As of Friday, I was riding bps like 148/95 whenever I got up to pee. On Saturday, 2 doses into my labetalal (or something like that), the numbers were more like 130's over 80's - much better. Today, I had 106/69 - which would be okay for a normal blood pressure, but lower than my normal level and definitely lower than what my doctor wants. I was light headed and felt pretty funky.
Part of the problem is that I took my morning dose only 8.5 hours after the previous dose, rather than 12. I had a cup of coffee at church, but felt funky until after lunch. Still, even at my busiest, my bottom number is high seventies. I'm giving it a little time to see where we level out, before calling my ob and asking for a lower dose.
The ride for my heart follows a similar pattern, maybe. Going from thinking there were two weeks left to just really not knowing when or how has been a ride.
Here's where I landed:
"I want hold you."
Most of my children have gone through that delightful developmental stage of saying, not, "hold me," but "hold you." And some of them, as their language has progressed, went on to say, "I want hold-you."
Pick me up, I'm tired, I'm afraid, I don't know all these people, I don't understand what is happening, I feel small, this place is unfamiliar . . . "I want hold-you" can mean so many things, but it can all be summed up with this: whatever is wrong right now, I know you can fix it.
A little one often doesn't know why they feel the way they do. Maybe he needs a diaper change, maybe she doesn't feel well, maybe hungry, maybe thirsty, maybe a child's sensitive little spirit just knows something's just not right.
But they know the answer. Whether I'm scared, hungry, tired or poopy, being held my daddy will take care of it.
My friend Dave spent some time holding my littlest one today, and the picture of tall strong Dave holding my little baby girl, combined with the sermon and the worship reminded me of something so true.
"You are my hope," we sang. "Be silent, while the Lord fights for you," Kevin preached. "I want hold You," my heart cried out.
Pick me up, Daddy. This is hard. I feel out of control. I don't know what is going to happen. I'm frustrated. I'm lonely. I'm angry. I want hold You. Pick me up and carry me. I know You know. That is enough.
Showing posts with label pre-eclampsia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pre-eclampsia. Show all posts
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Birth stories, part 5.1
I skipped the birth story of my eleventh child, because I didn't give birth to her, at least not in the traditional way. (disclaimer: I may have covered much of this in earlier posts, but will be redundant here for the sake of having her birth story with the others)
My little sopapilla was "conceived" in our hearts on January 31, 2010. We were at a church service, Lou Engle was speaking. I don't think the focus of his talk was about adoption, but he did talk about a small church somewhere in the south that has adopted a large number of children out of the foster care system. And I think he may have talked about the idea that we, the Church, can't say we are against abortion unless we are willing to open our arms, pockets and homes and receive those babies that didn't get aborted.
Each time I had heard people say those things in the past, I had been very moved, but knew it was not for us, not now, simply because we had so many kids, I run a pretty disorganized shop, I didn't think we could get through a home study, didn't think a birth mom or adoption agency or home study agency would ever say yes to us. But I had heard a few stories to the contrary about that time. And while Lou was speaking, and I was thinking my same thoughts, I felt like God said to my heart, "Why don't you try and see what I will do?"
After the service was over, my husband and I talked and he had had a similar conversation with the Lord. In his case, it went something like, "Why don't you take [That thing I spoke to your heart about being] Not Ashamed out for a spin?" So we took some time, prayed, talked, listened, waited, weighed, researched, and landed at the following conclusion:
God wants all of us to do something for the widow (a woman who has been left by a man, either through death or abandonment) and the orphan (fatherless). The question is what? What we had to offer was us. And we felt like we'd been given an invitation. So we said, ok, we will start walking until we meet up with a closed door.
First door, Tracie Loux. Tracie is the sister in law of our beloved Derek Loux, minstrel, writer, father of a total of 12 biological and adopted children, one of whom is in heaven with him, since he was taken from us in a car wreck around Christmas of 2009. Tracie is carrying his torch as an adoption consultant (www.thespiritofadoption.wordpress.com) helping people find the need and bringing adoptive families together with babies whose birthmothers are placing them for adoption.
Our first questions to Tracie were a little crazy, but what we were really asking was, do we have a chance? (reminds me of Dumb and Dumber, "What are the chances of a girl like me and a guy like you?", "Not good", "Like one in a million?", "More like one in a billion", "So you're telling me . . .
There's a chance."
That's kind of how we went in. Yes, there were big families adopting. Ok, we said, door number one, open, at least slightly. We accumulated the myriad of pictures and completed the many page profile prep document to give Tracie so she could use all that to make the magical family profile book for us to send to birthmoms, so she would know what our family was like, and what her baby's life would be like if she were to place him or her with us.
Door number two was the dreaded home study door. We had two families ahead of us on the journey, who had both used the same home study agency, and who both agreed that we should NOT use that agency, that they wouldn't know what to make of us. So we went with the other agency, Adoption and Beyond in Kansas City. They would have a contract social worker do our actual visits, and we would go there for a class. That seemed good to us.
Amazingly, (really, I was amazed) we found favor in the eyes of our social worker. She seemed to enjoy (not be overwhelmed by) our children, and each encounter with her was pleasant. This agency does most of its information gathering in the form of a written interview, which worked for me, being a writer of sorts (means: I like to write; not referring to skill), and we did my husband's portion in a sort of dictation/interview/review format, 1 or 2 questions at a time. The funny thing was when a question was something like, "what are your parents personalities, roles in the home, what did you do in your free time and on vacation?" and he would say, "That's ONE question???"
Incredibly, in late June, we received the rough draft of our home study to review and send back. We were thrilled, amazed and worried sick. I was late. Not tardy. Late for not being pregnant.
Now, lest you think us irresponsible for not preventing pregnancy (even though we established in the first few birth stories that we are not very good at preventing pregnancy, and that we think children come from God and are a blessing to be received with joy), remember that we also believed (and still do) that we were a long shot, and that the only way we would adopt is if there was a true need and if God wanted us to.
Not only that, but we are pretty firm on this concept: that children are an unqualified blessing. Period. Whether they are biological or adopted, typical or chromosomally enhanced, and regardless of the specific shade of brown their skin is and the number of alcoholic beverages the mother consumed while she was carrying them.
If God, Who opens and closes all wombs and creates all life from nothing and knits each child from conception, if He put a baby in my belly while we were in the adoption process, then either He would close the adoption door, at least for a time, or He would give us both babies. But honestly, we figured if there was a pregnancy for us, that would be at least the temporary end of our adoption story.
Secretly, I was hoping the whole process would move quickly enough that a pregnancy wouldn't be an issue.
So, as I was suspecting, but didn't feel pregnant, I asked Tracie - what happens if, hypothetically, I were to get pregnant. The answer was basically that if we found out later, it would cost money - because we'd have to update the homestudy. So I went upstairs in the middle of the afternoon on a Friday and took a test. Dark, positive, immediately. K.
So I sent out two emails and a prayer, to Tracie, to the homestudy people, and to God.
I was not excited. I was nervous. I was wrong. I realized I wasn't rejoicing over what God was doing, so I made a conscious decision to tell the people I was with and celebrate with them. 5 minutes later I got an e-mail from the home study people saying congratulations, you're still approved. Unbelievable. My biggest fear - gone.
The 3rd step (door) was sending out applications (filling out applications) - there is a lot of paperwork in adoption. We sent them to a few places, and over the summer had very few opportunities come our way. We said yes to them all, and they all said no to us.
Until a few days before Labor Day, when we learned of a situation that an agency was trying to place. Leaving out the details, a birthmom chose us. She was presented with just one family, but was told repeatedly that if she wanted, they would find more. She picked us.
Fast forward a very few weeks to the actual birth. (Sorry this is so long). We got a phone call on Monday morning that our birthmom was at the hospital with nausea, headache, high blood pressure, admitted with an i.v. magnesium sulfate drip, and was alone. I believe now she had a family member visit, but for the most part she was alone, and I knew they wouldn't take her off the mag, and I knew she was in till delivery, and my heart said, "let's go."
A day later, we had rented a car, packed for 5 (4 going down, 5 to return, we hoped), placed the other 8, and were on our way. We drove all night and I walked into her hospital room at 6 Wednesday morning. After about 5 hours, they announced they were going to begin inducing her. Her platelets were low also, so she couldn't have an epidural. She was not very dilated either, so they started with a cytotec tablet smashed into some gel. This caused her contractions and pain to increase but no dilation. They gave her some pain relief when they could, but she was working all day. She had a friend and a family member there, and her previous labors had been quick, but this was early (36 wks) and her body wasn't ready. After 8 hours, they started the pitocin drip, and it got pretty tough. I was glad to be there, glad to pray with her, glad to help her with contractions and hold her hand when they checked her.
Eventually the family member left, and the friend and I were still there. Her contractions were still strong and hard and she still wasn't progressing. Around midnight or 1 (all fuzzy now) the baby's heart tones began dropping between contractions. I knew from my experiences with The Show and Dimples that we were in trouble, especially since she wasn't progressing at all. So we prayed again, and I sent out a prayer request on facebook. 15 minutes later, because they were worried, they checked her and she was at 2-3 centimeters. Still praying, heart tones still dropping. 15 minutes later, 4-5 centimeters. Prayer, heart tones, 15 minutes, 7, rinse, repeat, 9-10! Thank You Jesus! My girl was ready to push.
45 minutes earlier she had had another dose of pain meds. Between that and the problems with the heart tones, we were told that our baby (which still in my mind was just her baby - none of this was for us yet) was probably going to need some help. She did. She was born with an apgar score of 1, and I'm not sure what that point was for. She wasn't breathing or moving and didn't look good.
Either because I knew God would take care of her and that she was in good hands and because they told us she would have trouble, or because my mind was just on mom at this point - I wasn't afraid. Not for the baby.
Mom, I was worried about. She was bleeding an awful lot and they were repeatedly doing painful things to try to get it to stop. I knew how much it hurt, and I hated it. And they wouldn't stop, couldn't stop, because she needed them to get the bleeding to stop.
Headache, blood pressure still high, platelets still low, our mom was in bad shape. Finally a doctor who seemed to have more authority came in and talked to us, to her. (The medical staff did not know what to do with me, by the way.) They were going to give her general anesthesia and do an emergency D & C. (good.) There was a possibility that she would need transfusions. (okay.) There was a possibility that she would lose her uterus. (not acceptable, not to me. she was okay with it, but i was not - not if she was placing this baby, please no.) We prayed, again, and they took her.
Back on facebook, please pray. Prayer warriors, hundreds of miles away, putzing on facebook in the middle of the night, called to arms. Praying, praying they said.
We waited, her friend and I, for a long time. We talked about lots of things. She was less nervous than I. And it seemed like forever, but God was in that too. This was a friend who was not happy about the adoption. Actually she was pretty angry. And having hours of building relationship with me may have helped some, for her, for mom.
They eventually came and told us she was okay, was given blood and platelets, but still had her uterus. Thanks again Jesus.
From that point on for a couple days, I felt like a new father, taking care of my baby in the NICU, who was on oxygen, feeding tube, eventually taking bottles but without much passion, trying to gain weight; and my baby's mom, in the ICU, no food yet, blood pressure still high, headaches and blurred vision, so that she couldn't even see the pictures I brought her of the baby. My heart was torn between two floors. Between visiting hours and pregnancy and loving two humans that I barely knew, I was exhausted and emotional.
I prayed. I prayed as I walked to the Ronald McDonald house. I prayed while I gave my baby girl bottles (although she didn't feel like my baby yet). I prayed on the elevator between floors.
Our birthmom hadn't signed yet, couldn't sign because she was still on meds. And I told her, on multiple occasions, "If you decide not to place her, it's okay. I'm glad we came, glad to be with you, glad to be here. It's okay." I always treated it like it was a decision yet to be made. I never wanted her to feel like it was too late to change her mind, so I just spoke as if she hadn't made it up yet.
But she told me again and again that she hadn't changed her mind, that she was going to do what was right. She wasn't deciding because of herself, but because of what was right for the baby. And she signed the papers.
It was one of the saddest days of my life. I knew I should be happy on some level. I wasn't. I wept. I cried through dinner. I went to see the baby and ran into mom and the friend who was not happy, so I went somewhere else and wrote in the baby book we had summoned the courage to buy earlier, and prayed, and cried.
It reminded me of Jesus, "And can it be that I should gain . . . " And it seemed horribly wrong. And I felt like I was stealing.
Eventually birth mom was released from the hospital. We didn't get to say goodbye. She was still sick, and unable to come back. After a couple more days we drove away, the five of us. It still felt mostly like we were gaining at someone else's loss.
I still struggle with that. I have to be reminded fairly often that the choice was hers, before she knew anything about us, to place her child, and that she chose us for her child. That she felt like being adopted by us was the right thing for her baby, that she saw it as the right thing to do.
I hope she still feels that way, or at least remember that she felt that way. I hope she remembers that I told her it was okay to change her mind. I hope she remembers that she was and is important to us.
We wanted to give relief to the widow and the orphan, the mom and the baby. The baby is happy. She is fine. She will be well. She will be okay.
But the mom is out of our reach, mostly. Our ability to bless her, to love her is limited to prayer, pictures, texts and facebook communication. How much to reach out to her is a mystery to me. I am not sure all her fb friends know about her decision, and, well, my profile pic is me and the baby.
My heart is for our birthmom. I pray for her. I want what's best for her. She is in my heart forever. I think it never occurred to me that she would perceive us as hurting her so we could have the blessing of her baby. I believed and hoped it would give her relief to know that her baby was in a good place.
I hope that's true. I know she will have bad days. I know I am not to blame for her bad days. But I hope, and I do pray, for joy, for freedom, for hope, for peace, for a good healthy future for this heroic, beautiful, strong woman who somehow allowed us to be part of her life for a moment, and to have part of her heart for a lifetime.
My little sopapilla was "conceived" in our hearts on January 31, 2010. We were at a church service, Lou Engle was speaking. I don't think the focus of his talk was about adoption, but he did talk about a small church somewhere in the south that has adopted a large number of children out of the foster care system. And I think he may have talked about the idea that we, the Church, can't say we are against abortion unless we are willing to open our arms, pockets and homes and receive those babies that didn't get aborted.
Each time I had heard people say those things in the past, I had been very moved, but knew it was not for us, not now, simply because we had so many kids, I run a pretty disorganized shop, I didn't think we could get through a home study, didn't think a birth mom or adoption agency or home study agency would ever say yes to us. But I had heard a few stories to the contrary about that time. And while Lou was speaking, and I was thinking my same thoughts, I felt like God said to my heart, "Why don't you try and see what I will do?"
After the service was over, my husband and I talked and he had had a similar conversation with the Lord. In his case, it went something like, "Why don't you take [That thing I spoke to your heart about being] Not Ashamed out for a spin?" So we took some time, prayed, talked, listened, waited, weighed, researched, and landed at the following conclusion:
God wants all of us to do something for the widow (a woman who has been left by a man, either through death or abandonment) and the orphan (fatherless). The question is what? What we had to offer was us. And we felt like we'd been given an invitation. So we said, ok, we will start walking until we meet up with a closed door.
First door, Tracie Loux. Tracie is the sister in law of our beloved Derek Loux, minstrel, writer, father of a total of 12 biological and adopted children, one of whom is in heaven with him, since he was taken from us in a car wreck around Christmas of 2009. Tracie is carrying his torch as an adoption consultant (www.thespiritofadoption.wordpress.com) helping people find the need and bringing adoptive families together with babies whose birthmothers are placing them for adoption.
Our first questions to Tracie were a little crazy, but what we were really asking was, do we have a chance? (reminds me of Dumb and Dumber, "What are the chances of a girl like me and a guy like you?", "Not good", "Like one in a million?", "More like one in a billion", "So you're telling me . . .
There's a chance."
That's kind of how we went in. Yes, there were big families adopting. Ok, we said, door number one, open, at least slightly. We accumulated the myriad of pictures and completed the many page profile prep document to give Tracie so she could use all that to make the magical family profile book for us to send to birthmoms, so she would know what our family was like, and what her baby's life would be like if she were to place him or her with us.
Door number two was the dreaded home study door. We had two families ahead of us on the journey, who had both used the same home study agency, and who both agreed that we should NOT use that agency, that they wouldn't know what to make of us. So we went with the other agency, Adoption and Beyond in Kansas City. They would have a contract social worker do our actual visits, and we would go there for a class. That seemed good to us.
Amazingly, (really, I was amazed) we found favor in the eyes of our social worker. She seemed to enjoy (not be overwhelmed by) our children, and each encounter with her was pleasant. This agency does most of its information gathering in the form of a written interview, which worked for me, being a writer of sorts (means: I like to write; not referring to skill), and we did my husband's portion in a sort of dictation/interview/review format, 1 or 2 questions at a time. The funny thing was when a question was something like, "what are your parents personalities, roles in the home, what did you do in your free time and on vacation?" and he would say, "That's ONE question???"
Incredibly, in late June, we received the rough draft of our home study to review and send back. We were thrilled, amazed and worried sick. I was late. Not tardy. Late for not being pregnant.
Now, lest you think us irresponsible for not preventing pregnancy (even though we established in the first few birth stories that we are not very good at preventing pregnancy, and that we think children come from God and are a blessing to be received with joy), remember that we also believed (and still do) that we were a long shot, and that the only way we would adopt is if there was a true need and if God wanted us to.
Not only that, but we are pretty firm on this concept: that children are an unqualified blessing. Period. Whether they are biological or adopted, typical or chromosomally enhanced, and regardless of the specific shade of brown their skin is and the number of alcoholic beverages the mother consumed while she was carrying them.
If God, Who opens and closes all wombs and creates all life from nothing and knits each child from conception, if He put a baby in my belly while we were in the adoption process, then either He would close the adoption door, at least for a time, or He would give us both babies. But honestly, we figured if there was a pregnancy for us, that would be at least the temporary end of our adoption story.
Secretly, I was hoping the whole process would move quickly enough that a pregnancy wouldn't be an issue.
So, as I was suspecting, but didn't feel pregnant, I asked Tracie - what happens if, hypothetically, I were to get pregnant. The answer was basically that if we found out later, it would cost money - because we'd have to update the homestudy. So I went upstairs in the middle of the afternoon on a Friday and took a test. Dark, positive, immediately. K.
So I sent out two emails and a prayer, to Tracie, to the homestudy people, and to God.
I was not excited. I was nervous. I was wrong. I realized I wasn't rejoicing over what God was doing, so I made a conscious decision to tell the people I was with and celebrate with them. 5 minutes later I got an e-mail from the home study people saying congratulations, you're still approved. Unbelievable. My biggest fear - gone.
The 3rd step (door) was sending out applications (filling out applications) - there is a lot of paperwork in adoption. We sent them to a few places, and over the summer had very few opportunities come our way. We said yes to them all, and they all said no to us.
Until a few days before Labor Day, when we learned of a situation that an agency was trying to place. Leaving out the details, a birthmom chose us. She was presented with just one family, but was told repeatedly that if she wanted, they would find more. She picked us.
Fast forward a very few weeks to the actual birth. (Sorry this is so long). We got a phone call on Monday morning that our birthmom was at the hospital with nausea, headache, high blood pressure, admitted with an i.v. magnesium sulfate drip, and was alone. I believe now she had a family member visit, but for the most part she was alone, and I knew they wouldn't take her off the mag, and I knew she was in till delivery, and my heart said, "let's go."
A day later, we had rented a car, packed for 5 (4 going down, 5 to return, we hoped), placed the other 8, and were on our way. We drove all night and I walked into her hospital room at 6 Wednesday morning. After about 5 hours, they announced they were going to begin inducing her. Her platelets were low also, so she couldn't have an epidural. She was not very dilated either, so they started with a cytotec tablet smashed into some gel. This caused her contractions and pain to increase but no dilation. They gave her some pain relief when they could, but she was working all day. She had a friend and a family member there, and her previous labors had been quick, but this was early (36 wks) and her body wasn't ready. After 8 hours, they started the pitocin drip, and it got pretty tough. I was glad to be there, glad to pray with her, glad to help her with contractions and hold her hand when they checked her.
Eventually the family member left, and the friend and I were still there. Her contractions were still strong and hard and she still wasn't progressing. Around midnight or 1 (all fuzzy now) the baby's heart tones began dropping between contractions. I knew from my experiences with The Show and Dimples that we were in trouble, especially since she wasn't progressing at all. So we prayed again, and I sent out a prayer request on facebook. 15 minutes later, because they were worried, they checked her and she was at 2-3 centimeters. Still praying, heart tones still dropping. 15 minutes later, 4-5 centimeters. Prayer, heart tones, 15 minutes, 7, rinse, repeat, 9-10! Thank You Jesus! My girl was ready to push.
45 minutes earlier she had had another dose of pain meds. Between that and the problems with the heart tones, we were told that our baby (which still in my mind was just her baby - none of this was for us yet) was probably going to need some help. She did. She was born with an apgar score of 1, and I'm not sure what that point was for. She wasn't breathing or moving and didn't look good.
Either because I knew God would take care of her and that she was in good hands and because they told us she would have trouble, or because my mind was just on mom at this point - I wasn't afraid. Not for the baby.
Mom, I was worried about. She was bleeding an awful lot and they were repeatedly doing painful things to try to get it to stop. I knew how much it hurt, and I hated it. And they wouldn't stop, couldn't stop, because she needed them to get the bleeding to stop.
Headache, blood pressure still high, platelets still low, our mom was in bad shape. Finally a doctor who seemed to have more authority came in and talked to us, to her. (The medical staff did not know what to do with me, by the way.) They were going to give her general anesthesia and do an emergency D & C. (good.) There was a possibility that she would need transfusions. (okay.) There was a possibility that she would lose her uterus. (not acceptable, not to me. she was okay with it, but i was not - not if she was placing this baby, please no.) We prayed, again, and they took her.
Back on facebook, please pray. Prayer warriors, hundreds of miles away, putzing on facebook in the middle of the night, called to arms. Praying, praying they said.
We waited, her friend and I, for a long time. We talked about lots of things. She was less nervous than I. And it seemed like forever, but God was in that too. This was a friend who was not happy about the adoption. Actually she was pretty angry. And having hours of building relationship with me may have helped some, for her, for mom.
They eventually came and told us she was okay, was given blood and platelets, but still had her uterus. Thanks again Jesus.
From that point on for a couple days, I felt like a new father, taking care of my baby in the NICU, who was on oxygen, feeding tube, eventually taking bottles but without much passion, trying to gain weight; and my baby's mom, in the ICU, no food yet, blood pressure still high, headaches and blurred vision, so that she couldn't even see the pictures I brought her of the baby. My heart was torn between two floors. Between visiting hours and pregnancy and loving two humans that I barely knew, I was exhausted and emotional.
I prayed. I prayed as I walked to the Ronald McDonald house. I prayed while I gave my baby girl bottles (although she didn't feel like my baby yet). I prayed on the elevator between floors.
Our birthmom hadn't signed yet, couldn't sign because she was still on meds. And I told her, on multiple occasions, "If you decide not to place her, it's okay. I'm glad we came, glad to be with you, glad to be here. It's okay." I always treated it like it was a decision yet to be made. I never wanted her to feel like it was too late to change her mind, so I just spoke as if she hadn't made it up yet.
But she told me again and again that she hadn't changed her mind, that she was going to do what was right. She wasn't deciding because of herself, but because of what was right for the baby. And she signed the papers.
It was one of the saddest days of my life. I knew I should be happy on some level. I wasn't. I wept. I cried through dinner. I went to see the baby and ran into mom and the friend who was not happy, so I went somewhere else and wrote in the baby book we had summoned the courage to buy earlier, and prayed, and cried.
It reminded me of Jesus, "And can it be that I should gain . . . " And it seemed horribly wrong. And I felt like I was stealing.
Eventually birth mom was released from the hospital. We didn't get to say goodbye. She was still sick, and unable to come back. After a couple more days we drove away, the five of us. It still felt mostly like we were gaining at someone else's loss.
I still struggle with that. I have to be reminded fairly often that the choice was hers, before she knew anything about us, to place her child, and that she chose us for her child. That she felt like being adopted by us was the right thing for her baby, that she saw it as the right thing to do.
I hope she still feels that way, or at least remember that she felt that way. I hope she remembers that I told her it was okay to change her mind. I hope she remembers that she was and is important to us.
We wanted to give relief to the widow and the orphan, the mom and the baby. The baby is happy. She is fine. She will be well. She will be okay.
But the mom is out of our reach, mostly. Our ability to bless her, to love her is limited to prayer, pictures, texts and facebook communication. How much to reach out to her is a mystery to me. I am not sure all her fb friends know about her decision, and, well, my profile pic is me and the baby.
My heart is for our birthmom. I pray for her. I want what's best for her. She is in my heart forever. I think it never occurred to me that she would perceive us as hurting her so we could have the blessing of her baby. I believed and hoped it would give her relief to know that her baby was in a good place.
I hope that's true. I know she will have bad days. I know I am not to blame for her bad days. But I hope, and I do pray, for joy, for freedom, for hope, for peace, for a good healthy future for this heroic, beautiful, strong woman who somehow allowed us to be part of her life for a moment, and to have part of her heart for a lifetime.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Birth Stories, part 5
The Amazing Supermom Rides again, sort of
17 months and 2 weeks later . . .
The Show
Summer 2007
1, bad, 2, 3, 4, good, 5 horrible, 6, 7 great, 8 not great. I talked to a midwife and researched the internet - what can be done about high blood pressure. I was put on a very strict diet, lean meats (not processed - basically didn't do pork), vegetables, 30-50 grams carbohydrates per day (I did have whole wheat pancakes at least once a week, with blueberries and almonds, butter, no syrup), 120 oz water a day and a boatload of vitamins (C, juice plus, garlic, and I honestly don't remember what else).
Probably the main thing that was different is that I gained no weight. Actually I lost a bunch and gradually worked my way back up until, on the day he was born, I weighed the same as the day I found out I was pregnant.
My blood pressure was borderline near the end, but I didn't have to be induced and went into labor on my own, a few days BEFORE my due date. And I was bleeding. That day was my most typical labor, starting very gradually, writing the contractions down with times and seeing them get closer together all day long.
My husband was working, finishing our retaining wall, and I had the pleasure of telling him to hurry up because it was almost time to go the hospital. My doctor was not on call, and I had no relationship with the guy covering for him.
So I went in with contractions around 5 minutes apart, still feeling okay, but with bright red blood. I was afraid, and prayed, and gave the baby to God, again. The middle name we had for a boy meant "he belongs to God" and I just kept telling Him that, over and over, praying for the next kick. But he seemed to be okay.
When I got to the hospital I was 7 or 8 centimeters, still in a good mood, doing well. My bp was probably a little high, and I got in bed, thinking we were almost there. Then began the worst hour and a half (or 10 minutes or 6 days - I have no idea how long it was) of labor in my life. It was horrible and nothing I did helped. And this doc didn't know what to do with me. Here I was at 8 centimeters, not progressing, writhing, changing positions, wanting to die, bleeding, and all the while the baby's heart tones are slowing and slowing and slowing.
Finally, the doc says, I need you to try to push. And I did, and I did push that baby out, knowing we were very near a C-section.
He was fabulous. 8 lb 4 oz maybe - I am not sure. It was supposed to be triumphant, but didn't feel triumphant. It felt like a failure because I couldn't handle the pain, because my placenta was abrupting, because even without pitocin or an induction, even going completely natural, it hurt like, well, worse than anything I'd experienced.
Maybe having had the epidural with the last baby, I had forgotten? Maybe I'm getting old? It was unnerving. I lost my nerve. I lost my confidence, my pluck. And for the first time, I was afraid.
Too good to be true
Almost 2 years later
Spring, 2009
There were an additional 5 months between 9 and 10, as compared to the other children's spacing. And each month I would relinquish to God my right to have any more children. If 9 was it, that was fine. If there were more, that would also be wonderful. I was grateful for the set we had and was okay either way, to add more or be done.
So when I found out I was pregnant, I was ecstatic - this baby was not a foregone conclusion, not an assumption. I knew God didn't have to give me any more children - and I was grateful that somehow He had chosen to bless me again.
I think because, even though my ob considered the last baby to be a success for me, I felt like a failure somehow - I didn't try to eat as well during my next pregnancy. I just gave up. My placenta had started to detach, a symptom of high blood pressure, and my blood pressure had been high, not enough to induce, but high nonetheless. For all my sacrificing, I had avoided an early induction, but I had not had a "good labor" like I'd had with 6 & 7.
So I crapped out. I did walk on the treadmill for a while, and kept it under control (maybe), but then I got sick and stopped that too. And when my bp was high at 37 wks, I said, I don't want to risk waiting and having my placenta detach again, let's go for it. The previous labor was scary, why wait.
At 37 weeks and 1 day I went to my check up, my pressure was high, I went to the WEU, it didn't come down, and they sent me upstairs. My stomach was empty, it was mid morning, and that was not in my favor. I had another long haul ahead of me, and my body wasn't ready.
So, just like with Bibith, I had a super long slow tedious unproductive induction, and gave in to an epidural more from exhaustion and hunger than actual pain. I just didn't think I could do it.
Another all day of imaginary labor (that's how it feels), with a little jello maybe, and at some point started to bleed. WHAT? Another abruption? Not good. Not good at all.
The baby did fine, heart tones good, no distress, but not coming down. Finally, a nurse suggested a position change that seemed to help and our baby girl was born, 7 lb 2 oz, after 17 hours of seeming futility. She didn't nurse well, had a bruise covering the top of her head (poor presentation) and became quite jaundiced.
So even though I have these 10 amazing children, all healthy and strong, all of whom who went home from the hospital on time and nursed for at the least 4 months, even though all that, I look back on my last 3 deliveries as relative failures. I probably shouldn't, but compared to how great and confident I felt after the earlier ones, I do.
The next birth story is not mine, and has had some attention already, and really deserves it's own post.
But, heading into the next delivery, having gained 40 or more lbs, with swollen ankles and feet and calves, knowing my blood pressure will most likely be high, knowing our little person may have challenges of his or her own, I don't know even what to hope for.
I think I'll be induced. Either my bp will be high, or the baby's growth will necessitate a delivery. I do not want to have an epidural. I think my labors with epidurals and especially stuck in bed do not progress, baby gets stuck, labor is long and often hard on baby, and potentially affects the health of the baby after, including blood sugar and jaundice.
My plan is to go to every ob appointment with a very full stomach and schedule all my appointments early in the morning. If I get sent to the WEU I'll have a snack on the way. I have a friend who is going to help me get through the hard parts, only allowing me to have an epidural if I say the secret password. I have to lay down if I can to conserve my strength, use heat, massage, anything available to get through the parts that I can stand to be in bed, so that I have strength to be up when it gets hard.
And I need to find that secret place again, that place where I find the Lord, praying and seeking His face and basking in His presence during my most sacred moments. In my weakness, He shows Himself most strong - hasn't that been the theme of this season.
I have to give my best labor this time. More than ever, my baby might need it. And I need it. I need to not feel like a failure again. I need one more good story. I need to find that place of communion with the Creator, Womb-Wonder-Worker, the Knitter in the secret place. I need to link arms with Him again, as together we bring another life into His world for His glory.
So help me God.
17 months and 2 weeks later . . .
The Show
Summer 2007
1, bad, 2, 3, 4, good, 5 horrible, 6, 7 great, 8 not great. I talked to a midwife and researched the internet - what can be done about high blood pressure. I was put on a very strict diet, lean meats (not processed - basically didn't do pork), vegetables, 30-50 grams carbohydrates per day (I did have whole wheat pancakes at least once a week, with blueberries and almonds, butter, no syrup), 120 oz water a day and a boatload of vitamins (C, juice plus, garlic, and I honestly don't remember what else).
Probably the main thing that was different is that I gained no weight. Actually I lost a bunch and gradually worked my way back up until, on the day he was born, I weighed the same as the day I found out I was pregnant.
My blood pressure was borderline near the end, but I didn't have to be induced and went into labor on my own, a few days BEFORE my due date. And I was bleeding. That day was my most typical labor, starting very gradually, writing the contractions down with times and seeing them get closer together all day long.
My husband was working, finishing our retaining wall, and I had the pleasure of telling him to hurry up because it was almost time to go the hospital. My doctor was not on call, and I had no relationship with the guy covering for him.
So I went in with contractions around 5 minutes apart, still feeling okay, but with bright red blood. I was afraid, and prayed, and gave the baby to God, again. The middle name we had for a boy meant "he belongs to God" and I just kept telling Him that, over and over, praying for the next kick. But he seemed to be okay.
When I got to the hospital I was 7 or 8 centimeters, still in a good mood, doing well. My bp was probably a little high, and I got in bed, thinking we were almost there. Then began the worst hour and a half (or 10 minutes or 6 days - I have no idea how long it was) of labor in my life. It was horrible and nothing I did helped. And this doc didn't know what to do with me. Here I was at 8 centimeters, not progressing, writhing, changing positions, wanting to die, bleeding, and all the while the baby's heart tones are slowing and slowing and slowing.
Finally, the doc says, I need you to try to push. And I did, and I did push that baby out, knowing we were very near a C-section.
He was fabulous. 8 lb 4 oz maybe - I am not sure. It was supposed to be triumphant, but didn't feel triumphant. It felt like a failure because I couldn't handle the pain, because my placenta was abrupting, because even without pitocin or an induction, even going completely natural, it hurt like, well, worse than anything I'd experienced.
Maybe having had the epidural with the last baby, I had forgotten? Maybe I'm getting old? It was unnerving. I lost my nerve. I lost my confidence, my pluck. And for the first time, I was afraid.
Too good to be true
Almost 2 years later
Spring, 2009
There were an additional 5 months between 9 and 10, as compared to the other children's spacing. And each month I would relinquish to God my right to have any more children. If 9 was it, that was fine. If there were more, that would also be wonderful. I was grateful for the set we had and was okay either way, to add more or be done.
So when I found out I was pregnant, I was ecstatic - this baby was not a foregone conclusion, not an assumption. I knew God didn't have to give me any more children - and I was grateful that somehow He had chosen to bless me again.
I think because, even though my ob considered the last baby to be a success for me, I felt like a failure somehow - I didn't try to eat as well during my next pregnancy. I just gave up. My placenta had started to detach, a symptom of high blood pressure, and my blood pressure had been high, not enough to induce, but high nonetheless. For all my sacrificing, I had avoided an early induction, but I had not had a "good labor" like I'd had with 6 & 7.
So I crapped out. I did walk on the treadmill for a while, and kept it under control (maybe), but then I got sick and stopped that too. And when my bp was high at 37 wks, I said, I don't want to risk waiting and having my placenta detach again, let's go for it. The previous labor was scary, why wait.
At 37 weeks and 1 day I went to my check up, my pressure was high, I went to the WEU, it didn't come down, and they sent me upstairs. My stomach was empty, it was mid morning, and that was not in my favor. I had another long haul ahead of me, and my body wasn't ready.
So, just like with Bibith, I had a super long slow tedious unproductive induction, and gave in to an epidural more from exhaustion and hunger than actual pain. I just didn't think I could do it.
Another all day of imaginary labor (that's how it feels), with a little jello maybe, and at some point started to bleed. WHAT? Another abruption? Not good. Not good at all.
The baby did fine, heart tones good, no distress, but not coming down. Finally, a nurse suggested a position change that seemed to help and our baby girl was born, 7 lb 2 oz, after 17 hours of seeming futility. She didn't nurse well, had a bruise covering the top of her head (poor presentation) and became quite jaundiced.
So even though I have these 10 amazing children, all healthy and strong, all of whom who went home from the hospital on time and nursed for at the least 4 months, even though all that, I look back on my last 3 deliveries as relative failures. I probably shouldn't, but compared to how great and confident I felt after the earlier ones, I do.
The next birth story is not mine, and has had some attention already, and really deserves it's own post.
But, heading into the next delivery, having gained 40 or more lbs, with swollen ankles and feet and calves, knowing my blood pressure will most likely be high, knowing our little person may have challenges of his or her own, I don't know even what to hope for.
I think I'll be induced. Either my bp will be high, or the baby's growth will necessitate a delivery. I do not want to have an epidural. I think my labors with epidurals and especially stuck in bed do not progress, baby gets stuck, labor is long and often hard on baby, and potentially affects the health of the baby after, including blood sugar and jaundice.
My plan is to go to every ob appointment with a very full stomach and schedule all my appointments early in the morning. If I get sent to the WEU I'll have a snack on the way. I have a friend who is going to help me get through the hard parts, only allowing me to have an epidural if I say the secret password. I have to lay down if I can to conserve my strength, use heat, massage, anything available to get through the parts that I can stand to be in bed, so that I have strength to be up when it gets hard.
And I need to find that secret place again, that place where I find the Lord, praying and seeking His face and basking in His presence during my most sacred moments. In my weakness, He shows Himself most strong - hasn't that been the theme of this season.
I have to give my best labor this time. More than ever, my baby might need it. And I need it. I need to not feel like a failure again. I need one more good story. I need to find that place of communion with the Creator, Womb-Wonder-Worker, the Knitter in the secret place. I need to link arms with Him again, as together we bring another life into His world for His glory.
So help me God.
Saturday, January 08, 2011
Birth Stories, part 4
17 months and 2 weeks later . . .
Jambo, Fall of 2004
Having experienced the nearly perfect birth of number 6, I had finally figured it all out. There was the meconium thing, and waiting for the doctor, but having a baby without pitocin, in God's timing was definitely the way to go, and I was committed to it.
So, as #7's due date came and went, I was not troubled. As we approached the 41 week mark, I was at peace. At my 41 week appointment, I was not concerned. Until my doctor took my blood pressure.
Up until that appointment, my bp had only been high when I was in labor. Not a big deal. We had since come to an understanding that if my blood pressure was under a certain number, I could still get out of bed to labor, so I wasn't worried about it. But that Monday afternoon at my appointment, my doc said, I'm sorry, but we need to have this baby, I can't let you leave with numbers like this.
I cried. But my husband came, I got hooked up, and from the first drop of pitocin until they said it's a boy it was only 2 and 1/2 hours. Not only that, but I did almost all of it out of bed, and the pain was manageable. I love watching that birth video. It was a real struggle deciding whether to get in bed and be checked, but when I did, they said I was pretty much there. My doctor let me wait until I wanted to push this time. It was quiet and peaceful, no stirrups, the doc, a nurse, a couple friends taking pictures and video, just waiting. Each contraction came and went. (it hadn't taken much pitocin, by the way, being 41 wks) Finally there was a contraction that lasted maybe 3-4 minutes. In the video you can see the people checking their watches. But by the end of that contraction, we had a baby boy, God's gift, and he was perfect and marvelous, 8 lb, 7 oz.
So I thought, okay, maybe pitocin isn't the devil, just trying to have a baby early is the actual devil. Hmmn.
17 months and 2 weeks later (same spacing to the day) . . .
Bibith, Winter, 2006
Like any pregnant woman with children, I enjoy a little break now and then, so when my OB began sending me to the Women's Evaluation Unit (hereafter referred to as the WEU, pronounced Wee-U, which is what my daughter calls the Wii) to be observed, it didn't bother me too much. It was exciting, knowing baby would happen soon, the pregnancy was almost over. I would be okay, I'd stand up during labor, it would be fine. And at 37 weeks 3 days, when my blood pressure was causing my liver enzymes to elevate (that's all I know, don't know which enzymes or how high or anything else) and my ob said we have to do this, I was okay with it.
The problem was that it was the middle of the night, I hadn't eaten, or slept, and I was being induced 3 and a half weeks before my body really wanted to have a baby. And it protested. For hours I would have contractions, get up, and not have them. On. Off. Frus. Trating. Finally, I agreed to an epidural, I thought so they could turn the pitocin up higher and speed things up. But they didn't. I had a sweet little nurse who could see that I was having contractions (It's my 8th baby - I have contractions all the time - means NOTHING!) so she didn't want to turn it up. So nothing happened.
It was morning, the cotton candy nurse left, I had an epidural but was not in labor. I was not progressing, not nothing. Finally, the getturdone team showed up, including Val from my 4th labor, to make things happen, turn it up. I had way too many people there for that baby, which doesn't help with progressing. I was hungry and bored.
Blah, blah, blah, eventually contractions picked up. I should mention that in the 10 or so years since my first, the epidural has changed and now does not take away all feeling, and this is good. Eventually I was feeling them, and finally felt like pushing. right. now. Again, Val trying to keep me from giving birth, again waiting for my doctor to get there, but finally (about 16 hours after we started) we pushed out a tiny 6 lb 2 oz baby girl. She was so tiny we called her baby for years.
She also had a hard time nursing, maybe because she was sleepy, maybe because she was little, maybe because my body was no more ready to make milk than it was to give birth at that point, maybe because she was jaundiced. But she only became more jaundiced because of not eating. And eventually Roberta, the old battleax from the newborn nursery, came and let me know that we had to give her bottles or she couldn't go home with me.
And I wept long and hard and looked like crap. It was the final straw in the labor that didn't go my way. Not my due date, not my labor, not my baby - they were taking it all away. Melodramatic? Maybe, but I also think when you jump start labor weeks early it throws the hormones into a huge lurch and the emotions run wild. I was a mess. Eventually I pumped and worked through it, but it was really rough.
I did not want to do that again.
Jambo, Fall of 2004
Having experienced the nearly perfect birth of number 6, I had finally figured it all out. There was the meconium thing, and waiting for the doctor, but having a baby without pitocin, in God's timing was definitely the way to go, and I was committed to it.
So, as #7's due date came and went, I was not troubled. As we approached the 41 week mark, I was at peace. At my 41 week appointment, I was not concerned. Until my doctor took my blood pressure.
Up until that appointment, my bp had only been high when I was in labor. Not a big deal. We had since come to an understanding that if my blood pressure was under a certain number, I could still get out of bed to labor, so I wasn't worried about it. But that Monday afternoon at my appointment, my doc said, I'm sorry, but we need to have this baby, I can't let you leave with numbers like this.
I cried. But my husband came, I got hooked up, and from the first drop of pitocin until they said it's a boy it was only 2 and 1/2 hours. Not only that, but I did almost all of it out of bed, and the pain was manageable. I love watching that birth video. It was a real struggle deciding whether to get in bed and be checked, but when I did, they said I was pretty much there. My doctor let me wait until I wanted to push this time. It was quiet and peaceful, no stirrups, the doc, a nurse, a couple friends taking pictures and video, just waiting. Each contraction came and went. (it hadn't taken much pitocin, by the way, being 41 wks) Finally there was a contraction that lasted maybe 3-4 minutes. In the video you can see the people checking their watches. But by the end of that contraction, we had a baby boy, God's gift, and he was perfect and marvelous, 8 lb, 7 oz.
So I thought, okay, maybe pitocin isn't the devil, just trying to have a baby early is the actual devil. Hmmn.
17 months and 2 weeks later (same spacing to the day) . . .
Bibith, Winter, 2006
Like any pregnant woman with children, I enjoy a little break now and then, so when my OB began sending me to the Women's Evaluation Unit (hereafter referred to as the WEU, pronounced Wee-U, which is what my daughter calls the Wii) to be observed, it didn't bother me too much. It was exciting, knowing baby would happen soon, the pregnancy was almost over. I would be okay, I'd stand up during labor, it would be fine. And at 37 weeks 3 days, when my blood pressure was causing my liver enzymes to elevate (that's all I know, don't know which enzymes or how high or anything else) and my ob said we have to do this, I was okay with it.
The problem was that it was the middle of the night, I hadn't eaten, or slept, and I was being induced 3 and a half weeks before my body really wanted to have a baby. And it protested. For hours I would have contractions, get up, and not have them. On. Off. Frus. Trating. Finally, I agreed to an epidural, I thought so they could turn the pitocin up higher and speed things up. But they didn't. I had a sweet little nurse who could see that I was having contractions (It's my 8th baby - I have contractions all the time - means NOTHING!) so she didn't want to turn it up. So nothing happened.
It was morning, the cotton candy nurse left, I had an epidural but was not in labor. I was not progressing, not nothing. Finally, the getturdone team showed up, including Val from my 4th labor, to make things happen, turn it up. I had way too many people there for that baby, which doesn't help with progressing. I was hungry and bored.
Blah, blah, blah, eventually contractions picked up. I should mention that in the 10 or so years since my first, the epidural has changed and now does not take away all feeling, and this is good. Eventually I was feeling them, and finally felt like pushing. right. now. Again, Val trying to keep me from giving birth, again waiting for my doctor to get there, but finally (about 16 hours after we started) we pushed out a tiny 6 lb 2 oz baby girl. She was so tiny we called her baby for years.
She also had a hard time nursing, maybe because she was sleepy, maybe because she was little, maybe because my body was no more ready to make milk than it was to give birth at that point, maybe because she was jaundiced. But she only became more jaundiced because of not eating. And eventually Roberta, the old battleax from the newborn nursery, came and let me know that we had to give her bottles or she couldn't go home with me.
And I wept long and hard and looked like crap. It was the final straw in the labor that didn't go my way. Not my due date, not my labor, not my baby - they were taking it all away. Melodramatic? Maybe, but I also think when you jump start labor weeks early it throws the hormones into a huge lurch and the emotions run wild. I was a mess. Eventually I pumped and worked through it, but it was really rough.
I did not want to do that again.
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Birth Stories, part 1
About this time of pregnancy, I begin to obsess about labor and delivery, when it might happen, how it might happen, how I want it to be different than my other labors. And I think about my other children's deliveries, watch the videos. I read birth stories of other women, specifically as they pertain to things I may go through.
This time I've been trying to find birth stories of women about to give birth for the eleventh time in 14 years, who weigh over 250 lbs and are nearly 40 years old, with a history of pre-eclampsia or high blood pressure and with the possibility of trisomy 21. Would you believe I've had a hard time finding any? So I'm writing mine, just in case people want to know.
Kat, 1996
I started my first pregnancy overweight and pretty ignorant. I gained a decent amount of weight. I enjoyed it until the end. I had an induction scheduled for 4 days after my due date because my OB suggested it and it never occurred to me not to do it. We took classes through the OB's office, including the epidural class offered by the hospital. My desire was to go as far as I could without an epidural in hopes of having future babies without one. (Incidentally, at that time, my plan was to have 4 babies, 3 years apart.)
So I went in on a Friday morning in early summer, after leading worship at a Kent Henry conference and dancing around the room in full bloom, got all hooked up, didn't know what a contraction was. After a few hours I felt some, and wondered if I would recognize them if I had them at home. For a while it was a fun game, watching them on the monitor, playing cards, with the excitement of knowing we were having our baby that day.
One of the exciting things was that we didn't know if we were having a boy or girl. Names are always very significant to us, and the names we had chosen for our first meant very different things: either Isaac, meaning laughter, or Katherine, meaning pure.
Beyond that, I was in for a huge surprise.
By 1:00 p.m. I was beginning to be uncomfortable, by 4:00 I was on stadol. My opinion of stadol is that it is a not funny joke. It knocks you out between contractions so that all your consciousness is PAIN. And you are loopy so you cannot focus on handling the contractions. My mom and sisters had been with me up till this point, and while I was hallucinating on stadol my dad showed up. So I would wake up to a contraction, want to die, the contraction would end, and I would say, "I dreamed my dad was here, is he here?" They would say yes and I'd pass out again. This process repeated itself for a year and a half.
Eventually the stadol wore off, the contractions were right on top of each other, and I was willing to have the epidural conversation (sometime around 8:30 p.m.). I wasn't really progressing. I should mention that no one ever encouraged me to get out of bed or change positions other than switching sides. Someone did tell me to go to the bathroom each hour, but I forgot about that when on drugs.
So they placed the epidural maybe around 10:00 (I'm guessing on these times). Once it kicked in, I shook like mad for an hour, my dad sat with me, and a doctor came and told me how glad they all were that I had the epidural and was not in pain anymore.
I think just after they placed it they emptied my bladder. I would guess that an empty bladder, a relaxed mom, the prayers of 2000 people at that worship conference, and it just being time (nearly 18 hours after the beginning of the pit) I did finally dilate the other 5 centimeters (I was told Kent prayed, God let her go 5, 6, 7, 8, 10 baby about that time) and was ready to push. This was back in the day that the epidural removed ALL feeling in the bottom half, so I felt nothing! But I did as I was told and pushed out my baby girl at around 12:30 a.m. She did pass some meconium and so there was a team of folks in the room, but having never had another baby, I didn't know it wasn't normal to have a whole committee present. And they were pleasant and it was fine. My first view of her was a polaroid my husband snapped (that's how long ago it was). My mom was there shooting video, but she's lousy at it, and kept it focused on feet, the floor and the handsome anesthesiologist. Moments later, they handed me my 7 lb 8 oz baby girl.
The surprises were as follows:
The nurses kept calling me "mom".
They kept calling the baby by the name we had given her.
We went into the room as two people and left three.
I had just met this new person who pooped, peed (preferably with the diaper off), sucked, cried and slept (and eventually spit), and I LOVED HER. I loved her like I had never loved anyone or anything. I did not have to learn how to love her. I just did. It was miraculous. Amazing. I was a mom. Just like that.
16 months and 3 weeks later
So-big, 1997
I lost some weight before getting pregnant the second time. In fact, that was the last time I weighed less than 200 lbs. So, of course, I gained a ton and weighed the exact amount when I delivered as I had with #1.
I wanted to not be induced this time. I had heard from a nurse friend about nipple stimulation but frankly it sounded creepy to me. On Saturday morning I had a check up and was at 4 centimeters, had my membranes stripped, and was told they didn't know why I wouldn't have that baby that day. (I was scheduled to be induced on Monday, and just really didn't want to go to church again pregnant) That night, after spending some 'quality time' with my husband, I went down in our small basement, put on some music, walked and followed my friends advice, and had contractions for about 2 hours, 3 minutes apart. I felt pretty good, but they were real. Finally it seemed like we should call the doctor and he, of course, said come on in.
I was nervous, like I'd been cheating, and my contractions slowed on the way there, so I was afraid of being sent home. Some friends met us at the hospital and took Kat home. They admitted me and said I was at 7 or something, so I didn't think I was going home. I was in the bed again, my water broke when the doctor checked me (so I knew I wasn't going home), and HE STARTED PITOCIN, without even asking me or telling me. Granted, my contractions had slowed down, but I was so disappointed, because I had gotten so far with relative comfort.
Looking back, I know that the pit hurt like mad, immediately, because I was already progressed so far - I'm sure it was only on a 2, and just got me moving again. Also, I was in bed instead of walking, and it was transition, after all. After a few contractions, I told my husband to go get her and if I hadn't progressed, I was having an epidural now! (remember, my last experience took a very long time)
She was a very brave, and accurate, nurse, and after checking me, said we would probably have the baby in the next 45 minutes - we did. She immediately set up the baby warmer (THAT was different) and there were no other people in the room, just a nurse or two, a doctor and us, Weird! I won't lie, it hurt, but then, there he was, 9 lb 10 oz, named Joel, meaning God is able.
Surprises:
It was not harder to give birth to a baby who weighed 2 more lbs.
Adding Pitocin when already in labor was very different than starting from nothing.
A baby that nurses all the time will make your milk come in faster.
Having a baby when my body was ready was easier and much faster (4-5 hours) and just way better than the 18 hour induction we had the first time.
I had worried that all that miraculous love I had experienced for my firstborn, that filled my entire being, I was worried that I wouldn't have that for #2. I just couldn't imagine it. I thought, oh, it's too bad for him. Not so. It reminded me of the Grinch who stole Christmas - my heart simply expanded and I somehow loved both in that way I didn't imagine I could love anyone. Unbelievable.
Having closely spaced children, I will add that it is my opinion, when 2 are so close, to put the older child ahead of the younger at times, simply because I never wanted to force my older baby to stop being a baby before she was ready just because she happened to have a brother so close. I didn't want to make her potty train or change beds or whatever before she was ready. I wanted to allow her to be the age she was at the time. I also felt she had more of an ability to remember or feel slighted on the baby's behalf, whereas he didn't know if he'd been crying for 10 seconds or 3 minutes. So if she needed a drink and he needed to nurse, I would get her drink first.
I know life was crazy then, but I think I was crazy enough to just enjoy the moment. I've never been very uptight about keeping my house/room clean, and that value system has worked to the advantage of my sanity, although perhaps not that of my husband. We read a lot, were on the go a lot, watched hardly any tv, and tried to conquer the world. I had a friend who watched the two of them one morning a week, and that was my time to go to Cracker Barrel and do my entire weekly Bible study in 2 hours.
Reflecting on that season, I was pretty cocky, I was working at church 1 day a week, and was trying to protect my husband from how overwhelming life was. I took them wherever I needed to go, grocery shopping, friends' houses, Walmart, road trips. It was the beginning of the adventures of the Amazing Supermom.
And that is the end of my birth stories, part 1.
This time I've been trying to find birth stories of women about to give birth for the eleventh time in 14 years, who weigh over 250 lbs and are nearly 40 years old, with a history of pre-eclampsia or high blood pressure and with the possibility of trisomy 21. Would you believe I've had a hard time finding any? So I'm writing mine, just in case people want to know.
Kat, 1996
I started my first pregnancy overweight and pretty ignorant. I gained a decent amount of weight. I enjoyed it until the end. I had an induction scheduled for 4 days after my due date because my OB suggested it and it never occurred to me not to do it. We took classes through the OB's office, including the epidural class offered by the hospital. My desire was to go as far as I could without an epidural in hopes of having future babies without one. (Incidentally, at that time, my plan was to have 4 babies, 3 years apart.)
So I went in on a Friday morning in early summer, after leading worship at a Kent Henry conference and dancing around the room in full bloom, got all hooked up, didn't know what a contraction was. After a few hours I felt some, and wondered if I would recognize them if I had them at home. For a while it was a fun game, watching them on the monitor, playing cards, with the excitement of knowing we were having our baby that day.
One of the exciting things was that we didn't know if we were having a boy or girl. Names are always very significant to us, and the names we had chosen for our first meant very different things: either Isaac, meaning laughter, or Katherine, meaning pure.
Beyond that, I was in for a huge surprise.
By 1:00 p.m. I was beginning to be uncomfortable, by 4:00 I was on stadol. My opinion of stadol is that it is a not funny joke. It knocks you out between contractions so that all your consciousness is PAIN. And you are loopy so you cannot focus on handling the contractions. My mom and sisters had been with me up till this point, and while I was hallucinating on stadol my dad showed up. So I would wake up to a contraction, want to die, the contraction would end, and I would say, "I dreamed my dad was here, is he here?" They would say yes and I'd pass out again. This process repeated itself for a year and a half.
Eventually the stadol wore off, the contractions were right on top of each other, and I was willing to have the epidural conversation (sometime around 8:30 p.m.). I wasn't really progressing. I should mention that no one ever encouraged me to get out of bed or change positions other than switching sides. Someone did tell me to go to the bathroom each hour, but I forgot about that when on drugs.
So they placed the epidural maybe around 10:00 (I'm guessing on these times). Once it kicked in, I shook like mad for an hour, my dad sat with me, and a doctor came and told me how glad they all were that I had the epidural and was not in pain anymore.
I think just after they placed it they emptied my bladder. I would guess that an empty bladder, a relaxed mom, the prayers of 2000 people at that worship conference, and it just being time (nearly 18 hours after the beginning of the pit) I did finally dilate the other 5 centimeters (I was told Kent prayed, God let her go 5, 6, 7, 8, 10 baby about that time) and was ready to push. This was back in the day that the epidural removed ALL feeling in the bottom half, so I felt nothing! But I did as I was told and pushed out my baby girl at around 12:30 a.m. She did pass some meconium and so there was a team of folks in the room, but having never had another baby, I didn't know it wasn't normal to have a whole committee present. And they were pleasant and it was fine. My first view of her was a polaroid my husband snapped (that's how long ago it was). My mom was there shooting video, but she's lousy at it, and kept it focused on feet, the floor and the handsome anesthesiologist. Moments later, they handed me my 7 lb 8 oz baby girl.
The surprises were as follows:
The nurses kept calling me "mom".
They kept calling the baby by the name we had given her.
We went into the room as two people and left three.
I had just met this new person who pooped, peed (preferably with the diaper off), sucked, cried and slept (and eventually spit), and I LOVED HER. I loved her like I had never loved anyone or anything. I did not have to learn how to love her. I just did. It was miraculous. Amazing. I was a mom. Just like that.
16 months and 3 weeks later
So-big, 1997
I lost some weight before getting pregnant the second time. In fact, that was the last time I weighed less than 200 lbs. So, of course, I gained a ton and weighed the exact amount when I delivered as I had with #1.
I wanted to not be induced this time. I had heard from a nurse friend about nipple stimulation but frankly it sounded creepy to me. On Saturday morning I had a check up and was at 4 centimeters, had my membranes stripped, and was told they didn't know why I wouldn't have that baby that day. (I was scheduled to be induced on Monday, and just really didn't want to go to church again pregnant) That night, after spending some 'quality time' with my husband, I went down in our small basement, put on some music, walked and followed my friends advice, and had contractions for about 2 hours, 3 minutes apart. I felt pretty good, but they were real. Finally it seemed like we should call the doctor and he, of course, said come on in.
I was nervous, like I'd been cheating, and my contractions slowed on the way there, so I was afraid of being sent home. Some friends met us at the hospital and took Kat home. They admitted me and said I was at 7 or something, so I didn't think I was going home. I was in the bed again, my water broke when the doctor checked me (so I knew I wasn't going home), and HE STARTED PITOCIN, without even asking me or telling me. Granted, my contractions had slowed down, but I was so disappointed, because I had gotten so far with relative comfort.
Looking back, I know that the pit hurt like mad, immediately, because I was already progressed so far - I'm sure it was only on a 2, and just got me moving again. Also, I was in bed instead of walking, and it was transition, after all. After a few contractions, I told my husband to go get her and if I hadn't progressed, I was having an epidural now! (remember, my last experience took a very long time)
She was a very brave, and accurate, nurse, and after checking me, said we would probably have the baby in the next 45 minutes - we did. She immediately set up the baby warmer (THAT was different) and there were no other people in the room, just a nurse or two, a doctor and us, Weird! I won't lie, it hurt, but then, there he was, 9 lb 10 oz, named Joel, meaning God is able.
Surprises:
It was not harder to give birth to a baby who weighed 2 more lbs.
Adding Pitocin when already in labor was very different than starting from nothing.
A baby that nurses all the time will make your milk come in faster.
Having a baby when my body was ready was easier and much faster (4-5 hours) and just way better than the 18 hour induction we had the first time.
I had worried that all that miraculous love I had experienced for my firstborn, that filled my entire being, I was worried that I wouldn't have that for #2. I just couldn't imagine it. I thought, oh, it's too bad for him. Not so. It reminded me of the Grinch who stole Christmas - my heart simply expanded and I somehow loved both in that way I didn't imagine I could love anyone. Unbelievable.
Having closely spaced children, I will add that it is my opinion, when 2 are so close, to put the older child ahead of the younger at times, simply because I never wanted to force my older baby to stop being a baby before she was ready just because she happened to have a brother so close. I didn't want to make her potty train or change beds or whatever before she was ready. I wanted to allow her to be the age she was at the time. I also felt she had more of an ability to remember or feel slighted on the baby's behalf, whereas he didn't know if he'd been crying for 10 seconds or 3 minutes. So if she needed a drink and he needed to nurse, I would get her drink first.
I know life was crazy then, but I think I was crazy enough to just enjoy the moment. I've never been very uptight about keeping my house/room clean, and that value system has worked to the advantage of my sanity, although perhaps not that of my husband. We read a lot, were on the go a lot, watched hardly any tv, and tried to conquer the world. I had a friend who watched the two of them one morning a week, and that was my time to go to Cracker Barrel and do my entire weekly Bible study in 2 hours.
Reflecting on that season, I was pretty cocky, I was working at church 1 day a week, and was trying to protect my husband from how overwhelming life was. I took them wherever I needed to go, grocery shopping, friends' houses, Walmart, road trips. It was the beginning of the adventures of the Amazing Supermom.
And that is the end of my birth stories, part 1.
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