I was inspired by a birth story that I read today (thanks to my friend, Rebecca Smith), so for my inaugural blog post, I thought it fitting to depict the current theme of my life's birth. Here goes.
I woke up on June 2, 2011 concerned about the large amount of food that I'd consumed the night before, and the fact that said food was still in my digestive system. I had heard stories about enemas and about women pooping while in labor, and neither sounded too delightful. With these thoughts in mind, Josh and I left to begin our adventure (one which neither of us were in any way prepared for). We met my mama and sister at the Emergency Room parking garage. (For once in my life, I was early.) After exchanging nervous greetings, we traipsed inside to begin the paperwork.
The freaky thing about being wheeled up to the labor and delivery floor isn't the being wheeled up part. It's the being forced to go to your new room alone part. I left my husband for ten minutes or so to change into my gown and fill out more paperwork. The nurses gave us the birth certificate form to fill out, which Josh did later after we discovered whether our beloved baby was John or Sarah.
My family came into the room, and we were briefed on what was coming with the pitocin, the water breaking, the monitors for the baby and the pain, etc., and at about 9 a.m. the pitocin began. All I'd ever heard/seen of the drug was how evil it was, but I was feeling good. Not much pain at all through the morning. The nurses assured me that I had a generous amount of "water," and that after it was broken that I would feel more pain from my contractions. "Great. Not looking forward to the breaking of the water," I thought.
Lunchtime came and went for the fan club in the delivery room with me. (All that drama about girls complaining because they are so hungry and want to eat so bad during labor ... What it that?!? I could not have eaten if they paid me. Gross!!) Fan club member, Aunt Lisa, had threatened me to NOT have Baby Beam on June 2 because of kindergarten graduation at her school. Of course, June 2 was the day that my doctor decided to induce. Anyhow, she had eaten. My in-laws had eaten. The sisty had eaten. The only two remaining were the husband and the momby. Exit them ... to a greasy, yuck Big Mac. Enter doctor with a scary water-breaking device and an intrauterine monitor. The short story = the husband and the momby came scurrying back in, burgers half eaten to get some face time with the lady of the hour, my doctor. Josh recounts the Big Mac as his first mistake in the forthcoming tale.
The first thing that my doctor did was check my progress. 1 centimeter. The same dilation that she reported to me at my doctor's appointment one week prior. Bummer. But the water is about to be broken. Progress is on its way! First things first, she tried to place that blasted intrauterine monitor. She tried, and tried, and tried, and tried. And as she pushed and prodded in my personal space (yes, it hurt), Josh removed his jacket. "It's hot in here," I heard. Okay, people, I have heard it said that one can turn green with nausea. I thought that was just a figure of speech until I looked over at Josh; he was LITERALLY green. I knew that the situation was bad, but it went from bad to worse when the doc announced that she was going to break my water and try the monitor again later. She tried, and tried, and tried to break my water. Little bit of water, little bit of blood. You guessed it! Your boy, Josh, sank down into the floor. My mama ordered him to stay down. Meanwhile, home at the range, it was a FLOOD ZONE in the delivery room. I had been warned that I had a generous amount of water (this was one of the reasons why I was induced at 39 weeks), but I was not prepared for it to keep gushing and gushing and gushing. I was equally unprepared for my belly to deflate substantially in a matter of minutes. Maybe this baby wasn't as big as we once thought. Maybe losing baby weight wasn't as difficult as I had heard. My belly literally shrunk before my eyes.
The doctor left one nugget of advice with me before heading out: "Get your epidural if you want one. The anesthesiologist has a busy schedule this afternoon. It will be hours before he can see you again." She also ordered the pitocin to be turned up to rocket blast power. I took her advice straight to heart.
My beloved anesthesiologist was my best friend of the day. He was at least seven feet tall, and the proud father of five girls. When I told him that we were waiting to find out what we're having, he confidently suggested that my baby was going to be a girl because he and his wife never found out with their five. The result? All girls. I nodded my head and smiled at him. I was certain that we were about to welcome a baby boy. He went through the left/right/middle drill, said I gave all the right answers, gave me my epidural, and went on his way. I was still at 1 cm, still not feeling my contractions. Oh, and I started itching. It was tolerable, but I was itching (and not scratching).
Meanwhile, the loudest, most ear-piercing scream that I have ever heard in my life erupted from what had to have been next door. Terror overtook both me and Josh. Can I please turn back? I don't want to experience pain that leads to sounds like those. Moments later, the same nurses that were in with the screamer entered our room. When I inquired about her state of being, they replied with a single word: "Drama." I felt a little bit better about my current state of affairs after hearing their response, and I felt a little angry with this poor girl for being so inconsiderate of the rest of us in labor.
I labored all afternoon and into the evening to receive the good news that I had dilated to a centimeter and a half. I was doing my best to be patient, and I was still hopeful that I was just a slow mover and that a C-section was not inevitable. My nurse at the change of shift found "Shirley" (ask Calley about that one) and they forced me into positions that I didn't think possible considering that I couldn't feel my legs. We discovered that the baby's heart rate would drop when I was positioned on my right side (which ironically was the side that I felt most comfortable sleeping on throughout my entire pregnancy). When this happened, the nurses had to turn my pitocin down, thus, slowing the already slow process.
When my doctor came in after a few hours of ridiculous positions, she told me (without directly saying so) that something was probably wrong with my uterus (as I was still only at 1.5 cm.) and that a C-section was probably my best option. I now had to choose if I wanted to continue laboring (13 hours in at this point) or trust my doctor and have major surgery to get our precious one here. Drum roll, please. I chose the C-section.
My friend, the anesthesiologist was back in minutes to give me a shot of something that caused me to shake uncontrollably (normal), and I was whisked away into the operating room. My handsome prince (Josh) was right by my side through it all. It hit me as I was being prepped for surgery: We were about to meet our baby. My hero of the day (my anesthesiologist) was by my head talking to me through the whole surgery. Within minutes, our baby was here. We heard a little whimper and our anesthesiologist told us to get our camera ready. My doctor's reaction was, "so many boys lately," and then she said something (which I couldn't understand) about girls. When Josh stood up to snap our first picture of the new little life we helped to create, we were sure, it was a boy. John Ashley Beam was born on June 2, 2011 at 10:27 p.m. He weighed 7 lbs. 11 oz. and measured 20 inches long. I saw him for a nanosecond, and he was taken away, into the hallway for all my friends and family to check out (for way longer than a nanosecond).
I was taken aback by the lack of feeling in that moment. My insides were being put back in place, and I was strapped down to an operating table. I did not feel an instant bond. I did not feel warm and fuzzy. I felt cold and alone in an operating room. These feelings (or lack thereof) would haunt me for the next two weeks. I had always been told that there's no feeling like holding your baby for the first time. No feeling like beholding him or her. Uh oh. I wondered if I wasn't cut out for this after all.
The precious moments were further delayed when they brought me my sweetheart in recovery. The nurse assisting me tried to coach me and John in the fine art of breastfeeding. Her efforts were in vain, and soon Mama and Baby were sobbing. I asked for my mama, but my request was denied. I was overwhelmed with feelings of inadequacy. I wanted to nurse SO BAD. (Who breastfed her baby dolls all her life? This girl!) And Mason (the nephew) had just started nursing immediately. What was I doing wrong?
Then it was time to head to our room. John and I took our stroll of fame down the corridor and into our new room on the post-delivery side. It was late, I was itching very, very badly, and sweating. I was gross. I was ready to master breastfeeding, and as I strolled in (lying on my hospital bed, John in his hospital bed), the faces kept coming. Don't get me wrong, I love these people, and I know they wanted to see their new relative, but I wanted everyone to leave and come back in the morning. I had not scratched all day long, but at this point, my face was itching. I caved, and I tried to come out of my skin. For the record, the itching was the worst part of childbirth. Luckily, they have drugs for that too. I started getting injections to ease the itchiness. And after much visiting and baby holding, the John Ashley fan club left. It was just me, Mama, and Josh for John's first night. He was so alert. He was ready to party.
Night # 2 was circumcision night. That was the night that Josh and I got a new baby back after his surgery. We got a much, much crankier baby, and he stayed that way until 3.5 months. I will write about my breastfeeding woes at a later date, but the crankiness had a lot to do with his failure to latch properly until his sixth month. Silly boy.
And there was something wrong with my uterus. It is thin at the top, therefore, it is incapable of pushing a full-term baby down and out of the birth canal. Therefore, any future Beams will come by way of Cesarean.
About my lack of feeling post C-section: this would plague me for the first weeks of my baby's life. I just want y'all to know that the way that I felt is pretty common among new mothers. (I've talked to a few since I became one.) Parenthood is hard, messy, and overwhelming. I had a picture-perfect scenario that I'd played out in my mind over and over in the months leading up to Boo Boo's birth. When it didn't happen in even a remotely similar way to how I'd dreamed, I flipped a little. I continued to flip when breastfeeding (the most important thing in my eyes) failed and failed some more. Today, my son is 8 months old. He rules. He is so smart. He is growing well. He is crawling, pulling up on everything, and he said "Mama" for the first time today. I have tried many times over the last few months to post a status on facebook describing the way I feel about my son. I cannot. You see, every time I try, I realize that there are no words. What I feel for him is too special, too important, too wonderful for any words to describe. He, with all of his issues and shortcomings and drama, is perfect. He is mine. I relish in caring for him. I adore him. I spend 24 hours a day meeting his needs, and I count all 24 of those hours as time well spent. On June 2, 2011, I became Mama, and every day since that day God has been using a little guy to mold me into something I wouldn't have believed. Well, I'm not sure what that something is yet, but all of the refinement that I've experienced thus far leads me to believe it's something good. Thanks for reading and continuing to journey with me as we discover what God's up to.
God is good. John Ashley Beam is proof of that fact.
