.

Over the next 24 hours, my body obstinately refuses to kick into birthing mode. Apparently it knows 37 weeks is a little early (no $#!t, Sherlock). We're not allowed to start Pitocin until I dilate to at least 2 cm, so we continue round after round of Cytotec; it's just not doing anything productive. I have very regular and very mild contractions all day long, and I grade papers right over the top of them (literally since this hospital bed table hits my belly at a weird level). Baby's heartbeat is the soundtrack to my day, and now I'm so accustomed to it that I can't picture having not heard it this entire pregnancy. Around 11:00 AM, I send the next urgent stack of tests to the school with Joseph and I learn that I have dilated to 1.5 cm.

Now that my students' tests have been delivered, I can nap a bit and yoga-ball a bit and eat a bit and read a bit. I don't know why Randall said so urgently to "eat a good meal" and "take a hot shower" last night because it seems I'll get plenty of chances at those before this baby arrives. My blood pressure is mostly normal all day: annoying, since that's why we're here. Things get boring enough that I go back to grading more papers (something I said I'd never do), and I wonder absently whether I might be allowed to go to my baby shower after school ends (answer: no).

As we near the 18-hour mark in L&D, I find myself feeling pretty frustrated. As far as I am able to understand, induction has thus far failed. I'm worried about it continuing to fail and resulting in a C-section delivery (my worst-case scenario, although I recognize it's a privileged point of view to have). I'm annoyed that I wasn't at work today. I'm confused at why this was soooooooo urgent? Because it feels like more waiting than birthing.

My family comes to visit, and I cry a bit to them. I feel bad for my birth story having taken up Jenna's entire birthday, and I feel sad about not gifting her a baby at the end of it. My mom (who is a nurse) agrees that my day has been a little confusing. At least Bri brought me my favorite salad! But no dressing because until this baby is born, I'm still lactose intolerant. Womp womp, this day probably cannot get worse.

When the nurse comes to start yet another round of Cytotec (now apparently with my parents and two siblings along to watch), she takes one look at my face and asks if I have questions for her. I explain my confusion and ask if we can get a doctor update. Mostly I want to know if he's heard that saying about doing the same thing and expecting different results and how that's called "insanity"?? Randall is busy with another patient at the end of his long day, but she says she'll just wait until he's available. She is in my corner and I love her for it.

Randall says he'll call me when he's free so that we can get back on the same page. I wait and wait for the call, and just when my family is about to leave (despite wanting an update pretty badly), he suddenly comes into my room! I cry a bit more, so he explains that although it's been slow going it's not bad going. We're not headed toward a C-section, not even close, not yet, not at all. Because we can afford to take it slowly, we will. And baby is doing well, and I am doing well. This is just an early induction for a body that has never practiced the skill of birthing. Yes, I need to stay in the hospital, even if it seems like nothing is happening. He's guessing things will pick up overnight, and if they don't, we'll adjust plans in the morning. I'm still annoyed, but I'm also comforted.

Randall leaves. My family leaves. I feel a little snotty and make some (mild) demands: I must take a shower. I need some snacks. If we're starting Pitocin at any point in the night, I want a meal first. And am I allowed to leave this room? My nurse is in my corner (again and still), and she helps me with every request. The other nurses on the floor are surprised when they hear the shower water; apparently people don't usually stay in L&D long enough to need a shower!

When I'm finally clean and fed, Joseph and I hunker down for another restless night in the hospital. The waiting seems to stretch infinitely in both directions: we've waited forever, and we will continue to wait forever. Right? (This is foreshadowing.)

(To read chapter four, click here.)

Chapter Two: CONFUSION

But I also have to poop (TMI?), and while I'm doing that the hospital calls. "Hello Alyssa, just calling to confirm your induction tomorrow morning at 6:00 AM. Do you have any questions about that?"

*record scratch*

"Um. Yeah, did you say 6:00 AM? Like in the morning?"

"Yes, that's what we have scheduled."
"Okay, so...I was literally just with my doctor five minutes ago and he said he'd scheduled it for 6:00 PM. Are you positive about 6:00 AM?"

"That's definitely what we have on file, but maybe you should check with him."

"On it. Thank you!"

I call Randall's office to see if he meant 6:00 tonight or 6:00 tomorrow. Maybe he just wanted me to be able to go to my show tonight! That must be it. I get my hopes up and I get the message machine, which doesn't make sense since I am positive somebody is still at the office. But it reroutes me to the after-hours call center, where I give as much information about the situation as I can. I'm not convinced that the poor girl on the other end understands what I'm saying (I sound like a crazy person), but she promises to make some calls and get back to me with a final answer ASAP. 

Thirty minutes later, she gets back to me. Final answer: 6:00 AM, which is good since I'm already late for my 6:00 PM time. Also, I have just earned 12 more hours to work on everything I need to do! As long as I don't start seizing in that time, I'm good to keep chipping away at the things that are stressing me out. And another bonus: my podcast date is back on! I eat, I get a blessing, and I take off with Jenna for Salt Lake City. These few extra hours have nullified my panic just enough for me to feel the smallest bit of excitement for the smallest bit of time. I have won back part of the security I lost in the last 24 hours.

As Jenna and I fly up the Wasatch Front to make it to our show, I text a bunch of coworkers and make sub plans for the next day. I cannot believe the amount of work stress I have already felt over this baby's arrival. Should I just quit my job? Feels like it would make good sense at this point (when nothing makes good sense at all).

We park, we jaywalk, we run (literally) into the podcast recording venue. We pull out our tickets, and right as we are scanned in: my phone rings. It's the hospital. Huh? I'd probably better answer this. I step out and Jenna follows me.

"Hello Alyssa, we were just wondering when we can expect to see you for your induction tonight."

*record scratch*

"I'm sorry, did you just say tonight because I thought it was tomorrow. At 6AM, right?"
"Oh no! We have you down for tonight at 6PM."
"Okay so...that doesn't make any sense. I just got to Salt Lake for a show because I was told to come at 6:00 tomorrow morning. There was some confusion, I think. The earliest I can get there will be maybe 11:00."
"That will be fine. Just come as quickly as you can!"

Great. I have now lost 6 of the 12 hours I gained earlier. I'm tired of doing clock math! I will just try to enjoy the remainder of the show, which will take up at least two of my hours. Fortunately, this show is hilarious. It's a wonderful reprieve from the madness I've been living for the last day, and I mentally bless Josh and Chuck (if you know, you know) as honorary uncles to this early fetus. (I think he knows their voices.)

After the show, we drive down the Wasatch Front to my school, where Jenna joins me on a midnight break-in (but legally, with keys). I spend 10 minutes running around my classroom, and we leave with a massive stack of papers. I don't know when I'll find the time, but these tests need graded before B1 tomorrow. Maybe I can pull an all-nighter? Except I'm probably about to live through months of all-nighters, so that feels like a bad idea. Problematic but true: of all the stresses in this whole birthing saga, the work stress beats them all.

Finally (finally), I arrive home around 1:00 AM to find Joseph calmly waiting for me. I shower a long hot shower. I eat four more bites of dinner and hope I'll get at least one more meal at the hospital before I'm not allowed to eat during labor (HA! This is more foreshadowing). I pack a backpack of clothes for me. I remember at the last minute to include clothes for the baby because apparently we will be having a baby today. And we drive the longest 5 minutes of my life to Utah Valley Hospital.

(To read chapter three, click here.)

Chapter One: PANIC

Throughout my pregnancy, we had appointments with the maternal-fetal specialists at the hospital. Nothing was "wrong," per se, but not everything was "textbook" either. A brief run-down: echogenic focus was nothing to worry about, except for a mild correlation with Down Syndrome. Heart-shaped uterus was a surprise (!) but still nothing to worry about, except a higher likelihood of C sections. Nobody knew why I'd become increasingly lactose intolerant. And the real question: why is this baby so small, yet so healthy?? Check growth, check growth, check growth. 

And then, on my final appointment, the 37-week appointment (which was supposed to be a 38-week appointment), my blood pressure was higher than usual. 

So I'm like, "It's probably the machine, right? My blood pressure's always been great."

And the nurse checks again. Still high.

And the doctor checks again. It's getting higher.

So I'm like: "Well you're stressing me out, obviously."

In any case, we all agree that it's definitely good news that this boy has turned head down sometime in the last 12 hours. Juuuuuust in case.

Joseph and I are sent to labor and delivery for a preeclampsia workup. I roll my eyes in the elevator, but I'm shocked at the possibility that this baby could come early. I have not made copies for my sub yet! I have not finished the floor refinishing project I started last week! I have never actually thought about what baby names I like and dislike! This baby is not allowed to come early; therefore, he will not. (That's not how this works.)

The labor and delivery nurse takes us into a freezing hospital room (why are they all so cold?), where they take all my info and liquids and check my cervix (ouch). The blood pressure cuff expands and beeps every 10 minutes. I did not bring a library book today and I am seriously regretting it. I have nothing to think about except please not yet so I distract myself with baby's heartbeat. It's calming, but also a little too real.

When all is said and done, five doctors have conferred via phone conference and determined that I should be induced today, tomorrow, or the next day. I have only one symptom of preeclampsia--high blood pressure--but it is the worst one to have (lucky me). In a moment of panic, I cry on the nurse's shoulder. This baby was not allowed to come early! She seems confused since most of the women she interacts with are aching to get their babies out ASAP, but those women probably all have their sub copies made.

Joseph and I get home that night a little shaken. We eat comfort food for dinner (chocolate malt-o-meal with buttered toast) and update our families. I spend the next few hours wandering the house, crying and knowing that I have so much to do to get ready but not knowing where to start and not being able to see clearly through my tears. Joseph spends those same hours preparing for a baby to come: car seat strapped up, bassinet constructed, newborn clothes organized. This is why I married him. This calm demeanor will save me over the next three days, and it will (tonight) force me to write and delegate a list of what needs done tomorrow. Bless that man.

Knowing that my school days are numbered (I expect to have one more A-day and one more B-day), I go an hour early to work the next day. I am productive as all-get-out, and I warn everyone that I only have one more day. I tell my coworkers that I should be able to make it to my baby shower tomorrow after school. I tell my students to turn in everything they've got and then say their end-of-term prayers. As long as I can be at work tomorrow, I will be able to crank out the bare-minimum tasks so that I can focus on having a baby. Should be great! (This is foreshadowing.)

After work we head to our regular doctor appointment. Randall (my doctor, who probably doesn't know that I call him by his first name) checks my blood pressure. It is fine-not-great. He checks my cervix, and it has not changed. It sounds like things aren't that urgent, so I get my hopes up to postpone induction. But this is a vain hope, and Randall tells me as much. In fact, I will not even get to go to one more day of work. This party starts tonight! Of all the horrors: I have lost my final work day. I start to panic (again).

Randall schedules an induction for us at 6:00 PM, knowing that--since it is currently 5:40 PM and we are still at his office--we will be late. He recommends a good meal and a hot shower before we head to the hospital. Nothing else matters, not even the live podcast recording I have tickets for tonight (happy birthday, Jenna) or the baby shower happening at work tomorrow afternoon or the copies I still haven't made. Hopefully we will all see each other again tomorrow with a new baby bringing us together! Hooray! It's baby time!

Except... I do not feel that excitement with him. I feel straight panic (increasingly more of it) at the idea of losing my last day of work. I feel so sad (so so sad!) to miss that live podcast with Jenna. I have heartburn, but it's not related to pregnancy. I literally cannot prioritize what needs doing. I'm falling apart at the seams. Whatever happened to "this baby is not allowed to come early"???

I openly sob in the car on the way home. Joseph probably feels as panicked as I do, but I show it more. At least we...have a car seat? But that's the extent of our readiness. I call in the familial troops as we drive home, and I cancel my date tonight with Jenna (crying about it). Somehow my entire family is already at our house by the time we arrive. The delegated list from yesterday has nearly been finished, and I want to kiss every single person for it, but I don't have the time. I must shower and eat and pack and go to the hospital!

(To read chapter two, click here.)

Prologue: IRONY

Anne and I had due dates three days apart and three weeks away. Three days before my induction, we sat together in Relief Society, chatting about our babies' positions (head down for her, head in ribs for me) and commenting on whether these boys would come soon (premonitions of yes from her, determinations of no from me). When the meeting ended, we parted ways, jokingly assuring each other that we would both be back next Sunday, because...wouldn't we? (Yes for her. No for me.)

(To read chapter 1, click here.)