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.)
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