So we left off with me finding out I was pregnant, hesitantly sharing the news, and finally, the stress of building a registry.
The remainder of my pregnancy was unremarkable (which is how we like them!) and fairly easy.
I was tired, I was huge, and no food sounded good. God bless my poor boyfriend, who regularly cooked dinner for himself when I ate a bowl of cereal and nothing else when I got home.
We sped toward that last month of pregnancy and before I knew it, we were having weekly appointments, checking on the little guy, and making plans for the hospital.
At 39 weeks, my doctor offered me an elective induction, citing the Arrive Trial, because we knew my baby was measuring big. Like really big.
After consulting with some nurse and doctor friends, I decided I didn’t want to induce. I heard resoundingly that induced births are longer and more painful than spontaneous. Here is where we can all laugh together. Remember how God likes to laugh at my plans. He was laughing too.
I spent week 39 working from home and hanging out with my mom, who was in town waiting for our little guy’s arrival.
I spend week 40 walking curbs, working out, and being miserable, pleading with that giant baby to seek the exit.
Nothing.
Finally my doctor said I needed to call and schedule an induction the next week. My due date was on Thursday, so I was hoping I could get in that day.
Nope. No room.
Weekend?
There are no voluntary inductions on the weekend.
Monday?
Nope. No room.
Tuesday?
Nope. No room.
Wednesday?
We can get you in that day because at 41 weeks your induction is considered “medically necessary” and no longer “voluntary”.
Joy.
I kept hope alive that he would spontaneously arrive at some point between his Due Date and Wednesday night, but no. He was, apparently, quite content.
Ryan and I drove to the hospital Wednesday night, left my mom home with the dogs, and hoped to be home with a baby soon. Here is where we can all laugh again.
I want to preface the rest of this story by saying that the medical staff and nursing teams we had at the hospital were AMAZING, but we are all humans, and things don’t go perfectly.
I get checked in and take a few rounds of oral meds that are supposed to get things going. They come in to start an IV, and I let them know I have terrible veins for IVs. The nurse waves it off and then proceeds to blow IV lines on BOTH of my forearms. Now, the back of my hand is the only option (and soon the VERY least of my worries.)
Wednesday night goes by, and nothing much has happened, so I’m presented with more options.
- Start Pitocin (a synthetic form of Oxytocin that tells your uterus to get the show on the road)
- Manual dilation (exactly as horrible as it sounds)
- Keep waiting and hoping something happens
I picked option 1 and option 2. Thankfully, the hospital had a tub, so I spent the next few hours in the warm water, groaning like a wounded buffalo. By Thursday afternoon, I was informed that I was finally considered to be in active labor! *Yay*
At this point, I opted for an epidural because that Pitocin is no joke, and I survived a Foley bulb for several hours. I was ready for some relief.
Unfortunately, I’m one of those lucky ones who got a numb leg and not a ton of actual pain relief. Before closing shop for the night, the doctor offered to manually break my water, hoping to, as she put it, “keep the momentum.” I agreed and, again, hoped we were off to the races. We all naively thought that something would surely happen tonight.
Nada.
All day Friday.
Nothing.
Finally, the doctor comes in and tells me that we are likely looking at a C Section for my health and the baby’s. I was honestly a little pissed off. I had been here for two days in pain and labor; I didn’t want to wave the white flag. (Not that I feel a C Section is the easy way out or anything, but I was pissed to go through labor for that long to end with an equally hard option. The worst of both worlds, if you will.)
I asked if I could have a little longer to wrap my head around a change of plans. The doctor completely understood and said she would be back in two hours to see how things were going and probably get me ready for surgery.
I flopped my head back on my pillow, tired and hot and uncomfortable, and cried for a little bit. Ryan was understanding but reminded me that all of us leaving here healthy and happy was the only plan we came in with. I nodded and braced myself for surgery.
When the doctor returned, she smiled at me and said, “Great news! 9+ centimeters. You can push!”
WHAT!? I had just given up to the idea of surgery, and my GOD was I tired. I’d been woken up every hour on the hour for two nights in a row, and my body was exhausted, too.
The room began to disassemble and reassemble as the team prepped for a baby to arrive.
I pushed for about an hour and a half, with Ryan holding one leg and coaching me every step of the way. Whenever I dropped my head back, wanted to cry, and said I couldn’t do it anymore, he stopped me and got me back in the zone. Also, shout out to my hero, Nurse Rita. She had my completely numb leg, and I think that woman worked at least as hard as I did.
Finally, they flopped this giant, wet, red, screaming, beautiful creature on my chest. I expected to feel relief, and I felt some, but I was so hot. Miserable still, in fact. I wanted to hold my baby, but I felt terrible.
Ryan was ecstatic. He was happily reading the numbers back to me and fawning over our sweet, perfect, giant baby boy.
9 lbs 12 oz
24 inches
5:55 pm
8/16/24
A lot of wonderful, cohesive, repetitive numbers in there that make my brain happy now, but my brain was not happy yet.
Why was I still so hot? Why did I feel so bad? I felt like I had the flu. I was nauseous.
My temperature was 101*F. I had an infection from breaking the water.
Also, my blood pressure had spiked during delivery, and I had severe preeclampsia.
I don’t remember much of the next few hours except trying to feel better. Cool washcloths. Some pain relievers. Nothing seemed to help, though.
My Pitocin was also still dialed ALL the way up to help prevent hemorrhaging, so I had that fun side effect.
They wheeled us to the recovery room a short while later to sleep, and I finally started to feel more human.
That night, I stared at my baby in the bassinet next to us. I don’t know that I even closed my eyes.
What if he cried?
What was I supposed to do if he did?
What if he stopped breathing?
What if I tried to pick him up and dropped him?
Around 2:00 am, the nurse told me his temp was low. For a baby, that means he likely had my infection, too. So, she wheeled him down the hall to the NICU.
At about 4:00 am, she let me know that I wasn’t improving and I needed to be on Magnesium to prevent seizures and….well….death. She said this in an oddly cheery voice as she fit my hospital bedrails with padding JUST IN CASE I did seize.
Being on Magnesium meant I couldn’t walk.
Not walking meant I couldn’t just go see my baby down the hall.
That whole 24-hour period was brutal.
My baby was sick, and I was immobile.
Ryan spent every spare moment in the nursery with our baby, and I loved him for that.
My mom spent her time with me, which was a lovely circle of parenting.
I got wheeled down the hall a few times a day to see “Baby Boy Kimberly’s” as we still hadn’t decided on a name. I just stared at this perfect little thing. We joked that he was next to the door because he was so big and so cute, like the little NICU mascot.
I have to say, when every SINGLE nurse stops by to tell you how cute your baby is, you have an extra-cute baby. They also commented on his size, but I didn’t need anyone to confirm that one for me! My body remembers.
I got better, and the baby got better. After a few days of shuffling, discharge papers, and finally picking a name, we left for home as a family of three.
It took a while for me to feel remotely ok after all of that, but having our sweet little guy at home made everything so worth it.
