It was Wednesday, August 22nd. According to the 28 day cycle due date calendar used in most doctors' offices, this was my due date. According to the dating ultrasound (and my calculations based on MY 32 day cycle), I still had 3 more days to go. According to my obstetric specialist, tomorrow would be the big day. He was so confident about it that he told me to let my GP know.
I woke up that day feeling like I was coming down with something and my lower back seemed more tired than usual. I wondered what the heck I was going to do all day to keep my highly energetic almost 3 year old happy and occupied...we played trains, matched socks and watched a few too many episodes of his favorite tv shows.
My mother-in-law called to tell me that they had finally decided to come down from Kelowna the following day. They were going to be on Noah duty when the big day came. I was relieved because my greatest concern with this birth was my son. I wanted to make sure he would be taken care of and not have to be subjected to a mother who is in "the zone". And being that this was my second child, I wanted someone there when it all started since it is suppose to go so much faster than the first time around. I could finally relax, knowing that, by tomorrow morning, everything would be in place.
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| Nesting at it's most OCD |
Throughout the day, I became aware of PMS-type cramps here and there. I never really suffered from cramps and these were nothing like my labour cramps with Noah so I referred to my birthing bible, "The Birth Partner", written by the guru of all midwives, Penny Simkin. According to her, there is no such thing as "false labour", just late pregnancy changes that are possible signs of labour. I was experiencing many of the possible signs: a vague, nagging backache? check! Soft bowel movements? check! Flu-like feelings? check! Nesting urge? check!! (see picture, yes, I labelled the linen closet) and now, menstrual cramps. And although this stage that could last from a couple days to even weeks, there was no doubt about it, I was "tuning up".
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| Gratuitous Maternity Shot, if only I looked like this during labour. |
So we had dinner. And the cramps came closer together but were no longer than 20 seconds long. By this point, I was pretty sure the game was on. Darren wasn't really convinced. He referred to Penny's suggestion that we will log again in an hour to see if anything has changed. I called my parents anyway to let them know that I may be calling them later. They readied their overnight bags by the door.
Then it was time for Noah to go to bed. Because I cuddle with him until he falls asleep, we agreed that I would text anything, such as a random letter, to Darren (since you don't want to call attention to the screen and stimulate a curious little boy, you hold the phone under the pillow) each time I had a cramp so that we would have some kind of record of their frequency. It would also determine whether or not this was "real" labour. If things peter off (who made up that saying anyway?) when you lie down, then you are still in the "pre" stage. Anyhoo...
I will forever remember this bedtime. We were sleeping on opposite sides as we do now. He wanted to trade pillows and sleep on "mommy's pillow". I cuddled him extra long, gave him extra kisses and told him that I loved him so many times that he finally said "I know Mommy." And despite growing contractions, I obliged him even longer than I usually would when he asked me to "scratch his arm". I shed a tear or two (alright, more like two dozen) knowing that tonight was the last time I would be doing this with him as my only child. I was already mourning the loss of this special time and wondered if we would still be able to do this after the baby came. I felt guilty because he was falling asleep completely unaware that tomorrow, his life was going to be drastically different. I wanted to wake him and apologize for not asking him if this was alright. I wanted to reassure him that he would always be my special boy and that no one could ever, ever, ever take his place in my heart. I wanted him to know that I loved him now more than ever and that each day, I love him even more and that that would never change. But all I could do was give him one last squeeze, one last kiss and whisper "I love you" one more time and slip out.
By then, my husband had fallen asleep and, according to my texts, my cramps were 10 minutes apart. I tried to sleep as Penny would want me to get some rest. Unfortunately, these damn cramps and my racing mind kept me from falling asleep. Eventually, they became too painful to lie down so I got up and went downstairs to start the formal log with the to-the-second clock while reviewing my reference duo-tang of birth plans, stages, strategies...(I admit, I may have gone overboard with the research, but you can never be too educated and one day this duotang may serve as a useful manual when I grow up and become a midwife/maternity nurse) I noticed that the pains were coming closer together and lasting a bit longer. I decided that these were no longer cramps but actual contractions and began to pack our cooler and ready any last minute things before I would be too far gone to tell anyone else what to do. And then, I had a contraction that lasted for nearly a minute in a half. (Yes, in the middle of it I honestly thought to myself "Is this one ever going to F'n stop?!?) Not that I wasn't sure before but this sealed the deal. It was 1:45 in the morning. Time to call mom and dad and wake Darren.
I guess because he was sleeping and unaware of my progress he actually suggested going in to work just to tie up some loose ends. This suggestion was met with an evil laugh and the following response, "There is no way you are going into work tomorrow. Things have steadily progressed, gotten longer and closer together since before dinner. The body doesn't fuck around the second time. It's game on Darren. We are having a baby." Isn't that romantic?
Then he continued to hum and haw about whether he should call his parents. By this point, I was getting a little frustrated that he was in denial and simply told him that I called my parents and that they were on their way so in my opinion, "this is real, so yes, call your parents". And then I headed off to the shower...oh the shower...how you work wonders while in early labour for both pain and irritability. Needless to say, he called his parents.
Less than an hour later my parents had arrived. We sent them down to the newly constructed guest bedroom in the basement and we watched So You Think You Can Dance in hopes of further distraction. I ate an Oreo Drumstick. It was good. So was the dancing. But eventually, it wasn't quite distracting enough.
Around 3:30 a.m. we call the hospital. At this point my contractions are all over the map. They come between three to six minutes apart and range between 35 to 70 seconds long. The majority of them are over 40 seconds. (You can bet I am looking over the records in my duotang...see it's already coming in handy again.) More than anything, we just wanted to give the hospital the heads up that we'd be coming some time today. We were also curious what they would say since I was a secundigravida (2nd pregnancy).
Apparently, because I keep my composure under pressure and didn't have two contractions within 10 minutes (the sneaky bastards keep the mom on the phone that long to time and to judge her mental state), I was told "since you haven't had 2 contractions in under ten minutes and you seem pretty calm, call back in a couple hours and we'll see where you are at." Dude, just because I don't become an emotional basket case and don't freak out under pressure doesn't mean that I am not silently loosing my shit. GRRRR!
So back to the shower I go. Luckily, Darren had turned up the heat on the water tank to ensure that I would not run out of hot water. On a regular day, I get pissed off when I run out of hot water, so this would certainly NOT be acceptable now. In the shower, I am rocking through the contractions, trying to use my uijayi breathe learned in yoga. At some point I am overwhelmed and lean against the wall for support. Hey! That feels good. Or as good as anything can feel in terms of contractions.
Eventually I get out of the shower and appoint Darren my official human hip clamp. From that point on, for nearly every contraction but a handful, my poor husband had to squeeze as hard as he could on my hips, as if he was trying to push them together. Poor guy did that for at least 4 hours, even in the hospital shower, and had to tweak his technique to squeeze while I was side-lying on the hospital bed.. Needless to say, for the next few days, his arms and chest were sore and my hips were bruised.
And then I lose track of time because I enter "the zone". I am pacing between the kitchen and the family room, leaning on the island, the wall, the fireplace mantle, the wall...and swaying with my human hip clamp practically at every step. Poor guy had to clamp and record time and suffer my wrath and dagger eyes if he didn't write fast enough to apply the necessary pressure in time.
Eventually, there is rustling at the front door as my in-laws let themselves in with their key. Apparently, the left shortly after the phone call. I could do nothing but offer them a head nod in recognition as I walked by the door.
My mother-in-law, who, earlier on in her nursing career, was a maternity nurse, took one look at me and said "You need to call the hospital, she is doing something". I am temporarily brought out of the zone and realize that I am beginning to get nauseous. So I agree. "Please Darren, I think I am going to start puking soon." I'm weird like that, I puke when I am in a lot of pain. (With Noah I had thrown up so much that they had to put me on an IV to rehydrate and raise my blood sugar.)
So he calls. I listen as I lean on the island. I don't like his tone of voice as he asks "So what are we suppose to do?" And I realize, they don't have room for us. Oddly, enough, I don't panic. They had given us the choice to come in to get checked, but chances were, I would get re-routed.
As soon as he hangs up, both his parents encourage us to go to the hospital anyway. My MIL points out that there is one hour left before shift change and that we were probably being discouraged from coming in because of that. Who wants to start all the paper work only to have to stay longer than their 12 hour shift explaining to the next nurse?
I guess all our talking woke my mom up. And when I saw her face, I had decided. Let's go...and bring me a bucket.
The hospital is only 12 minutes away. And I don't remember much of the drive except for the fact that I am pretty sure a woman in a van beside us smiled at me as if she knew what I was going through.
Because admissions isn't open, we had to pull into emerg. It's as if my body knew we were at the hospital because it had a little party of contractions. (Kind of like when you really have to go to the bathroom and you've been holding it so long that your body almost prematurely let's it all go before you've unbuttoned your pants.) Before leaving to park, Darren has to jump out of the car to squeeze my hips. While signing in, my mom had to step in. I only had to give my name, and the triage nurse gave me my paperwork and sent me away to the elevators. I walked halfway down the hall, another contraction. I look right. I look left. Where the F was the elevator?!? Out of the elevator, another contraction. Standing at the maternity desk, another contraction. Trying to give my first urine sample, another contraction. Seriously, WTF!
Luckily, Darren had joined us just in time for my initial examination. We answer some questions as the fetal monitor confirms that I am indeed having contractions fairly close together. And then another nurse asks to speak with mine. I overhear them talking about 1-2 cm and I think to myself, if I am only one to two centimeters dilated, someone is going to die. And then, it's my turn to get checked. I don't think that there is anything more awkward that having someone stick progressively more and more fingers WAY up your hoo-ha to see just how big your hole has become. In my case, it was enough to get me to throw up, right into the wonderful barf pan that my husband was holding, which simply acted like a ramp redirecting all of my stomach contents up his shirt. Oddly enough, he continued to hold it when the second wave of vomit came. Silly boy.
And then, the verdict. "You win, you are 5-6 cm." Darren says to me, "Aren't you excited? You're already 5-6 cm?" To which I replied, "I am just glad we don't have to leave...and I am going to get sick." I guess I had won a room.
When I finally got to the room, I realized they meant business as all the birthing equipment was already set up. I decided to head to the shower again, but this time, I had my trusty friend Nitrous Oxide to keep me company. I stayed in there and swayed and huffed and counted up through the contractions with every breath until I couldn't do it any more. It noticed that near the peak of the contractions, I would just tense up waiting for them to pass because they were so painful. I became all too aware that the overwhelming peak seem to be getting longer and longer. I had to voice my want for pain meds three times before my loving husband took me seriously.
Unfortunately, the drug of choice, Fentanyl, had to be given intravenously and I had to be "checked" again to see if qualified. So out of the shower I go. My trusty NO2 follows as does my husband. I lie on the bed and assume the position for that esteem boosting fisting. Apparently, I fall within the window for the drug. The only problem is, my veins keep blowing when attempting to establish the IV. Great! This happened last time. Again, three different nurses have a go at it before the nurse in charge gets it done. Now I just have to wait for a contraction. (Apparently, giving the drug during a contraction minimizes the possible effects on the baby.)
The drug seemed to work well. It by no means took the pain away, but did take the edge off...but not for very long. A few contractions later, I seemed to be loosing control again. Did my contractions just get stronger? Did it already wear off? Am I just a wimp? So I asked for another dose and had another contraction. They wanted to wait until my doctor came to check under the hood. Apparently, they don't want to give it too close to pushing because it could adversely affect the baby. I had another contraction or two. Where the hell is she?!? I had another contraction. She checked. I contracted. She agreed. I contracted. OMG give me the drugs already?!? And just as they finish administering it, I feel like I gotta take the biggest shit. I pull the gas mask off and say "I gotta push. Hard core." Hard core? Really? That's gotta be the DUMBEST thing EVER said in labour. And yes, I did immediately think those thoughts.
I guess I meant business because after the first push I heard my mom say, "There is so much hair" (but in French) and I think to myself It's a girl! I knew it! Needless to say, three hours after we arrived at the hospital and after only nine minutes and two rounds of pushing, my daughter Élize was born. She was perfect.
Although initially I didn't get to hold her for very long on my chest, as they had to give her Narcan to counteract the Fentanyl, I got to watch her father fall in love with her as they checked her stats. I literally watched his face change from worry, to curiosity, to love. It was...the greatest gift.
Side note: The specialist was right. I did have her on the 23rd.
And apologies to my GP who, because I was so efficient at pushing, had to go back to work earlier than she had anticipated. ;p
And then I lose track of time because I enter "the zone". I am pacing between the kitchen and the family room, leaning on the island, the wall, the fireplace mantle, the wall...and swaying with my human hip clamp practically at every step. Poor guy had to clamp and record time and suffer my wrath and dagger eyes if he didn't write fast enough to apply the necessary pressure in time.
Eventually, there is rustling at the front door as my in-laws let themselves in with their key. Apparently, the left shortly after the phone call. I could do nothing but offer them a head nod in recognition as I walked by the door.
My mother-in-law, who, earlier on in her nursing career, was a maternity nurse, took one look at me and said "You need to call the hospital, she is doing something". I am temporarily brought out of the zone and realize that I am beginning to get nauseous. So I agree. "Please Darren, I think I am going to start puking soon." I'm weird like that, I puke when I am in a lot of pain. (With Noah I had thrown up so much that they had to put me on an IV to rehydrate and raise my blood sugar.)
So he calls. I listen as I lean on the island. I don't like his tone of voice as he asks "So what are we suppose to do?" And I realize, they don't have room for us. Oddly, enough, I don't panic. They had given us the choice to come in to get checked, but chances were, I would get re-routed.
As soon as he hangs up, both his parents encourage us to go to the hospital anyway. My MIL points out that there is one hour left before shift change and that we were probably being discouraged from coming in because of that. Who wants to start all the paper work only to have to stay longer than their 12 hour shift explaining to the next nurse?
I guess all our talking woke my mom up. And when I saw her face, I had decided. Let's go...and bring me a bucket.
The hospital is only 12 minutes away. And I don't remember much of the drive except for the fact that I am pretty sure a woman in a van beside us smiled at me as if she knew what I was going through.
Because admissions isn't open, we had to pull into emerg. It's as if my body knew we were at the hospital because it had a little party of contractions. (Kind of like when you really have to go to the bathroom and you've been holding it so long that your body almost prematurely let's it all go before you've unbuttoned your pants.) Before leaving to park, Darren has to jump out of the car to squeeze my hips. While signing in, my mom had to step in. I only had to give my name, and the triage nurse gave me my paperwork and sent me away to the elevators. I walked halfway down the hall, another contraction. I look right. I look left. Where the F was the elevator?!? Out of the elevator, another contraction. Standing at the maternity desk, another contraction. Trying to give my first urine sample, another contraction. Seriously, WTF!
Luckily, Darren had joined us just in time for my initial examination. We answer some questions as the fetal monitor confirms that I am indeed having contractions fairly close together. And then another nurse asks to speak with mine. I overhear them talking about 1-2 cm and I think to myself, if I am only one to two centimeters dilated, someone is going to die. And then, it's my turn to get checked. I don't think that there is anything more awkward that having someone stick progressively more and more fingers WAY up your hoo-ha to see just how big your hole has become. In my case, it was enough to get me to throw up, right into the wonderful barf pan that my husband was holding, which simply acted like a ramp redirecting all of my stomach contents up his shirt. Oddly enough, he continued to hold it when the second wave of vomit came. Silly boy.
And then, the verdict. "You win, you are 5-6 cm." Darren says to me, "Aren't you excited? You're already 5-6 cm?" To which I replied, "I am just glad we don't have to leave...and I am going to get sick." I guess I had won a room.
When I finally got to the room, I realized they meant business as all the birthing equipment was already set up. I decided to head to the shower again, but this time, I had my trusty friend Nitrous Oxide to keep me company. I stayed in there and swayed and huffed and counted up through the contractions with every breath until I couldn't do it any more. It noticed that near the peak of the contractions, I would just tense up waiting for them to pass because they were so painful. I became all too aware that the overwhelming peak seem to be getting longer and longer. I had to voice my want for pain meds three times before my loving husband took me seriously.
Unfortunately, the drug of choice, Fentanyl, had to be given intravenously and I had to be "checked" again to see if qualified. So out of the shower I go. My trusty NO2 follows as does my husband. I lie on the bed and assume the position for that esteem boosting fisting. Apparently, I fall within the window for the drug. The only problem is, my veins keep blowing when attempting to establish the IV. Great! This happened last time. Again, three different nurses have a go at it before the nurse in charge gets it done. Now I just have to wait for a contraction. (Apparently, giving the drug during a contraction minimizes the possible effects on the baby.)
The drug seemed to work well. It by no means took the pain away, but did take the edge off...but not for very long. A few contractions later, I seemed to be loosing control again. Did my contractions just get stronger? Did it already wear off? Am I just a wimp? So I asked for another dose and had another contraction. They wanted to wait until my doctor came to check under the hood. Apparently, they don't want to give it too close to pushing because it could adversely affect the baby. I had another contraction or two. Where the hell is she?!? I had another contraction. She checked. I contracted. She agreed. I contracted. OMG give me the drugs already?!? And just as they finish administering it, I feel like I gotta take the biggest shit. I pull the gas mask off and say "I gotta push. Hard core." Hard core? Really? That's gotta be the DUMBEST thing EVER said in labour. And yes, I did immediately think those thoughts.
I guess I meant business because after the first push I heard my mom say, "There is so much hair" (but in French) and I think to myself It's a girl! I knew it! Needless to say, three hours after we arrived at the hospital and after only nine minutes and two rounds of pushing, my daughter Élize was born. She was perfect.
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| My precious little angel. |
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| Picture of Noah meeting Élize for the first time. I just LOVE his expression. |
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| First Family Photo. |
And apologies to my GP who, because I was so efficient at pushing, had to go back to work earlier than she had anticipated. ;p
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