Two years ago today I said goodbye, and hello. This goodbye hello phenomenon has become part of my life since I boarded a plane at 21 years -old headed for Tokyo, Japan. Two years later I was saying goodbye to my Mom as she boarded the shuttle for Narita Airport. I found myself looking down in my arms saying hello to my six day old baby thinking, "holy cow, I'm a mom, I have to take care of you and my Mom just left ... how do I do this without my mom!?"
Jon stayed in the Air Force for 12 more years then retired. I said hello and goodby every two-three years during that time I had two more babies (three boys). Along the lines God in his wisdom knew I needed someone(s) to call family with each move. I've had that ... and more. Our kids have aunts, uncles, and even grandparents scattered across the globe. Although I don't have the luxury of dropping my kids off at their Nana's house overnight, I get the privilege of people allowing my little family to be adopted into theirs. Military families adopt one another fast. Everyone knows stations change, people move, and you are all you have so make the best of it. Crying about change doesn't stop the inevitble.
Japan, DC, The Azores, Las Vegas, New Hampshire ... we were supposed to stop. We bought our second house, I planted spring bulbs (for some this is just a menial task to enjoy flowers in the spring ... for me, it was symbolic that we would still be here ... year after year ... I laid roots.). We got involved in our community, coached our kids, loved our neighbors, and were adopted by a couple of special families. I saw those Spring bulbs bloom for the third time as we pulled out after the moving truck headed for Colorado. Our life that was supposed to stay secure, my flower gardens that were now the envy of the nighborhood because of my loving daily care ... gone in the rearview mirrior.
Colorado. Although Jon hasn't been in the m military for 7 years, he's been with an international firm that does have a reputation of career advancement being a matter of upward mobility. Our family, dutifully, has then and is now being upwardly mobile. But these are details, minor details that get lost in the shuffle of the news we are moving. As I mentioned earlier, each place we've lived I've been blessed to have one or two really good friends to share life with on the days we want to give up, and laugh with on the days the news is to good to be true. Colorado ... Colorado ...
Dennette ... she knows how much I love that kid, and for all intensive purposes people know she is my Colorado BFF. I believe on some level Dennette is everyone's BFF. She's kind, outgoing, and a person you WANT to know and be aroud. All this being said, God in His wisdom send Dennette my direction when we arrived in Colorado and months later she sent me in the direction of "dinner club". Dinner club, from what I had been told, had rules, and was very exclusive (haha). The exclusive part came in the fact that there are 8 people, no more. You make 8 meals a month, you go home with 7 different meals every month. For the girl who hates to figure out WHAT to cook every night ... this is a Godsend.
But ... dinner club ... I don't even know if these women understand the power the 7 and with me 8 of them represent. The inherent power of womanhood, security, love, endurance, and laughter. The once a month gatherings aren't limited to that day. Many of the women in dinner club do play dates, dinner dates with their spouses, go camping together, play together (oh, kickball ... haha), etc. This isn't a club, it isn't exclusive, it's just this group of women in which I have been privileged enough to have been a part of. I've moved often, I've had friends I am still friends with and will never forget, but this group of women I have come to love here in Colorado I will never forget.
When I found out I was pregnant with my 4th baby, I was crying. Through the tears, sitting on the sidelines of the swimming pool as our kids had lessons, I told Dennette. It was a shigh risk pregnancy. Doctors had told me another pregnancy could kill me. This was not planned. Her response, she put her hand on my leg and said, "Cort, don't worry, we'll get though this together." And you know what, we did. Towards the end of the pregnancy I sat at my baby shower hosted by Dennette and helped with by so many of my dinner club friends and I just sobbed. Each of them was there. Each of them had loved and prayed not only for me, but for this little person none of us even knew. These women who were less than 18 months ago strangers to me I would trust with my or the lives of my children. Dinner club ... I think it might be code for family.
Yet again, in a whirlwind that is the Eldridge way, we are moving again and we jsut found out ... Utah. Not sure about the Utah thing. I grew up in Utah, did my time, and would far prefer to stay in Colorado. But ... my kids will now actually get to know their cousins and their Nana so it has some perks. The job? Jon's dream job. How can I fault him? Same career field, new client, and yes, more money (and since we apparently have litters of children in our home, we need more money!). He starts the 18th (yes, April). The goal is to leave here the 13-14th. I found a poem years ago that I often go back to when these hello goodbye's come to fruition. It has never really seemed completely appropriate until I met my Colorado dinner club girls ... as always, I (heart) dinner club. Read Below:
A young wife sat on a porch in Waycross, Georgia on a summer day, drinking iced tea and visiting with her mother. As they talked about life, about marriage, about the responsibilities and the obligations of adulthood, the mother clinked the ice cubes in her glass thoughtfully and turned a clear, sober glance upon her daughter.
"Don't forget your girlfriends," she advised, swirling the tea leaves to the bottom of her glass. "They'll be more important as you get older. No matter how much you love your husband, no matter how much you'll love the children you'll have, you are still going to need girlfriends. Remember to go places with them now and then; Do things with them. And remember that girlfriends" are not only your friends, but your sisters, your daughters, and other relatives too. You'll need other women. Women always do."
'What a funny piece of advice.' the young women thought. 'Haven't I just gotten married? Haven't I just joined the 'couple' world? I'm a married woman, for goodness sake... A grown up... Not a young girl who needs girlfriends! Surely my husband and the family we'll start, will be all I need to make my life worthwhile!'
But she listened to her mother. She kept in contact with her girlfriends and made more each year. As the years tumbled by, one after another, she gradually came to understand that her mom really knew what she was talking about. As time and nature work their changes and their mysteries upon a woman, girlfriends are the mainstay of her life.
After 50 years of living in this world, here is what I know about girlfriends:
Girlfriends bring you casseroles and scrub your bathroom when you need help.
Girlfriends keep your children and your secrets.
Girlfriends give advice when you ask for it. Sometimes you take it, sometimes you don't.
Girlfriends don't always tell you you're right, but they're usually honest.
Girlfriends still love you, even when they don't agree with your choices.
Girlfriends laugh with you and don't need canned jokes to start the laughter.
Girlfriends pull you out of jams.
Girlfriends help you get out of bad relationships.
Girlfriends help you look for a new apartment. Help you pack, then help you move.
Girlfriends will give a party for your son or daughter when they get married or have a baby. (No matter in which order that happens!)
Girlfriends are there for you, in an instant, when the hard times come.
Girlfriends will drive through blizzards, rainstorms, hail, heat, and the gloom of night to get to you when your hour of need is desperate.
Girlfriends will listen when you lose a job or a friend.
Girlfriends listen when your children break your heart.
Girlfriends listen when your parents' minds and bodies fail.
Girlfriends cry with you when someone you loved dies.
Girlfriends support you when the men in your life let you down.
Girlfriends help you pick up the pieces when men pack up and go.
Girlfriends rejoice at what makes you happy and are ready to go out and kill what makes you unhappy.
Time passes. Life happens. Distance separates. Children grow up. Marriages fail. Love waxes and wanes. Hearts break. Careers end. Jobs come and go. Parents die. Colleagues forget favors. Men don't call when they say they will... But girlfriends are there... no matter how much time and how many miles are between you.... A girlfriend is never farther away than needing her can reach.
When you have to walk that lonesome valley and you have to walk it for yourself, your girlfriends will be on the valley's rim, cheering you on, praying for you, pulling for you, intervening on your behalf, and waiting with open arms at the valley's end. Sometimes, they will even break the rule and walk beside you... or come in and carry you out.
SO, to my girlfriends, cousins, and extended family....
YOU BLESS MY LIFE!
The world wouldn't be the same without all of you, and neither would I. When we began this adventure called womanhood, we had no idea of the incredible joys or sorrows that lay ahead. Nor did we know how much we would need each other every day... And we need each other still.
Love to you all.
Apr 4, 2011
Mar 29, 2011
Parenting, Denial Style
Translation: 
"Dear Parents of Braden I'm sorry for throwing crap aPPles everywhere and hit Kaden in the Head and I want to play with Braden again and that was fun
"Dear Parents of Braden I'm sorry for throwing crap aPPles everywhere and hit Kaden in the Head and I want to play with Braden again and that was fun from, Mathew"
The Meanest Kid on the Block
I'm leaving the whole letter intact, including the kid's name, since I don't know the parents from Adam, there are a million Mathew's in the world, and throwing craba aPPles has to be some sort of daily occurence between boys at parks, AND I'm assuming Mathew's parents are not one of the six people who read my blog.
Ironic Denial. Parenting, bad parenting, is a series of events that present ironic humor for the rest of us to laugh, scratch our heads, and then acknowledge why their kid is a complete ass because his/her parents are immersed in the seas of denial.
A combination of denial and irony allows these parents to actually utter phrases like, "I'm just letting you know I won't let my son/daughter play with that/those kids." Their kid is typically the child who incites the disturbing stupidity echoed in childhood playgrounds and schools, but hey, it's everyone else's kid. Everyone else's kid "starts it", and everyone elses kid "must have problems at home". We don't live in denial at our house. I always start sentences with, "I know my kid isn't perfect, and they probably were most of the problem ..." I KNOW my kids can be asses, but I know Jon and I have already started a therapy fund for each child to temper our bad parenting and their bad behavior.
We have a kid in our neighborhood who has parents in denial. These are the worst kind of parents because you have to acknowledge them with a head nod knowing breaking their fragile denial bubble will incite them to madness and/or they will take a one way train to crazy town ... after they beat the hell out of you. Often, the kids with the DP (denial parents) are annoying and crazy mean. We are blessed to have the latter (crazy mean) in our neighborhood.
In two years, both of my older kids have shared a love/hate relationship with Mathew. There are times he can be a pretty average, normal kid. These are the times there is peace in the neighborhood and all is calm. God help us all if Mathew wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. ie: He's clothes-lined Bradyn as Bradyn sped by on his bike at mock 10. Bradyn fell, there was alot of blood, and crying. Drew watched the whole thing go down. I was to busy with triage to yell at Mathew.
Mathew has shoved his butt (literally) in people's faces, shook it around, and "neener, neener neener'd" kids to eventually smacking him. He's always warned, and he always persists. As evidenced by the above letter, one of his last attacks was on Caden, my 3 year-old. In the "planned neighborhood" we live in (honestly, can't the HOA ban the DP and their crap kids?) there is a park. It's the gathering place for everyone under 15, and Mathew's battle ground. Two weeks ago the older boys had taken Caden to the park. Mathew took it upon himself to launch crab apples at Caden, then shove him down, laughing the whole time.
My two older boys and their friend brought Caden home in tears. They were disgusted and ticked at Mathew, but we all knew saying anything would bring on one thing ... his DP mother. I was mad, I'll be honest. What could my 3 year-old have done to deserve a crabapple attack followed by getting shoved down. As Drew would say, Mathew was asserting his "personal empowerment", an apparent bully tactic (thank you public schools for the 40k assemblies on bullying). On occasion, the kids will slap Mathew down. They might throw a crabapple back his direction, they might verbally assault. Sometimes Mathew reacts back, sometimes he goes home and tattles. Retaliation by Mathew seems far more effective when he "tells his Mommy" his side of the story. She'll come to the park, talons raised, and verbally smack down the kid who Mathew points out as his "attacker".
I've never seen this whole thing go down. My kids fear other adults authority and they will stand on the sidelines shaking until they come home and tell me what happened. I ignore it. Doesn't involve my kid. I know she's a DP and Mathew is a shit. Our house lives by law of the jungle. If there's no blood, don't tell me about it. If you act like an ass, eventually noone will WANT to play with you ... figure yourselves out or you won't have friends.
Yesterday, oh blessed day, the doorbell rings. I answered the door only to see DP in full attack mode. Mathew stood behind her, looking both fearful and pleased with himself. I stood there, baby in arms, and listened as she spattered off her tale. She began showing me the little goose egg on Mathew's head and a large band aid on his back. Apparently Mathew had mouthed off to the wrong kid and he got shoved off the neighbor's porch. She DP'd into the details leaving out Mathew as inciting any reason for him to be shoved off the porch.
BUT, her visit was not about his unfortunate fall. Her visit was to inform me that AFTER her darling son had come home (later I found out this was about an hour AFTER the fall and AFTER the kids had bandaged his back and apologized all over themselves) she hightailed it to the park to chat with the offendor. The offendor is a 12 year-old girl. Again, in pure DP mode, the mother informed me that she had spoken with the girl and the girl, "got all up in my face" and showed "complete disrespect" and she wanted me to know the "kind of kids your kids are at the park with" and "I am taking Mathew away from those kids". Again, she repeated, she just wanted me to know.
I sort of sat there wide eyed thinking three things. A) In two years this was the second time I had even spoke with this woman. B) Her son had given me a note a day prior apologizing for the crabapple assault inflicted on my 3 year-old so that I would let Bradyn hang out with him again. C) Her kid was the meanest kid on the block, he was almost always in the center of the storm, and should I give this DP mother a mother hen verbal assault of my own protecting my chickens? In a fashion I am not accustomed, I weighed her reaction in my mind, and said nothing. I nodded. In the middle of her rant, the younger sister of the offendor came to the mother to defend her sister stating her sister was not a mean person, etc. etc. She was heartfelt, the DP was unaffected and began a second verbal assault on the 8 year-old sister telling her how mean and disresepctful her sister is, etc. etc. I just stared silently for 5 minutes, not kidding, 5 minutes standing at my door watching this whole thing go down.
Four times I nodded when she told me she was taking her kid "away from those kids in the park" and when I didn't get on her DP train, she tried to back up her story telling me she had problems with these girls before. I knew these girls, I knew Mathew. While they could all be at fault, Mathew won the prize in my mind. Again, nodded. She finally recognized I wasn't going to fly into a frenzy and head over to the park to retrieve my kids from the obviously "bad element" and she left.
By this time, the whole possy of park kids, including my own, were gathered in my front yard to hear Mathew's mom in DP mode. When she left I dryly said, "Drew, what happened?" Drew proceeded to give me the proverbial "rest of the story". In true Mathew fashion, he was again shoving his butt in this girl's face (literally) and after a few warnings she finally slapped him down ... which apparently slapped him down off the porch. (Yep, I'm laughing.) Mathew did get hurt, but the kids went into "holy crap we're going to be in trouble" mode, apologized profusely, and triaged the wounds. Somewhere in there, Mathew went home, and his Mom showed up on the playground.
DP had left out the part about calling the 12 year-old girl a "bitch" and then trying to rally the other kids saying, "do you even WANT to play with her, you should not WANT to play with her", and the girl only had friends, "because your parents have money". Huh. The girl did retaliate with a "who do you think you are?" response (ballsy young girl) and their was some side to side head shaking with both parties. When the whole event reached a fevered pitch, the Mom left the park and immediately came to my front door. Awesome.
The irony was staggering. The meanest kid on the block apparently had the meanest mom on the block. That crabapple didn't fall far from the tree. I instructed Drew to gather EVERY kid in my front yard to stand on the porch against the rail. When they were all gathered (about 10 of them) standing there looking guilty and terrified, I said, "look, when you mess with a mom's kid, the mom will go ape shit every time, it's a mom instinct. This isn't to say I don't know Mathew is a shit. I know he causes 90% of the issues. BUT, if he tattles, and his Mom wants to talk to you, walk away. Nod your head, then walk away. It's not okay to disrespect adults, no matter how crazed. Just walk away. Now, all this being said, know that if I ever have to talk to any of you and you "get all up in my face" I will beat you down without hesitation. Now go away, speak of this no more, and ignore Mathew."
I might contact the HOA about a disorderly conduct award on this mother for having a verbal slapdown with the "children in the park". Nah, her husband's a police officer, she might have me arrested like Mathew always promises Bradyn his dad will do when Bradyn doesn't give Mathew his way. And let's be honest, you can't fix crazy.
Mar 6, 2011
PUSH GIFT ... I am NOTmaking this up
This weekend Jon surprised me with my newly completed "push gift". I knew it was coming, I just didn't know WHEN. He and my local jeweler (an elderly couple who had also not heard of the push gift phenomenon), mostly the jeweler's wife, had a great time designing this custom piece. Jon explained to them I had just had our 4th boy the day before, and she was MORE THAN WILLING to help him design something amazing... because I deserved jewels for "pushing out" 4 babies!
"Push Gift" #3 was a beautiful diamond necklace with three graduated size diamonds representing each of our three boys. This push gift (although it looks red for some reason to me, and it is actually white gold) has my birthstone in the middle, and each of the boys birthstones on the side. Awesome.
My mom is laughing at me, my friends are wondering if I am making this stuff up. My mom even told me this past weekend that she has asked teacher(s) at her school and they laughed hysterically because they too think I am making up this whole "push gift" phenomenon. Mom, like my Aunt Debbie, both said, "I just got flowers." Flowers are nice ladies, and I probably should defer to the adage of, "it's the thought that counts." But, I'm not, and I think the ladies should unite. Please don't misunderstand ... I am NOT saying a beautiful, healthy baby is not gift enough, they are amazing little miraculous gifts (gifts that wake up three times a night and have poopy blow outs in their pants, but gifts nevertheless).
It's the 9 months of growing said beautiful baby, the puking, the sleepless nights, the inability to breathe, complete loss of sanity and emotions (crying at dog food commercials), restless legs, charlie horses, in my case the doctor appointments 45 minutes away 1-2 times every week, the blood thinner injections 2x day, cat scans, ultrasounds, the little bugger kicking one of my ribs out of place, followed by 20+ hours of labor and then pushing your body through the equivalent of a marathon bringing this little person into the world ... all while the husband (dear, dear, Jon) actually uttered the phrase, "suck it up, you're fine." My response, "this better be a hell of a push gift this time around."
So, to appease any naysayers that I am making this push gift thing up, I offer the following, straight from the Wikipedia, source of all knowledge after google search engine (lol) .
A push present (also known as a "push gift" or "baby bauble") is a present a new father gives a new mother when she gives birth to their child. In practice the present may be given before or after the birth, or even in the delivery room. The giving of push presents has grown in the United States in recent years.
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| "Push Gift" baby #4 |
This weekend Jon surprised me with my newly completed "push gift". I knew it was coming, I just didn't know WHEN. He and my local jeweler (an elderly couple who had also not heard of the push gift phenomenon), mostly the jeweler's wife, had a great time designing this custom piece. Jon explained to them I had just had our 4th boy the day before, and she was MORE THAN WILLING to help him design something amazing... because I deserved jewels for "pushing out" 4 babies!
"Push Gift" #3 was a beautiful diamond necklace with three graduated size diamonds representing each of our three boys. This push gift (although it looks red for some reason to me, and it is actually white gold) has my birthstone in the middle, and each of the boys birthstones on the side. Awesome.
My mom is laughing at me, my friends are wondering if I am making this stuff up. My mom even told me this past weekend that she has asked teacher(s) at her school and they laughed hysterically because they too think I am making up this whole "push gift" phenomenon. Mom, like my Aunt Debbie, both said, "I just got flowers." Flowers are nice ladies, and I probably should defer to the adage of, "it's the thought that counts." But, I'm not, and I think the ladies should unite. Please don't misunderstand ... I am NOT saying a beautiful, healthy baby is not gift enough, they are amazing little miraculous gifts (gifts that wake up three times a night and have poopy blow outs in their pants, but gifts nevertheless).
It's the 9 months of growing said beautiful baby, the puking, the sleepless nights, the inability to breathe, complete loss of sanity and emotions (crying at dog food commercials), restless legs, charlie horses, in my case the doctor appointments 45 minutes away 1-2 times every week, the blood thinner injections 2x day, cat scans, ultrasounds, the little bugger kicking one of my ribs out of place, followed by 20+ hours of labor and then pushing your body through the equivalent of a marathon bringing this little person into the world ... all while the husband (dear, dear, Jon) actually uttered the phrase, "suck it up, you're fine." My response, "this better be a hell of a push gift this time around."
So, to appease any naysayers that I am making this push gift thing up, I offer the following, straight from the Wikipedia, source of all knowledge after google search engine (lol) .
A push present (also known as a "push gift" or "baby bauble") is a present a new father gives a new mother when she gives birth to their child. In practice the present may be given before or after the birth, or even in the delivery room. The giving of push presents has grown in the United States in recent years.
History: The tradition of gift-giving to commemorate a birth has long roots in England and India. The term "push present" first appeared in a publication in 1992. According to Linda Murray, the executive editor of BabyCenter.com, "It’s more and more an expectation of moms these days that they deserve something for bearing the burden for nine months, getting sick, ruining their body. The guilt really gets piled on." Other sources trace the development of the present to the increased assertiveness of women, allowing them to demand a present more directly, or the increased involvement of the men in pregnancy, making them more informed of the pain and difficulties of pregnancy and labor.
A few favorite phrases from this wikipedia bit of knoweldge. The understanding of the rigors of growing life. Not super comfortable. Women who love being pregnant, straight to Jesus with you. Women like me, we love Jesus, but pretty much hate you. Today's woman, being a tad more assertive, God bless us. Ladies, we got the vote, can own property, and no longer have to bite down on a leather strap while birthin' babies (thank you epidural). Assert your womanhood. Now, push gifts are not always extravagant. I'll admit, baby #1 was flowers (which my Dad had to insist Jon buy me or Dad would have bought for me because that's just what you do when your wife has a baby). Baby #2, I know I got flowers, and I'm pretty sure something shiny. I'm like a bird, if it's shiny, it needs to come home to my nest. Baby #3, baby #4, he had to out do himself. I'm old, my uterus is old, and both were surprises.
Grand finale? I love my push gift, love, love, love it. Nice work Jon. With my medical history (here's the TMI), I can't be on any form of birth control. Never have been able to be. Baby #1, baby #2, infertility. Baby #3, WTH!? But we weren't taking preventative measures and according to my 5th grade "maturation program" these things are possible. Baby #4 ... let's just say I think my now infinitely fertile body could rival the 85 kids and counting Duggars if we don't take immediate drastic measures. Jon, I now need you to man up and finish the final portion of push gift #4 ... schedule your vasectomy ... or so help me, push gift #5 will require carats, and I do mean MULTIPLE carats of diamonds (and p.s. Drew starts college in 5 years ... followed by Bradyn ... then Caden ... then Bennett).
Feb 19, 2011
Chapter 2-B Bennett's Delivery, still ticked off ...
If you bothered to read the last post (you must be exhausted by now), then you have a brief (okay, longer than brief) history of my body, my experiences with labor and delivery, and my sub par medical care along the way. From that history you should garner a few important points: A. Doctor's are not always right, in fact some of them are idiots (shout out to my friends who ARE doctors, you aren't idiots) B. my labor and deliveries have all been about the same, get shorter, and my kids require oxygen C. I have control issues and pregnancy #3 and especially #4 afforded me NO control and I needed a moment.
The planets aligned, chips fell into place, whatever anaology you can come up to afford me being referred to the best perinatologist in Colorado for this pregnancy. He's renowned, amazingly talented, and on top of it all, a really nice guy. He's sort of fatherly, answered all my dumb questions, and never pulled punches when the news wasn't great. We'll call him Dr. P. Dr. P. is part of a large practice at PSL hospital in Denver, Colorado. PSL is the "high risk" labor and delivery hospital in Colorado and women are life flighted in there daily from all over the west. It's supposed to be "the place" if you're high risk. This is where I was voted to deliver because of the blood disorder.
I had been to PSL weekly since week 5 of the pregnancy. I had been to the office, and part of the LD floor for ultrasounds every week. The nurse practioners, technicians, front desk staff, and Dr. P. were always great. I made friends with all of them pretty quickly ... even when Dr. P. informed me early on with a straight face that I had an, "old uterus" I still liked him. When he told me I wasn't as young as I used to be, I still liked him. And when he told me I might not be able to have an epidural because of the blood thinners I admittedly had a moment of, "what the hell? have you seen the size of the kid's head?" moment, but I still liked him.
Most importantly, when things got "sketchy" in the pregnancy, and even went south a few times, he was quick to be proactive and I trusted him. When the date of delivery was a couple of months away, he told me the risks. The blood thinners, etc. could cause a "problem" at delivery. If I couldn't have an epidural, and I had to have a cesarean, I had to be put under general. If I could deliver vaginally, there was a chance of great blood loss and a transfusion was a possibility. I couldn't bank my own blood, my plateletes were to low from the blood thinners ... I wasn't happy ... but I trusted him.
I knew what to expect going in to the delivery. Yes, I was scared. And yes, nobody knows this except my Colorado BFF, but I wrote letters to my boys in case things didn't go according to plan. I've had a friend unexpectedly die leaving three boys behind, I never wanted that to happen to me without a chance to tell my boys I loved them and any advice I could offer as they became men. I went into the delivery scared, but I felt prepared, and most importantly, I trusted Dr. P.
Despite the fact I had been to PSL every week, I had never been in a LD room on the floor. Wow. That's about all I can muster. And it's not the good, "wow," it's the holy crap are you kidding me it would be more sanitary to deliver in the alley outside kind of, "wow". The room was ... big ... and gross. Parts of the corner of the walls were coming off in chunks, the paint needed a "retouch" (okay, who knew what color it had once been it was so filthy it would be like trying to determin Dolly Parton's real hair color after 50+ years of bleaching), and the furniture? One rocking chair, two "recliners" (I use that term loosely) that folded out into "beds" (again loose terminology) and my Mom complained for the whole 20 hours of labor that she was the gash in her chair was "wet" with who even wanted to know what. I just told her she was elderly and peeing her pants rather than imagining the stark reality of "why" and with "what" her chair was wet.
The nurse escorted me to my bathroom, gave me my fashion forward hospital gown (why are those things so ugly, really, there are pictures when you deliver and NOONE can take a good picture covered in faded blue, pink, yellow, green, what the hell ever designs). I shut the door, noticed the bathroom was a little "less than clean" (what seemed like "mildew" around the super deep tub made for midgets, the sink with grime around it, etc. I felt less than impressed, but also realized they were "flipping beds" pretty fast that night. Then I looked at the toilet. My gown was now on, I still had my shoes on (not touching the hospital floor, pretty sure it carries the plague) and there it was. They only way I can explain the horror ... "afterbirth" on the toilet seat ... and I was not post natal ... so it wasn't mine ... Now, some or those of you that rad this blog know I have germ issues that are developing into a full blown OCD the older I get. This was almost more than I could handle.
I excited the bathroom, looked at my mom, and told her the tragedy in the bathroom. She and Jon went to look at the carnage, and she shook her head saying, "okay, someone needs to get in here and clean that." Then I went to sit on the bed. Before I sat down I noticed, prepare your stomaches, someone else's hair (not from their head) and stains of "birth" on the sheets. Uh. Again, I told my mom to which she responded, "DON'T SIT ON THAT BED!" then she mumbled, "you're going to get a freaking staph infection in this place." Jon called the nurse, she came in and inspected the room closer, apologized, a cleaning person came in soon after, and she was not so apologetic insisting she had cleaned the room.
We sort of sat there wide eyed thinking, "really? really?" Then the head whatwhosever in charge of all the cleaning, etc. came in the room, inspected, and apologized all over herself. By this time the head cleaning lady was in the room (2 cleaning people) and she was also defensive of the cleaning crews amazing skill. Right there in front of us, they started to battle. The "boss" telling them to clean the bathroom, change the sheets, this was gross, not acceptable, etc. and the cleaning "crew" shouting back, "we already cleaned it!" This went on back and forth about 4 times and we sat, still slack jawed. The boss finally won leaving the room saying, "I don't care if you already cleaned it, clean it again."
She left, then it was our turn. The 2 cleaning ladies stood bedside in front of us and said, "we already cleaned this room so you need to tell us what's wrong with it." Again, slack jawed. Moreso for the fact that I was pretty sure these cleaning ladies had never met my mother, who in times of her children being put in peril (see staph infection comment) she grows talons and will verbally scratch the eyes out of the offendor. I spoke up, mom spoke up, jon made reference to his career being facilities management and this was not okay, and they mouthed off a few more times. The talons were starting to grow on my mom's hands, and i think the crew may have seen the red in her eyes. They backed off... until.
A few minutes in the bathroom the "head" cleaner returned saying, "the only way we can clean that bathroom the way you want is with bleach." Uh, did she not know who she was talking too? I had been raised on bleach. My mother was raised on bleach, and I am pretty sure each generation proceeding her with the invention of bleach was raised on bleach. The pungent smell of bleach wasn't gross to us, it meant clean. "Okay, then bleach it." We both replied. "Well, we WON'T be responsible!" Uh, for what? A clean bathroom? "Some women have a hard time with bleach in delivery." Yes, it was a are you kidding me swear, swear, cuss, cuss, friggin' idiot moment. Uh, no, bleach is good. No problems with bleach. Again, "we WON'T be responsible!" Fine ladies, get a waiver, get what you need, just get the damned afterbirth off the toilet seat, it's not mine, and change the bed sheets from the birth before mine, I would prefer not to labor in a bed for hours on end in someone else's sweaty nasty miracle of labor. They obliged.
I now had a semi clean room. Mom and I still looked around disgusted. Jon tried to make the best of things. My Mom's (and now mine) friend Linda (mom's best friend from high school, lives in Colorado) showed up to sit and wait with the rest of us. She's a NICU nurse and she managed a "wth?" reaction like the rest of us. My nurse, Ms. S., was a chipper gal who noticed the room was gross, and she tried to make the best of things offering actual pillows instead of plastic, I don't even know what the hell it was, but it wasn't a pillow. She got the IV in the first time, she started the induction with minimal pain, she hooked up the monitors, offered me some liquid snacks, and so the process begins. Me, waiting for the pain to begin, laboring on the questionably plague ridden bed, nose hairs burned with bleach, crossing my legs praying I could manage not going to the bathroom until the baby was born.
4 hours later ... I had progressed to ... barely a 2. Another round of induction medicine. Hour 6, still barely a 2, but I had been ASSURED this labor, 4th baby, would be shorter. The last labor, about 11 hours, I didn't want to get to the "wow mama kill me now" contraction stage, so I asked about the epidural, how fast the anesthesiologist could be there after they called him, etc. These seem like details to some people, to me they were important life altering pieces of information. Ms. S. told me, "honey, you can have the epidural whenever you want since were inducing you." haha. My platelets were good, I COULD have an epidural, and I could have it WHENEVER I wanted. Ms. S. followed her statement by telling me the anesthesiologist was a tad "grouchy". Uh, not okay, Who wants a grouchy person inserting a huge needle into their back?
I pushed for more info on Oscar's (see Sesame Street) temperament at the moment and she told me he was asleep (they worked 24 shifts there, and it was about 4 am). Uh, how asleep? Apparently he was pretty asleep, but the gal next door to me was going to need an epidural as well. I told Ms. S. to go ahead and wake him up, but have him give the girl next door her epidural first so he could be more awake ... and hopefully less grouchy. A few minutes later, the anesthesiologist showed up. I was not second, I was first.
He didn't seem grouchy. He was professional, he asked a few questions, it was my 4th baby so I had some, "don't screw it up like the last epidural I got in New Hampshire" response and he suddenly got very excited. "Where in New Hampshire?" Turns out he did his internship in New Hampshire ... where I delivered ... and I had a foot in mouth experience but decided I had already opened my mouth so I said, "well, this idiot apparently studied at the Mayo clinic and he was cocky as hell ... 45 minutes later ... about 4 sticks into my back." That statement was somehow endearing to the anesthesiologist, and he smiled, and even cracked a joke. From that point forward it was all New England, all the time. He loved that Jon was from New England, he loved that we had moved to Colorado from New England, and he loved that even through the epidural I sat completely still. I knew the drill, you move, they have to restick. Apparently I was the best patient ever. When he left the room, smiling and cracking jokes, the nurse sat there looking stunned and said, "I have NEVER seen him like that." Awesome, the "candy man" was my friend. This was going to be a "can't feel my legs pain free delivery".
Hour after hour passed. I couldn't feel my legs, candy man came in to literally just "visit" every hour, and occasionally he would dope me back up if I started feeling like you could no longer cut off my legs without me noticing. It was a great epidural. Jon slept, Linda stayed up (she works night shift, so she was a trooper and we stayed up and chatted all night), Mom was in and out of consciousness. In between a bout of mom's consciousness, she, Linda and I started joking about something, probably the future staph infection I would be leaving the hospital with (of course, I couldn't feel my bottom portion, so pretty much everything didn't matter), and suddenly I sort of felt like I was "wetting my pants" ... uncontrollably. I had a catheter, had it broken? The nurse came in soon after. "Uh, I think I wet my bed." Nope, apparently not. I had laughed so hard I broke my water. Who knew? Again, epidural, awesome.
It was now noon. The induction had begun at 9 p.m. the night before. I was into hour 12, not happy, not progressing, frustrated, and had been through a couple shifts of nurses, nurse practioners, and doctors. Dr. P. was on shift and he came in to say hi. It made me feel a little better. Suddenly I felt like I couldn't breathe. I couldn't catch my breath, and it was wierd. I sat up, wheezing, and the anesthesiologist was there instantly. My heart was dipping, the babies heart was dipping. The nurse was threatening to turn off the epidural, and my mom shot Linda a horrified look. She mouthed something to Linda about what would happen if they did that, and Linda mouthed back, "she'll feel EVERYTHING." Didn't know all of this until after I had the baby ... better that way. The anesthesiologist told them to give me oxygen, and in a few minutes, I felt so much better ... and my epidural stayed in place (the best part).
The whole incident led them to need a better monitor of what was going on ... see multiple wires now inserted into the "choch". Jon asked if I could get cable in there? Jon is a moron. About 1 p.m. I started feeling a wierd pressure, and an evern wierder "gone to the quiet place" emotional state. This is the place I instinctively go before I have my babies ... I think some people call it transition ... I call it, "better go to the quiet place because my mom will slap me if I swear when I deliver (ladies don't do that)" place. Suddenly I was thinking about my boys, did I write enough in their letters to let them know I loved them, that they would be great men, to find the right person to marry, to love their new brother and know always if Bennett was the last great thing I did on this earth, then I was at peace.
There was the risk, and the moment that was coming when I would simultaneously meet this little creature, who I prayed would be healthy, and that my body would cooperate. I had tears streaming down my cheeks, but I couldn't say a word. I was scared. My mom was there, she's the only person allowed to get near me when I am laboring in the quiet place. For some reason Jon isn't allowed to touch me, I think it's his nervous energy and as much as I love him, it drives me nuts.
Dr. P. walked in the room and asked how I felt, not great. The nurse checked me, again, they started preparing the materials to deliver me ... are you freaking kidding me, I was about a 5. Not an 8, not a 9, a 5. I sat in the quiet place for a couple more hours, then I literally gave up. I was approaching hour 20, the longest induction of my life, and this kid was not moving. There was this strange pressure in my pelvis, but not the "time to push" pressure, just a nagging stab. The nurses came in and told me it was cesarean time if I couldn't progress. Like all my other deliveries, the psychological fear of a cesarean caused the physical reaction, and I progressed, fast. It was almost 5, the anesthesiologist came back in to "chat" and I told him about the stabbing pain in my pelvis. He gave me more drugs. Still no relief. He joked if he gave me any more this would be a spinal and they could do an epidural right there. I suggested the spinal would be okay, just not the cesarean part. haha, laugh laugh, he couldn't hit the pain.
On his way out the door he said to the nurse, "hey, why don't you check her?" The nurse told him she had checked me about 30 minutes prior and she didn't need to check again that fast and he said, "oh come on, check her," then asked Jon, "don't you want to know if she's progressed?" The nurse obliged, and holy cow, he knew his stuff! I was a 10. Suddenly the room filled with nurses, a nurse practioner, a NICU team, way to many bells and whistles, baby warmer, surgical tray, etc. etc. Then the news ... Dr. P. who I trusted, was in an emergency surgery. They told him I was in labor, and he said he would be there as fast as he could, but to call in his colleague just in case the baby wouldn't wait. In walks Dr. J. (and not the basketball player, quite the opposite, this was Dr. J. mini sized, about 5 feet tall).
I was already strapped into the somewhat vulnerable legs open ready to start the "birthin'" pushing position. The room started filling with the "staff", but then other "staff" I knew that was off shift, but had become friends over the last 9 months. After all, I saw them every week, and they had held my hand through the good and bad news. They all wanted to be at the delivery ... a couple nurses, the ultrasound technician, and the anesthesiologist, who introduced his new shift doctor (he looked about 12, I was in a rather sketchy position for meeting someone for the first time, so I said, "hi, welcome to my choch." I mean hell, there it was, what else was I supposed to say?".
So there I was, Mom on one side, Linda on the other, Jon somewhere in between, nurses, friends, and Dr. J. He introduced himself dryly, "hi, I'm Dr. J. (insert real name, calling them by letters so I'm not sued)." I looked at him and said, "uh, yeah, I think I met you once really early in the pregnancy." In my mind I was thinking, "and I hated you then, you were an ass, and looks like today might not be any different, but I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt." Dr. J. seemed to be in a foul mood. He started ripping things off the surgical table and grouching demands at the nurses. The nurses were helping him get into full surgical gear and I was was thinking, "uh, sir, vaginal not cesarean, you jsut have to catch, do we really need the whole get up here?"
Now, the whole day I was referred to as the "protein S" patient. The staff knew who I was based on my condition, and I would hope he had glanced at my chart and maybe knew the whole risk situation had me a tad nervous. He asked how long it took before my other babies delivered, "uh, if there are more than about 4 pushes, I get nervous." He responded with, "really, with an epidural." in the, "you're full of crap" tone. "Uh yeah, I had epidurals with all of them, I push REALLY well." So, he stood at my crotch, arms folded, and said, "well, then go ahead and push, let's see." Really? Really? So I looked at the nurse and said, "tell me when". So much for my silent delivery.
She said, "okay, contraction, push". I'll save the details, but there was the whole count to 10 crap, put your chin down, breathe nonsense. I was terrified on several levels. This was not a delivery anything like the other kids. After about the third push I asked the doctor if I was pushing okay, was the baby descending, and he responded, "uh, I guess, you know." No, I don't know. The terror took over and I thought, "if something goes wrong, this ass standing at my crotch with his arms folded is going to be in charge of making sure I don't die." I sat up and said, "Dr. J., what's your first name?" I wanted to be on a first name basis with the ass that was going to either kill me or save me. "Uh, Oliver ... William ... maybe Bill ... but you can call me Dr. J." Of course I can. I went for the next push and realized, "he's not touching me, at all, this is not my first rodeo, if he doesn't get involved here I am going to tear from here to Kansas." He was bored. This ass, at my crotch, participating in what was a rather intimite moment, was bored. Are you kidding me?!
Then he spoke up. "Uh, this baby isn't coming out in 4 pushes, I'm going to just leave and let you work with the nurses for a while, then they'll call me." WTH?! He started disrobing and I said, "uh, the baby is right there." I could feel it, I knew what it felt like, I wasn't some rookie. He was half unclothed from his surgical gear when the angel from heaven appeared (literally, i think she had a halo) in the form of Mary Page Smith (I'm using her full name, because she deserves massive kudos here). She was a nurse practioner, I'd seen her on and off for the day, and I liked her. She is a fireball for sure. She was not in surgical gear, she barely had time to throw some gloves on as she slapped her hands over her head and said, "alright Cort, let's get this baby out, push!" There is was, one push, then, "stop, stop, stop!"
Out came a little head, accompanied by a little hand on the side of his head. Bennett apparently didn't pay attention in birthin' 101 and forgot his hand his supposed to be nestled by his side with the other hand, not reaching for the light. Mary Page (gross) had to "make room" for the head (giant, of course) and the hand so Bennett wouldn't have a broken hand, arm, or clavicle. Dr. J. who had not left the room completely was back in the doorway and said, "uh, I guess I should listen to my patients." Idiot. Dr. P. showed up breathless running into the room from his emergency surgery just as the "rest" of Bennett was delivered. He made sure I was okay, baby was good, then he was rushing back into another surgery (it was a big night apparently at PSL, which I found out later in recovery when there was a gazillion recovering moms).
I got to see the little creature for the first time, all I could say was, "oh my gosh, you look exactly like Caden." I felt overwhelmed, happy, and for a moment I wasn't worried about the "what if" going wrong. Bennett was here, he was healthy, and all I could do was stare at him across the room in his little warmer as the nurse checked his vitals, etc. Suddenly, I felt a searing pain. I looked down. I was still in the "birthin' position" and now I saw these nurses putting some iodine or something on me as my beloved Dr. J. pulled up giant stitching threads. Yes, I had torn from here to Kansas, and treating me like the cadaver I was, Dr. J. had not bothered to say a word to me, not a "okay, I'm going to stitch you up now" or "okay, this might take a minute let me know if you are feeling any pain" or anything. He stitched, I watched, he said NOTHING. And this was not a quick job. I turned my attention to the baby, endured the searing pain, and just thought, "get through it, get through it, you have a healthy baby, this ass doesn't matter in the long run."
Baby was good, I had a moment to tell him I loved him ... I wasn't so good. I was pale, and I felt exhausted. I assumed it was the 20+ hours of labor. The nurse started to push on my abdomen to "massage the uterus" back into place and "whoosh". I felt it. I knew what it was. Blood. This wasn't normal. She went back to massage my abdomen, lighter this time, and "whoosh". My mom was standing there next to me and I just looked at her and shook my head. My worst fear ... it was happening. My Mom looked scared, but she tried to tell me it was going to be okay, but I don't think even she beleived that.
The nurse handed me 6 pills. Take these now. I was saying a silent prayer in my head, thinking about the pregnancy, every moment of every day, the miserable pregnancy, the shock and surprise of this baby, this beautiful healthy baby, my boys, Jon ... I told God this was NOT okay and He needed to solve this. I was not ready, my family was not ready, and He sent this baby so He needed to make this right. I was demanding, but pleading. They shoved something in my IV, I took the pills, the blood kept coming, they were putting pressure, and I don't know how much long later I felt my uterus literally "clamp down". It was worse than labor, but it helped stop the bleeding.
After that, the drama was over. I recovered in a filthy recovery room no better than the labor and delivery room. I won't fill in the details, but think closet size, nasty dirty with food that made elementary school lunch look like a 5 star experience. Besides Dr. S. the staff was INCREDIBLE. I had amazing nurses, doctors (sans Dr. S), etc. I felt protected, loved, and taken care of ... but I guess I'm still ticked. I'm not sure how I will handle Dr. S. I'm thinking a letter ... but first a cleansing breath so I don't sound like a drunken sailor utilizing my harshest vocabulary skills to tell him how much I adore his bedside manner.
Bennett is now a whopping 8lbs (he gained a lb in a week). He has double chins, is a calm little soul, and I can't imagine life without him in our family,. The kids adore him, Caden even calls him, "silly billy" and protects him like a mother hen. He cries, Caden's on it. Grateful, yes. Ticked, it's secondary ... cleansing breath.
The planets aligned, chips fell into place, whatever anaology you can come up to afford me being referred to the best perinatologist in Colorado for this pregnancy. He's renowned, amazingly talented, and on top of it all, a really nice guy. He's sort of fatherly, answered all my dumb questions, and never pulled punches when the news wasn't great. We'll call him Dr. P. Dr. P. is part of a large practice at PSL hospital in Denver, Colorado. PSL is the "high risk" labor and delivery hospital in Colorado and women are life flighted in there daily from all over the west. It's supposed to be "the place" if you're high risk. This is where I was voted to deliver because of the blood disorder.
I had been to PSL weekly since week 5 of the pregnancy. I had been to the office, and part of the LD floor for ultrasounds every week. The nurse practioners, technicians, front desk staff, and Dr. P. were always great. I made friends with all of them pretty quickly ... even when Dr. P. informed me early on with a straight face that I had an, "old uterus" I still liked him. When he told me I wasn't as young as I used to be, I still liked him. And when he told me I might not be able to have an epidural because of the blood thinners I admittedly had a moment of, "what the hell? have you seen the size of the kid's head?" moment, but I still liked him.
Most importantly, when things got "sketchy" in the pregnancy, and even went south a few times, he was quick to be proactive and I trusted him. When the date of delivery was a couple of months away, he told me the risks. The blood thinners, etc. could cause a "problem" at delivery. If I couldn't have an epidural, and I had to have a cesarean, I had to be put under general. If I could deliver vaginally, there was a chance of great blood loss and a transfusion was a possibility. I couldn't bank my own blood, my plateletes were to low from the blood thinners ... I wasn't happy ... but I trusted him.
I knew what to expect going in to the delivery. Yes, I was scared. And yes, nobody knows this except my Colorado BFF, but I wrote letters to my boys in case things didn't go according to plan. I've had a friend unexpectedly die leaving three boys behind, I never wanted that to happen to me without a chance to tell my boys I loved them and any advice I could offer as they became men. I went into the delivery scared, but I felt prepared, and most importantly, I trusted Dr. P.
Despite the fact I had been to PSL every week, I had never been in a LD room on the floor. Wow. That's about all I can muster. And it's not the good, "wow," it's the holy crap are you kidding me it would be more sanitary to deliver in the alley outside kind of, "wow". The room was ... big ... and gross. Parts of the corner of the walls were coming off in chunks, the paint needed a "retouch" (okay, who knew what color it had once been it was so filthy it would be like trying to determin Dolly Parton's real hair color after 50+ years of bleaching), and the furniture? One rocking chair, two "recliners" (I use that term loosely) that folded out into "beds" (again loose terminology) and my Mom complained for the whole 20 hours of labor that she was the gash in her chair was "wet" with who even wanted to know what. I just told her she was elderly and peeing her pants rather than imagining the stark reality of "why" and with "what" her chair was wet.
The nurse escorted me to my bathroom, gave me my fashion forward hospital gown (why are those things so ugly, really, there are pictures when you deliver and NOONE can take a good picture covered in faded blue, pink, yellow, green, what the hell ever designs). I shut the door, noticed the bathroom was a little "less than clean" (what seemed like "mildew" around the super deep tub made for midgets, the sink with grime around it, etc. I felt less than impressed, but also realized they were "flipping beds" pretty fast that night. Then I looked at the toilet. My gown was now on, I still had my shoes on (not touching the hospital floor, pretty sure it carries the plague) and there it was. They only way I can explain the horror ... "afterbirth" on the toilet seat ... and I was not post natal ... so it wasn't mine ... Now, some or those of you that rad this blog know I have germ issues that are developing into a full blown OCD the older I get. This was almost more than I could handle.
I excited the bathroom, looked at my mom, and told her the tragedy in the bathroom. She and Jon went to look at the carnage, and she shook her head saying, "okay, someone needs to get in here and clean that." Then I went to sit on the bed. Before I sat down I noticed, prepare your stomaches, someone else's hair (not from their head) and stains of "birth" on the sheets. Uh. Again, I told my mom to which she responded, "DON'T SIT ON THAT BED!" then she mumbled, "you're going to get a freaking staph infection in this place." Jon called the nurse, she came in and inspected the room closer, apologized, a cleaning person came in soon after, and she was not so apologetic insisting she had cleaned the room.
We sort of sat there wide eyed thinking, "really? really?" Then the head whatwhosever in charge of all the cleaning, etc. came in the room, inspected, and apologized all over herself. By this time the head cleaning lady was in the room (2 cleaning people) and she was also defensive of the cleaning crews amazing skill. Right there in front of us, they started to battle. The "boss" telling them to clean the bathroom, change the sheets, this was gross, not acceptable, etc. and the cleaning "crew" shouting back, "we already cleaned it!" This went on back and forth about 4 times and we sat, still slack jawed. The boss finally won leaving the room saying, "I don't care if you already cleaned it, clean it again."
She left, then it was our turn. The 2 cleaning ladies stood bedside in front of us and said, "we already cleaned this room so you need to tell us what's wrong with it." Again, slack jawed. Moreso for the fact that I was pretty sure these cleaning ladies had never met my mother, who in times of her children being put in peril (see staph infection comment) she grows talons and will verbally scratch the eyes out of the offendor. I spoke up, mom spoke up, jon made reference to his career being facilities management and this was not okay, and they mouthed off a few more times. The talons were starting to grow on my mom's hands, and i think the crew may have seen the red in her eyes. They backed off... until.
A few minutes in the bathroom the "head" cleaner returned saying, "the only way we can clean that bathroom the way you want is with bleach." Uh, did she not know who she was talking too? I had been raised on bleach. My mother was raised on bleach, and I am pretty sure each generation proceeding her with the invention of bleach was raised on bleach. The pungent smell of bleach wasn't gross to us, it meant clean. "Okay, then bleach it." We both replied. "Well, we WON'T be responsible!" Uh, for what? A clean bathroom? "Some women have a hard time with bleach in delivery." Yes, it was a are you kidding me swear, swear, cuss, cuss, friggin' idiot moment. Uh, no, bleach is good. No problems with bleach. Again, "we WON'T be responsible!" Fine ladies, get a waiver, get what you need, just get the damned afterbirth off the toilet seat, it's not mine, and change the bed sheets from the birth before mine, I would prefer not to labor in a bed for hours on end in someone else's sweaty nasty miracle of labor. They obliged.
I now had a semi clean room. Mom and I still looked around disgusted. Jon tried to make the best of things. My Mom's (and now mine) friend Linda (mom's best friend from high school, lives in Colorado) showed up to sit and wait with the rest of us. She's a NICU nurse and she managed a "wth?" reaction like the rest of us. My nurse, Ms. S., was a chipper gal who noticed the room was gross, and she tried to make the best of things offering actual pillows instead of plastic, I don't even know what the hell it was, but it wasn't a pillow. She got the IV in the first time, she started the induction with minimal pain, she hooked up the monitors, offered me some liquid snacks, and so the process begins. Me, waiting for the pain to begin, laboring on the questionably plague ridden bed, nose hairs burned with bleach, crossing my legs praying I could manage not going to the bathroom until the baby was born.
4 hours later ... I had progressed to ... barely a 2. Another round of induction medicine. Hour 6, still barely a 2, but I had been ASSURED this labor, 4th baby, would be shorter. The last labor, about 11 hours, I didn't want to get to the "wow mama kill me now" contraction stage, so I asked about the epidural, how fast the anesthesiologist could be there after they called him, etc. These seem like details to some people, to me they were important life altering pieces of information. Ms. S. told me, "honey, you can have the epidural whenever you want since were inducing you." haha. My platelets were good, I COULD have an epidural, and I could have it WHENEVER I wanted. Ms. S. followed her statement by telling me the anesthesiologist was a tad "grouchy". Uh, not okay, Who wants a grouchy person inserting a huge needle into their back?
I pushed for more info on Oscar's (see Sesame Street) temperament at the moment and she told me he was asleep (they worked 24 shifts there, and it was about 4 am). Uh, how asleep? Apparently he was pretty asleep, but the gal next door to me was going to need an epidural as well. I told Ms. S. to go ahead and wake him up, but have him give the girl next door her epidural first so he could be more awake ... and hopefully less grouchy. A few minutes later, the anesthesiologist showed up. I was not second, I was first.
He didn't seem grouchy. He was professional, he asked a few questions, it was my 4th baby so I had some, "don't screw it up like the last epidural I got in New Hampshire" response and he suddenly got very excited. "Where in New Hampshire?" Turns out he did his internship in New Hampshire ... where I delivered ... and I had a foot in mouth experience but decided I had already opened my mouth so I said, "well, this idiot apparently studied at the Mayo clinic and he was cocky as hell ... 45 minutes later ... about 4 sticks into my back." That statement was somehow endearing to the anesthesiologist, and he smiled, and even cracked a joke. From that point forward it was all New England, all the time. He loved that Jon was from New England, he loved that we had moved to Colorado from New England, and he loved that even through the epidural I sat completely still. I knew the drill, you move, they have to restick. Apparently I was the best patient ever. When he left the room, smiling and cracking jokes, the nurse sat there looking stunned and said, "I have NEVER seen him like that." Awesome, the "candy man" was my friend. This was going to be a "can't feel my legs pain free delivery".
Hour after hour passed. I couldn't feel my legs, candy man came in to literally just "visit" every hour, and occasionally he would dope me back up if I started feeling like you could no longer cut off my legs without me noticing. It was a great epidural. Jon slept, Linda stayed up (she works night shift, so she was a trooper and we stayed up and chatted all night), Mom was in and out of consciousness. In between a bout of mom's consciousness, she, Linda and I started joking about something, probably the future staph infection I would be leaving the hospital with (of course, I couldn't feel my bottom portion, so pretty much everything didn't matter), and suddenly I sort of felt like I was "wetting my pants" ... uncontrollably. I had a catheter, had it broken? The nurse came in soon after. "Uh, I think I wet my bed." Nope, apparently not. I had laughed so hard I broke my water. Who knew? Again, epidural, awesome.
It was now noon. The induction had begun at 9 p.m. the night before. I was into hour 12, not happy, not progressing, frustrated, and had been through a couple shifts of nurses, nurse practioners, and doctors. Dr. P. was on shift and he came in to say hi. It made me feel a little better. Suddenly I felt like I couldn't breathe. I couldn't catch my breath, and it was wierd. I sat up, wheezing, and the anesthesiologist was there instantly. My heart was dipping, the babies heart was dipping. The nurse was threatening to turn off the epidural, and my mom shot Linda a horrified look. She mouthed something to Linda about what would happen if they did that, and Linda mouthed back, "she'll feel EVERYTHING." Didn't know all of this until after I had the baby ... better that way. The anesthesiologist told them to give me oxygen, and in a few minutes, I felt so much better ... and my epidural stayed in place (the best part).
The whole incident led them to need a better monitor of what was going on ... see multiple wires now inserted into the "choch". Jon asked if I could get cable in there? Jon is a moron. About 1 p.m. I started feeling a wierd pressure, and an evern wierder "gone to the quiet place" emotional state. This is the place I instinctively go before I have my babies ... I think some people call it transition ... I call it, "better go to the quiet place because my mom will slap me if I swear when I deliver (ladies don't do that)" place. Suddenly I was thinking about my boys, did I write enough in their letters to let them know I loved them, that they would be great men, to find the right person to marry, to love their new brother and know always if Bennett was the last great thing I did on this earth, then I was at peace.
There was the risk, and the moment that was coming when I would simultaneously meet this little creature, who I prayed would be healthy, and that my body would cooperate. I had tears streaming down my cheeks, but I couldn't say a word. I was scared. My mom was there, she's the only person allowed to get near me when I am laboring in the quiet place. For some reason Jon isn't allowed to touch me, I think it's his nervous energy and as much as I love him, it drives me nuts.
Dr. P. walked in the room and asked how I felt, not great. The nurse checked me, again, they started preparing the materials to deliver me ... are you freaking kidding me, I was about a 5. Not an 8, not a 9, a 5. I sat in the quiet place for a couple more hours, then I literally gave up. I was approaching hour 20, the longest induction of my life, and this kid was not moving. There was this strange pressure in my pelvis, but not the "time to push" pressure, just a nagging stab. The nurses came in and told me it was cesarean time if I couldn't progress. Like all my other deliveries, the psychological fear of a cesarean caused the physical reaction, and I progressed, fast. It was almost 5, the anesthesiologist came back in to "chat" and I told him about the stabbing pain in my pelvis. He gave me more drugs. Still no relief. He joked if he gave me any more this would be a spinal and they could do an epidural right there. I suggested the spinal would be okay, just not the cesarean part. haha, laugh laugh, he couldn't hit the pain.
On his way out the door he said to the nurse, "hey, why don't you check her?" The nurse told him she had checked me about 30 minutes prior and she didn't need to check again that fast and he said, "oh come on, check her," then asked Jon, "don't you want to know if she's progressed?" The nurse obliged, and holy cow, he knew his stuff! I was a 10. Suddenly the room filled with nurses, a nurse practioner, a NICU team, way to many bells and whistles, baby warmer, surgical tray, etc. etc. Then the news ... Dr. P. who I trusted, was in an emergency surgery. They told him I was in labor, and he said he would be there as fast as he could, but to call in his colleague just in case the baby wouldn't wait. In walks Dr. J. (and not the basketball player, quite the opposite, this was Dr. J. mini sized, about 5 feet tall).
I was already strapped into the somewhat vulnerable legs open ready to start the "birthin'" pushing position. The room started filling with the "staff", but then other "staff" I knew that was off shift, but had become friends over the last 9 months. After all, I saw them every week, and they had held my hand through the good and bad news. They all wanted to be at the delivery ... a couple nurses, the ultrasound technician, and the anesthesiologist, who introduced his new shift doctor (he looked about 12, I was in a rather sketchy position for meeting someone for the first time, so I said, "hi, welcome to my choch." I mean hell, there it was, what else was I supposed to say?".
So there I was, Mom on one side, Linda on the other, Jon somewhere in between, nurses, friends, and Dr. J. He introduced himself dryly, "hi, I'm Dr. J. (insert real name, calling them by letters so I'm not sued)." I looked at him and said, "uh, yeah, I think I met you once really early in the pregnancy." In my mind I was thinking, "and I hated you then, you were an ass, and looks like today might not be any different, but I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt." Dr. J. seemed to be in a foul mood. He started ripping things off the surgical table and grouching demands at the nurses. The nurses were helping him get into full surgical gear and I was was thinking, "uh, sir, vaginal not cesarean, you jsut have to catch, do we really need the whole get up here?"
Now, the whole day I was referred to as the "protein S" patient. The staff knew who I was based on my condition, and I would hope he had glanced at my chart and maybe knew the whole risk situation had me a tad nervous. He asked how long it took before my other babies delivered, "uh, if there are more than about 4 pushes, I get nervous." He responded with, "really, with an epidural." in the, "you're full of crap" tone. "Uh yeah, I had epidurals with all of them, I push REALLY well." So, he stood at my crotch, arms folded, and said, "well, then go ahead and push, let's see." Really? Really? So I looked at the nurse and said, "tell me when". So much for my silent delivery.
She said, "okay, contraction, push". I'll save the details, but there was the whole count to 10 crap, put your chin down, breathe nonsense. I was terrified on several levels. This was not a delivery anything like the other kids. After about the third push I asked the doctor if I was pushing okay, was the baby descending, and he responded, "uh, I guess, you know." No, I don't know. The terror took over and I thought, "if something goes wrong, this ass standing at my crotch with his arms folded is going to be in charge of making sure I don't die." I sat up and said, "Dr. J., what's your first name?" I wanted to be on a first name basis with the ass that was going to either kill me or save me. "Uh, Oliver ... William ... maybe Bill ... but you can call me Dr. J." Of course I can. I went for the next push and realized, "he's not touching me, at all, this is not my first rodeo, if he doesn't get involved here I am going to tear from here to Kansas." He was bored. This ass, at my crotch, participating in what was a rather intimite moment, was bored. Are you kidding me?!
Then he spoke up. "Uh, this baby isn't coming out in 4 pushes, I'm going to just leave and let you work with the nurses for a while, then they'll call me." WTH?! He started disrobing and I said, "uh, the baby is right there." I could feel it, I knew what it felt like, I wasn't some rookie. He was half unclothed from his surgical gear when the angel from heaven appeared (literally, i think she had a halo) in the form of Mary Page Smith (I'm using her full name, because she deserves massive kudos here). She was a nurse practioner, I'd seen her on and off for the day, and I liked her. She is a fireball for sure. She was not in surgical gear, she barely had time to throw some gloves on as she slapped her hands over her head and said, "alright Cort, let's get this baby out, push!" There is was, one push, then, "stop, stop, stop!"
Out came a little head, accompanied by a little hand on the side of his head. Bennett apparently didn't pay attention in birthin' 101 and forgot his hand his supposed to be nestled by his side with the other hand, not reaching for the light. Mary Page (gross) had to "make room" for the head (giant, of course) and the hand so Bennett wouldn't have a broken hand, arm, or clavicle. Dr. J. who had not left the room completely was back in the doorway and said, "uh, I guess I should listen to my patients." Idiot. Dr. P. showed up breathless running into the room from his emergency surgery just as the "rest" of Bennett was delivered. He made sure I was okay, baby was good, then he was rushing back into another surgery (it was a big night apparently at PSL, which I found out later in recovery when there was a gazillion recovering moms).
I got to see the little creature for the first time, all I could say was, "oh my gosh, you look exactly like Caden." I felt overwhelmed, happy, and for a moment I wasn't worried about the "what if" going wrong. Bennett was here, he was healthy, and all I could do was stare at him across the room in his little warmer as the nurse checked his vitals, etc. Suddenly, I felt a searing pain. I looked down. I was still in the "birthin' position" and now I saw these nurses putting some iodine or something on me as my beloved Dr. J. pulled up giant stitching threads. Yes, I had torn from here to Kansas, and treating me like the cadaver I was, Dr. J. had not bothered to say a word to me, not a "okay, I'm going to stitch you up now" or "okay, this might take a minute let me know if you are feeling any pain" or anything. He stitched, I watched, he said NOTHING. And this was not a quick job. I turned my attention to the baby, endured the searing pain, and just thought, "get through it, get through it, you have a healthy baby, this ass doesn't matter in the long run."
Baby was good, I had a moment to tell him I loved him ... I wasn't so good. I was pale, and I felt exhausted. I assumed it was the 20+ hours of labor. The nurse started to push on my abdomen to "massage the uterus" back into place and "whoosh". I felt it. I knew what it was. Blood. This wasn't normal. She went back to massage my abdomen, lighter this time, and "whoosh". My mom was standing there next to me and I just looked at her and shook my head. My worst fear ... it was happening. My Mom looked scared, but she tried to tell me it was going to be okay, but I don't think even she beleived that.
The nurse handed me 6 pills. Take these now. I was saying a silent prayer in my head, thinking about the pregnancy, every moment of every day, the miserable pregnancy, the shock and surprise of this baby, this beautiful healthy baby, my boys, Jon ... I told God this was NOT okay and He needed to solve this. I was not ready, my family was not ready, and He sent this baby so He needed to make this right. I was demanding, but pleading. They shoved something in my IV, I took the pills, the blood kept coming, they were putting pressure, and I don't know how much long later I felt my uterus literally "clamp down". It was worse than labor, but it helped stop the bleeding.
After that, the drama was over. I recovered in a filthy recovery room no better than the labor and delivery room. I won't fill in the details, but think closet size, nasty dirty with food that made elementary school lunch look like a 5 star experience. Besides Dr. S. the staff was INCREDIBLE. I had amazing nurses, doctors (sans Dr. S), etc. I felt protected, loved, and taken care of ... but I guess I'm still ticked. I'm not sure how I will handle Dr. S. I'm thinking a letter ... but first a cleansing breath so I don't sound like a drunken sailor utilizing my harshest vocabulary skills to tell him how much I adore his bedside manner.
Bennett is now a whopping 8lbs (he gained a lb in a week). He has double chins, is a calm little soul, and I can't imagine life without him in our family,. The kids adore him, Caden even calls him, "silly billy" and protects him like a mother hen. He cries, Caden's on it. Grateful, yes. Ticked, it's secondary ... cleansing breath.
Chapter 2-A History of My LD
I labeled Chapter One, grateful. It was placed as chapter one instead of two because in the big scheme of things, on a scale of 1-10, grateful is a 9 and ticked off is the leftover 1. I've waited a full two weeks before I posted the ticked off Chapter 2 portion. First, allow me to explain the difference between ticked off and mad. Both carry the same general level of annoyance, but ticked off is a en emotional crazy level down from mad wherein you just fantasize about ways to ruin said annoyances (and or person who annoyed you) life. It takes a lot of time and effort, and eventually you have to blog about it, take a cleansing breath, and let it go, or it can consume your life.
It's sort of like my relationship with the old people next door. As you know, I don't like old people. I don't like them not because I am an ageist (maybe I am), I don't like them because they are retired, and they now have nothing to do (along with their fellow retirees) but bitch. This bitching leads them to actions such as installing giant pieces of hand cut plexi glass in front of their rose bush that is in the same corner of the yard as my back yard ... because God forbid my sprinkler drop a sprinkle of water on the rose bush. Roses love water, according to my green thumb mom, so it's no wonder my rose bush's planted years after his "prize" are thriving and his is still a squatty hot mess. They also had a "pergola" installed 2 summer's ago. The whole mess took the poor contractors almost 3 months to complete ... then the old fool proceeded to take it down, piece by piece, restaining each board, resanding, and reinstalling. See what I mean? Too much time on their hands. I'm not angry with them, no longer ticked off, and now mildly entertained. I digress.
So I sit struggling with two heavy emotions ... gratitude and ticked off. I've written about gratitude, so gather your strength, cleansing breaths, and maybe a sense of humor (it's really unbelievable) before you read on:
Delivery of Bennet Jon Eldridge, February 4, 2011.
Bennett is my 4th child. My 4th son. I am not a rookie by any means when it comes to the whole, "birthin' of the babies". My first baby was later term (thank you idiot USAF doctor for my 43 week pregnancy), and my baby had meconium aspiration syndrome. Hence, my other 2 babies were induced to prevent another MAS situation. I was 24 when I delivered #1, and I'm now 37 (ugh) to deliver #4. #2 child was delivered in Utah ... but I lived in the Azore Islands. When he was 2 weeks old I returned to the Azore Islands and some wierd bump showed up on my leg. It was apparently a blood clot, which I assumed happened from a long plane flight transatlantic, shoved like a sardine into a way to small seat. The quality USAF healthcare combined with Island wisdom suggested we just "watch it and see". If they put me on blood thinners, I would have to medivac to Germany, and that was a pain in the butt for everyone. We watched (I knew nothing about DVT's, the fact it could kill me, etc.) and it resolved. Thank the Maker.
#3 child (Caden) proved exciting with a stroke at 4 months, gestational diabetes at 5 months, insulin shots accompanying (of course), a gall bladder attack (ugh), etc. etc. But at the end of the day, all was well.
This pregnancy was the first wherein the doctors put 1+1+1 togehter and got 3. Duh. Blood clot #2 baby, stroke #3 baby (stroke one year after #3 baby making 2 strokes). I had already been voted off the proverbial "normal obgyn island" to see a specialist given this pregnancy history. I sat in the perinatiologist's office and she said amongst other scary as hell things, "you have a clotting disorder, why the hell didn't someone run a blood panel years ago on you?"
She was mortified, half laughing at the idiocy of my former healthcare (babies delivered in Japan, Utah, and New Hampshire). She immediately started me on 2/day blood thinner injections, THEN ran the panel, THEN called me a week later to tell me, "I told you so, I KNEW I was right. Keep on the blood thinners." Awesome. Protein S deficiency. Who's even heard of that? It's genetic, inherited, and who knows what line it came down. Blood thinners keep me from stroking out again, and/or the babies placenta from throwing a clot and ... do the math.
The blood thinners injections were mildly painful (okay, they hurt alot), the 35 lb weight loss trimester one from puking, not awesome, the weekly trips to Denver (45 minutes away) with Caden in tow, pain in the butt. Weekly perinatologist check in's, ultrasounds, nurse practioners, giving enough blood to satisfy a cavern of vampires, machines, tests, MRI's, a micro stroke, neurologists, restless leg syndrome, no sleep, Jon left the bed for the couch, the kids wanted to pack up and just leave, etc. etc. The bottom line was when delivery day came around, I was exhausted and I felt as if the whole pregnancy had been on everyone else's terms EXCEPT mine. I have control issues, but I followed my doctors. Every medication, every appointment, every test, I followed like a dutiful stepford wife.
My one request ... "I know this delivery has the potential to be dangerous, and it will probably have a big medical feel (lots of doctors, nurses, tubes, wires, etc), but when it's time to "push" can I have a silent delivery?" A silent delivery is what I had with Caden. It was a midwife ... and a few other med students, nursing students, etc. who had never seen a delivery and it was my 3rd baby, so who really cared at that point how many people were there? Despite the audience (jon suggested bleachers be set up in the room, not kidding), the midwife sat on the end of my bed and said, "Cortney, you know what to do, listen to your body." That was it.
There was no screaming about counting to ten, dropping my chin, curling my back, pushing harder, or pushing longer. It was silent. After a third pregnancy that was also on everyone elses' terms, it was a culmination of a time in my life that I needed for some semblance of closure that I had control. I talked to Caden, I told him we had to do this together, I pushed when I wanted, I took a breath when I wanted. It was only a few minutes (my sisters and I are freakishly good pushers) until she said really calmly, "okay, stop pushing." Baby was delivered., crying ensued, and all was well. Most importantly, I felt in control, I felt calm, and I felt like I had one moment of control over the greatest part of the pregnancy ... welcoming my little son into the world on my terms, with my strength, and silence ... blessed silence.
The reality of my deliveries is that my babies have to be "bombed" out. This is important to the details of this recent delivery. Bombed out means pretty long inductions, pitocin, and great epidurals. I've delivered in Japan (with a doctor that resembled a MASH character complete with Hawaiian shirt and denim shorts) with a crisis delivery, I've delivered in Utah in a new hospital with donors that apparently had money to burn ... who has a hospital with a full time pianist and waterfalls in the entry? Beautiful hospital, a doctor and med student who stood at my neither regions as I "pushed" rather uninvolved in the delivery, but rather talking about salmon/halibut fishing in Alaska with my husband. About push three I let them all know I was having a baby and perhaps they needed to pay attention. (Okay, not so nice terms, but they got it) I've had baby in New Hampshire with a trex wearing, unibrow complete, granola munchin nurse from hell who thought breathing through the pain was better than an epidural. I crossed my legs until she got off shift.
All my babies share one thing in common. They don't like labor. Half way through I am put on oxygen when their heart rates dip with each contraction. Apparently they don't like having their head squeezing through the birth canal anymore than I like the head in my birth canal pressure. My first labor was at least 30+ hours ... but I was also tromping around Tokyo for most of that showing my parents (who had jsut arrived in Japan) the sites. It was an every few minutes grab anything available, writhe in pain, then move on sort of day. So that labor doesn't really count. Second labor, induction, about 14 hours. Third labor, induction, about 11 hours. Getting shorter. Another thing in common with my kids, at the risk of TMI, I don't "progress". I get to about a 3-4 about 5 hours in, then just stop progressing. At about hour 10 the doctors start threatening cesarean, and magically my uterus/cervix dutifully dialate, quickly, and I go from the useless 3-4 to a 10 rather quickly. I think my body has a psychological reaction causing a physical response to NOT wanting to face a scalpel. That's my thoughts.
This delivery ...
It's sort of like my relationship with the old people next door. As you know, I don't like old people. I don't like them not because I am an ageist (maybe I am), I don't like them because they are retired, and they now have nothing to do (along with their fellow retirees) but bitch. This bitching leads them to actions such as installing giant pieces of hand cut plexi glass in front of their rose bush that is in the same corner of the yard as my back yard ... because God forbid my sprinkler drop a sprinkle of water on the rose bush. Roses love water, according to my green thumb mom, so it's no wonder my rose bush's planted years after his "prize" are thriving and his is still a squatty hot mess. They also had a "pergola" installed 2 summer's ago. The whole mess took the poor contractors almost 3 months to complete ... then the old fool proceeded to take it down, piece by piece, restaining each board, resanding, and reinstalling. See what I mean? Too much time on their hands. I'm not angry with them, no longer ticked off, and now mildly entertained. I digress.
So I sit struggling with two heavy emotions ... gratitude and ticked off. I've written about gratitude, so gather your strength, cleansing breaths, and maybe a sense of humor (it's really unbelievable) before you read on:
Delivery of Bennet Jon Eldridge, February 4, 2011.
Bennett is my 4th child. My 4th son. I am not a rookie by any means when it comes to the whole, "birthin' of the babies". My first baby was later term (thank you idiot USAF doctor for my 43 week pregnancy), and my baby had meconium aspiration syndrome. Hence, my other 2 babies were induced to prevent another MAS situation. I was 24 when I delivered #1, and I'm now 37 (ugh) to deliver #4. #2 child was delivered in Utah ... but I lived in the Azore Islands. When he was 2 weeks old I returned to the Azore Islands and some wierd bump showed up on my leg. It was apparently a blood clot, which I assumed happened from a long plane flight transatlantic, shoved like a sardine into a way to small seat. The quality USAF healthcare combined with Island wisdom suggested we just "watch it and see". If they put me on blood thinners, I would have to medivac to Germany, and that was a pain in the butt for everyone. We watched (I knew nothing about DVT's, the fact it could kill me, etc.) and it resolved. Thank the Maker.
#3 child (Caden) proved exciting with a stroke at 4 months, gestational diabetes at 5 months, insulin shots accompanying (of course), a gall bladder attack (ugh), etc. etc. But at the end of the day, all was well.
This pregnancy was the first wherein the doctors put 1+1+1 togehter and got 3. Duh. Blood clot #2 baby, stroke #3 baby (stroke one year after #3 baby making 2 strokes). I had already been voted off the proverbial "normal obgyn island" to see a specialist given this pregnancy history. I sat in the perinatiologist's office and she said amongst other scary as hell things, "you have a clotting disorder, why the hell didn't someone run a blood panel years ago on you?"
She was mortified, half laughing at the idiocy of my former healthcare (babies delivered in Japan, Utah, and New Hampshire). She immediately started me on 2/day blood thinner injections, THEN ran the panel, THEN called me a week later to tell me, "I told you so, I KNEW I was right. Keep on the blood thinners." Awesome. Protein S deficiency. Who's even heard of that? It's genetic, inherited, and who knows what line it came down. Blood thinners keep me from stroking out again, and/or the babies placenta from throwing a clot and ... do the math.
The blood thinners injections were mildly painful (okay, they hurt alot), the 35 lb weight loss trimester one from puking, not awesome, the weekly trips to Denver (45 minutes away) with Caden in tow, pain in the butt. Weekly perinatologist check in's, ultrasounds, nurse practioners, giving enough blood to satisfy a cavern of vampires, machines, tests, MRI's, a micro stroke, neurologists, restless leg syndrome, no sleep, Jon left the bed for the couch, the kids wanted to pack up and just leave, etc. etc. The bottom line was when delivery day came around, I was exhausted and I felt as if the whole pregnancy had been on everyone else's terms EXCEPT mine. I have control issues, but I followed my doctors. Every medication, every appointment, every test, I followed like a dutiful stepford wife.
My one request ... "I know this delivery has the potential to be dangerous, and it will probably have a big medical feel (lots of doctors, nurses, tubes, wires, etc), but when it's time to "push" can I have a silent delivery?" A silent delivery is what I had with Caden. It was a midwife ... and a few other med students, nursing students, etc. who had never seen a delivery and it was my 3rd baby, so who really cared at that point how many people were there? Despite the audience (jon suggested bleachers be set up in the room, not kidding), the midwife sat on the end of my bed and said, "Cortney, you know what to do, listen to your body." That was it.
There was no screaming about counting to ten, dropping my chin, curling my back, pushing harder, or pushing longer. It was silent. After a third pregnancy that was also on everyone elses' terms, it was a culmination of a time in my life that I needed for some semblance of closure that I had control. I talked to Caden, I told him we had to do this together, I pushed when I wanted, I took a breath when I wanted. It was only a few minutes (my sisters and I are freakishly good pushers) until she said really calmly, "okay, stop pushing." Baby was delivered., crying ensued, and all was well. Most importantly, I felt in control, I felt calm, and I felt like I had one moment of control over the greatest part of the pregnancy ... welcoming my little son into the world on my terms, with my strength, and silence ... blessed silence.
The reality of my deliveries is that my babies have to be "bombed" out. This is important to the details of this recent delivery. Bombed out means pretty long inductions, pitocin, and great epidurals. I've delivered in Japan (with a doctor that resembled a MASH character complete with Hawaiian shirt and denim shorts) with a crisis delivery, I've delivered in Utah in a new hospital with donors that apparently had money to burn ... who has a hospital with a full time pianist and waterfalls in the entry? Beautiful hospital, a doctor and med student who stood at my neither regions as I "pushed" rather uninvolved in the delivery, but rather talking about salmon/halibut fishing in Alaska with my husband. About push three I let them all know I was having a baby and perhaps they needed to pay attention. (Okay, not so nice terms, but they got it) I've had baby in New Hampshire with a trex wearing, unibrow complete, granola munchin nurse from hell who thought breathing through the pain was better than an epidural. I crossed my legs until she got off shift.
All my babies share one thing in common. They don't like labor. Half way through I am put on oxygen when their heart rates dip with each contraction. Apparently they don't like having their head squeezing through the birth canal anymore than I like the head in my birth canal pressure. My first labor was at least 30+ hours ... but I was also tromping around Tokyo for most of that showing my parents (who had jsut arrived in Japan) the sites. It was an every few minutes grab anything available, writhe in pain, then move on sort of day. So that labor doesn't really count. Second labor, induction, about 14 hours. Third labor, induction, about 11 hours. Getting shorter. Another thing in common with my kids, at the risk of TMI, I don't "progress". I get to about a 3-4 about 5 hours in, then just stop progressing. At about hour 10 the doctors start threatening cesarean, and magically my uterus/cervix dutifully dialate, quickly, and I go from the useless 3-4 to a 10 rather quickly. I think my body has a psychological reaction causing a physical response to NOT wanting to face a scalpel. That's my thoughts.
This delivery ...
Feb 17, 2011
A Two Chapter Pregnancy Event ... Grateful
People have told me they are anxious to hear the "details" of my recent delivery. Two words, deserving two chapters. I have waited two weeks hoping that I would make peace with the two emotions finding some middle ground. I'm still overrwhelmingly grateful, can't change that one, but still remarkably ticked off (step down from mad as hell leading one to fantasize about passive agressive actions ruining the life of the individual(s) who created the ticked off in the first place). Grateful measures much higher on the scale right now ... so I will begin with chapter one, grateful.
Grateful. As I stare into the face of this beautiful, perfect little boy I am overwhelmingly grateful. I'm grateful I didn't take the "this pregnancy could kill you" abortion option given to me at 5 weeks into the pregnancy. I'm grateful the pieces fell into place affording me the best team of doctors and specialists in Colorado to watch this pregnancy, this baby, and get us safely through until the end. I'm grateful for my friends that showed undying love and support ... as well as kept me laughing through a "surprise" pregnancy as I grew, and grew, and grew to astronomical proportions. I'm grateful for a husband that still has a little athletic skill allowing him to duck and cover when my hormones got the better of me (okay, it was only 2 times) and I lost complete control as my arm hurled whatever was closest. (I can now admit my shame, I'm done being pregnant.)
I'm grateful to my children who contended with an old, pregnant, sometimes grouchy, pretty much useless mother for 9 months ... and they are still talking to me. I'm grateful to my kid's teachers, who showed great mercy when my kids forgot their homework because their Mom was puking muliptle times in the morning and didn't have a moment to check backpacks (or see if their clothes were clean or the teeth were brushed or their hair was ratty). I'm grateful my mom let me bitch, often, and just sat there on the phone affording me multiple moments of freaking out. I'm grateful for facebook, and IM, and chatting with my Aunt Debbie, my cousins, and friends about being pregnant, being miserable, and being terrified of multiple procedures (see amniocentisis) people assured me were no big deal. Finally, I'm grateful for the new Jack in the Box that was built a few months before my pregnancy. The chicken sandwich with swiss got me through some tough times. Yes, food is love.
I'm grateful to my pharmacist(s), who I am now on a first name basis with, who watched me walk and eventually waddle in the last few months to pick up multiple prescriptions for different stages of the pregnancy. I'm grateful they always assured me everything was safe, my doctors were not quacks, and even got me the "sharp" needles for my two times a day injections with blood thinners out of the kindness of their hearts. If you've ever "shot up" with a needle that is just manufactured "dull", you know the difference immediately. Major pain versus minimal discomfort.
I'm grateful for the awesome anesthesiologist who was liberal with the epidural medication so I could not feel my legs, or my bottom portion of my body (it was like a spinal, I think I could have had a cesarean and felt nothing). I'm grateful he was a New England boy, who took an immediate liking to us because we lived in New England, and by hour 10 of labor, he was no longer "Dr" but a friend (literally) checking in on me every hour, I think just to chat. I'm grateful to the nurses and doctors and nurse practioners who gave me phenomenal medical care through all grueling 20 hours ... and the intense moment after delivery when everything that I was warned "could" go wrong, started to go wrong. I'm grateful they were knowledgeable, caring, and thought fast on their feet.
I'm grateful my Mom was there, and my "other" colorado Mom, (Mom's BFF from High School) to be my "Red Tent" (if you don't know the reference, read the book, it's great) ... because Jon doesn't do labor well. Needles scare him, and the whole messy process sort of freaks him out so he chatters, and it bothers me, and my Mom makes him go away and get snacks. There are so many other "gratefuls", and I know I am forgetting some, but there is alot to be grateful for. CHAPTER TWO ...
Grateful. As I stare into the face of this beautiful, perfect little boy I am overwhelmingly grateful. I'm grateful I didn't take the "this pregnancy could kill you" abortion option given to me at 5 weeks into the pregnancy. I'm grateful the pieces fell into place affording me the best team of doctors and specialists in Colorado to watch this pregnancy, this baby, and get us safely through until the end. I'm grateful for my friends that showed undying love and support ... as well as kept me laughing through a "surprise" pregnancy as I grew, and grew, and grew to astronomical proportions. I'm grateful for a husband that still has a little athletic skill allowing him to duck and cover when my hormones got the better of me (okay, it was only 2 times) and I lost complete control as my arm hurled whatever was closest. (I can now admit my shame, I'm done being pregnant.)
I'm grateful to my children who contended with an old, pregnant, sometimes grouchy, pretty much useless mother for 9 months ... and they are still talking to me. I'm grateful to my kid's teachers, who showed great mercy when my kids forgot their homework because their Mom was puking muliptle times in the morning and didn't have a moment to check backpacks (or see if their clothes were clean or the teeth were brushed or their hair was ratty). I'm grateful my mom let me bitch, often, and just sat there on the phone affording me multiple moments of freaking out. I'm grateful for facebook, and IM, and chatting with my Aunt Debbie, my cousins, and friends about being pregnant, being miserable, and being terrified of multiple procedures (see amniocentisis) people assured me were no big deal. Finally, I'm grateful for the new Jack in the Box that was built a few months before my pregnancy. The chicken sandwich with swiss got me through some tough times. Yes, food is love.
I'm grateful to my pharmacist(s), who I am now on a first name basis with, who watched me walk and eventually waddle in the last few months to pick up multiple prescriptions for different stages of the pregnancy. I'm grateful they always assured me everything was safe, my doctors were not quacks, and even got me the "sharp" needles for my two times a day injections with blood thinners out of the kindness of their hearts. If you've ever "shot up" with a needle that is just manufactured "dull", you know the difference immediately. Major pain versus minimal discomfort.
I'm grateful for the awesome anesthesiologist who was liberal with the epidural medication so I could not feel my legs, or my bottom portion of my body (it was like a spinal, I think I could have had a cesarean and felt nothing). I'm grateful he was a New England boy, who took an immediate liking to us because we lived in New England, and by hour 10 of labor, he was no longer "Dr" but a friend (literally) checking in on me every hour, I think just to chat. I'm grateful to the nurses and doctors and nurse practioners who gave me phenomenal medical care through all grueling 20 hours ... and the intense moment after delivery when everything that I was warned "could" go wrong, started to go wrong. I'm grateful they were knowledgeable, caring, and thought fast on their feet.
I'm grateful my Mom was there, and my "other" colorado Mom, (Mom's BFF from High School) to be my "Red Tent" (if you don't know the reference, read the book, it's great) ... because Jon doesn't do labor well. Needles scare him, and the whole messy process sort of freaks him out so he chatters, and it bothers me, and my Mom makes him go away and get snacks. There are so many other "gratefuls", and I know I am forgetting some, but there is alot to be grateful for. CHAPTER TWO ...
On a side note ... I know, my blog sucks any technological saavy
From the beginning I have been very honest that this blog is my therapy. My 4 followers seem mesmerized by my therapeutic sessions with myself. My blog pretty much sucks, noone will tell me how to make it "look" better, and frankly I am to lazy to look up the ins and outs of creative blogging ... so 4 followers, hopefully you stay mesmerized without the bells and whistles. I did manage to post a smilebox of the newest member of our family ... I think it goes well with the Christmas bling I can't figure out how to get off my blog. Ignore the bling, watch the baby.
Jan 4, 2011
Raising Boys ... on a serious note.
Above are my three boys. They are soon to be four with the addition of their brother a mere weeks away. There are days I pout and wonder why God saw fit to give me ONLY boys without a speck of pink in the bunch. It's really a family joke now, there are NO grandaughters ... 10 and probably when my sister finds out what she's having, soon to be 11 grandsons. Back to my pouting ... I saved multiple boxes of crap, china dolls, etc. from childhood in the hopes that one day I would be having this tender moments with my daughter in which I would pass down said crap. This day has not and will never come, leaving me always feeling a little "empty" and wondering where all said crap will go when I die. (Pray for grandaughters)
It's been 13 years since I welcomed the first boy into our crew. Of course we were thrilled to have a baby, any flavor, but with each successive, "it's a boy!" declaration, I admit, I have felt dissapointed. I've managed to utilize humor most days to understand the inner workings of my boy's brains and maintain some semblance of sanity. They bang, hit, embarass me daily, and dumb everything down into a testosterone laden physical altercation rather than just holding a grudge or acting like a mean girl. Most days, they make absolutely no sense to me and I have been known on more than once occasion to refer to my children as being utterly stupid because they are boys ... because a girl would NEVER dig holes on the side of the house and call them part of "war time efforts". Raising little boys, growing into the awkward, awful teenage stage, (gag, cough, sputter) has remained unclear, and confusing to me ... until today.
I'm not sure why it took me 13 years to clue in to this novel idea and maybe the reason I have all boys, I'm a slow learner perhaps, but lesson learned and maybe it will help me be a better mom grateful I have this pack of boys to love. Drew's arrival into the world of teenagedom has not come without speed bumps. He exasperates both Jon and I, with few moments of glimmering light at the end of the parenting tunnel. There are days my mentality goes into survival mode and I go to bed feeling utterly dissapointed in myself thinking, "just get through it, he leaves for college soon."
But there are days ... there are days when there is a tiny little glimmer that maybe he actually likes me, and/or his Dad, and might be listening. So far, only glimmers, until today when the light came shining through as bright as day. Being an awkward 13 year-old boy comes with it's own self esteem challenges. I try to be sensitive to that, and while Jon can barely control his laughter most of the time, I try to remain concerned at some of Drew's life concerns and daily antics. (Including him now entering the world of ladies, texting all night, and learning playing hard to get is okay and a boy should make the first move, not vice versa.) There are days, few and far between, where my son lets me be his hero just by listening.
Jon wants to raise boys, men, tough little photo copies of his maleness who think they dominate the world of romance, all sporting endeavors, and show little emotion rather concerned with just problem solving or ignoring because the sheer idea of sensitive gives him hives. Jon is an amazing father, and his boys want to be just like him, which is great, he is amazing. But, my newsflash lightening bulb moment of the day ... boys need a mom.
Little boys, teenagers, and grown men need a mom. Dad might teach them to be men, but mom's teach them no matter what they have a soft place to fall where they can just be. There is no quick judgement, no man mentality to avoid emotion and admit weakness, but a place where it's okay to just be still. A long conversation with Drew today pointed out this very thing to me. Sure, he's confused and awkward and drives me batty, but at the end of the day, he needs me there because my sheer existence lets him know he's okay ... and the world's okay.
Boys need a mom to sit, listen, and never be that giggly girl they fear, but that constant female presence that gently nudges them to be patient gentleman who will probably always fear the opposite sex. And hopefully one day they get to that place in life where (a mom can only hope) they find one girl who they no longer fear, but love so much they feel secure. Until then, I get to pick them up when they are a crumbled mass of tears they don't want to show the world. I get to put them back together and tell them its okay ... and they're okay ... and no matter how cruel and confusing the world may seem, they will always have a mom to catch them when they fall.
I may never get to play beauty shop (unless I have a cosmetologist in the bunch, which would most likely throw their father into an early grave), and I will always question male motivation (honestly, think before you act), but never again will I feel sorry for myself that I don't have a daughter. Somewhere along the line, I did something right. Somewhere in my life or the life before, God saw something in me, and all mom's of boys, some sort of inner strength (and maybe sense of humor) combined with a unique gentleness He knew His sons could trust to teach them to be men. What an amazing honor to be a Mom of boys.
It's been 13 years since I welcomed the first boy into our crew. Of course we were thrilled to have a baby, any flavor, but with each successive, "it's a boy!" declaration, I admit, I have felt dissapointed. I've managed to utilize humor most days to understand the inner workings of my boy's brains and maintain some semblance of sanity. They bang, hit, embarass me daily, and dumb everything down into a testosterone laden physical altercation rather than just holding a grudge or acting like a mean girl. Most days, they make absolutely no sense to me and I have been known on more than once occasion to refer to my children as being utterly stupid because they are boys ... because a girl would NEVER dig holes on the side of the house and call them part of "war time efforts". Raising little boys, growing into the awkward, awful teenage stage, (gag, cough, sputter) has remained unclear, and confusing to me ... until today.
I'm not sure why it took me 13 years to clue in to this novel idea and maybe the reason I have all boys, I'm a slow learner perhaps, but lesson learned and maybe it will help me be a better mom grateful I have this pack of boys to love. Drew's arrival into the world of teenagedom has not come without speed bumps. He exasperates both Jon and I, with few moments of glimmering light at the end of the parenting tunnel. There are days my mentality goes into survival mode and I go to bed feeling utterly dissapointed in myself thinking, "just get through it, he leaves for college soon."
But there are days ... there are days when there is a tiny little glimmer that maybe he actually likes me, and/or his Dad, and might be listening. So far, only glimmers, until today when the light came shining through as bright as day. Being an awkward 13 year-old boy comes with it's own self esteem challenges. I try to be sensitive to that, and while Jon can barely control his laughter most of the time, I try to remain concerned at some of Drew's life concerns and daily antics. (Including him now entering the world of ladies, texting all night, and learning playing hard to get is okay and a boy should make the first move, not vice versa.) There are days, few and far between, where my son lets me be his hero just by listening.
Jon wants to raise boys, men, tough little photo copies of his maleness who think they dominate the world of romance, all sporting endeavors, and show little emotion rather concerned with just problem solving or ignoring because the sheer idea of sensitive gives him hives. Jon is an amazing father, and his boys want to be just like him, which is great, he is amazing. But, my newsflash lightening bulb moment of the day ... boys need a mom.
Little boys, teenagers, and grown men need a mom. Dad might teach them to be men, but mom's teach them no matter what they have a soft place to fall where they can just be. There is no quick judgement, no man mentality to avoid emotion and admit weakness, but a place where it's okay to just be still. A long conversation with Drew today pointed out this very thing to me. Sure, he's confused and awkward and drives me batty, but at the end of the day, he needs me there because my sheer existence lets him know he's okay ... and the world's okay.
Boys need a mom to sit, listen, and never be that giggly girl they fear, but that constant female presence that gently nudges them to be patient gentleman who will probably always fear the opposite sex. And hopefully one day they get to that place in life where (a mom can only hope) they find one girl who they no longer fear, but love so much they feel secure. Until then, I get to pick them up when they are a crumbled mass of tears they don't want to show the world. I get to put them back together and tell them its okay ... and they're okay ... and no matter how cruel and confusing the world may seem, they will always have a mom to catch them when they fall.
I may never get to play beauty shop (unless I have a cosmetologist in the bunch, which would most likely throw their father into an early grave), and I will always question male motivation (honestly, think before you act), but never again will I feel sorry for myself that I don't have a daughter. Somewhere along the line, I did something right. Somewhere in my life or the life before, God saw something in me, and all mom's of boys, some sort of inner strength (and maybe sense of humor) combined with a unique gentleness He knew His sons could trust to teach them to be men. What an amazing honor to be a Mom of boys.
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AND THE CAT MAKES 5
Caesar, aka the "CAT", donning his baseball opening day attire.