Below is an excerpt from my journal about the day my son was born, 10 years ago today, on July 24, 2002 at 6:24am at 6lbs. He is as sweet and delicious today as he was as a baby, only a little more messy, if you can believe that. Happy Birthday baby love. I celebrate you every day since your first. You are, and always will be, just too good to be true.
July 23, 2002 – 2pm
My latest appointment with Dr. G – I’m effaced and 2 cm completely dilated. Dr. G said I’ve made progress and can go at any time. She said if I don’t go by next week, we could schedule an appointment for the end of next week. Uh oh. I don’t want that.
July 23rd – Later…
When she said I could go at any time. We really didn’t think she meant that night, but it turns out that’s what happened. Howard and I left the doctor and went about our normal day – me to the gym, busy contemplating the ultimate end of my pregnancy; and Howard off to work – looking so shell-shocked that I hoped he wouldn’t get lost on the way. We both knew I was pregnant. We had focused so hard on getting pregnant, and then on being pregnant, that the idea that we would very soon have an actual baby, was, well, inconceiveable.
Later, we sat in front of the TV watching American Idol, another dumb Fox show that we had become addicted to (*it was its first season –who’d have guessed). I started feeling kind of funny and told Howard. We weren’t really sure at first, but when I started leaking, a call to the doctor seemed obvious. He told us to come on down. In less than two seconds, Howard was dressed, stop watch and overnight bag in hand. Off we went.
Hooked to many monitors, Dr. R (of course Dr. G wasn’t on call) confirmed it – my water had broken. Leaking like an open fire hydrant, I was officially admitted. In the beginning, the contractions seemed manageable, and Howard and I waited with anxious anticipation for what would happen next. Turns out, what happened next was an enema to speed up and intensify the contractions. I don’t know who thought up that medieval torture, and I don’t know how I agreed to that without any drugs in my system, but obviously I was vulnerable to figures of ‘doctorly’ authority, even ones over 70 with a bad comb-over. So along with my first labor, I had my first enema, and spent the next 30 minutes in the bathroom, doubled over in torture. Someone was pulling my guts out one by one! Was I going to have this baby in the bathroom?! Never have I experienced such constant, intense pain. This couldn’t be right. All those ridiculous Lamaze classes in no way prepared me for the twisted anguish that was going on in my body. Deal with pain by massage? Breathe? Take a walk? BULLSHIT! F*&!* YOU lamaze lady!
The woman next door was screaming her head off, sawing on my last nerve. OMG. Was that where this was headed?! I asked for an epidural. Actually, I begged for it. I was blinded by pain by the time the man came and stuck that blessed, beautiful needle, that I had so dreaded, into my back. About 20 minutes later, all was good again.
It was 4am. I hadn’t seen the doctor or had an internal since I had arrived. They told me that the risk of infection with internals increase after you break your water. They also told me that according to the monitors, I wasn’t having very strong contractions. Howard and I were finally resting comfortably. We decided to believe them, even though we weren’t sure we did.
At around 6 am, I began to feel overwhelming pressure ‘downstairs’. I told the nurse, but she again told me that while I was having contractions every minute or so, they weren’t that strong. I begged to differ. The doctor came in and confirmed it, there was a bowling ball that was about to come out my ass. Actually, he said, I was 10 centimeters dilated and ready to go. The nurse shrugged and said that the monitors didn’t always register so well. Bitch.
Dr. R told me I was ready to push whenever I felt pressure, then promptly left the room. Huh? For about 20 minutes, Howard and I sat alone unsure of what to do. I quietly, half-heartedly pushed with my contractions wondering if that was what we were supposed to do. When the nurse came back in, I told her again of the overwhelming pressure and asked what Dr. R meant about pushing. She casually told me he’d be in soon, that we’d all push together and not to worry. “Pushing can take a while,” she said, patting me on the shoulder. To set my mind at ease, she took a look at my progress. Well, I wasn’t feeling too at ease when she screamed, “Get the doctor! The head is coming out!”
Within seconds, the bed was broken down (into a delivery bed) and the doctor was back and in catching position. Approximately three minutes and five good pushes later, little Tyler fell out into the world. He was a perfect mini-Howard, (thank God it was a boy!) and the most amazing thing I had ever seen.
Now two weeks later, I’m still in awe that this beautiful, fascinating little creature is mine. My days are filled with feedings, my nights with, well, the same. My satisfaction is a good burp. My nipples are mutilated. I love every minute of it. Okay, almost every minute of it. I could do with a couple more hours of sleep. But, how incredible is this journey. How life altering. How unimportant everything else seems when his eyes study mine, when a sly looking smile crosses his meaty little lips, when his brows wrinkle in expression just like his father’s. After two years trying, Howard and I and baby Tyler are a family. I’m truly overwhelmed.