What happened after I got pregnant or Part II: The Birth

First, let me point out my fantastic new header. Thanks to Ree who was kind enough to offer her design services as a contest prize and to Moo who graciously awarded me her prize when I was the first to sulk and pout express my dismay at not winning. Thank you ladies for dressing me up.
I do believe I'll tell the story of Piglet's birth today. And I've decided that I need a new internet name for Piglet. Because? If he's a piglet, guess what I am. Yep, a sow. So, his name will be changing quite soon.
You can read Part I, How I got pregnant here.
Piglet was my fourth birth. So this wasn't my first time at the rodeo. I had my previous three naturally, with no medical interference except for pitocin because I'm always in a rush, can you hurry this up? I need to get to Target. Don't mistake my lack of pharmaceuticals for bravery. I chose natural because I've seen those epidural needles, and NOthankyouverymuch. With each of my previous three, my water broke at the hospital, so I had not had the pleasure of that surprise. Piglet's due date was September 13, which is my birthday (I'll wait while you mark your calendars) and also our wedding anniversary. How cosmic would it have been for him to be born on that day? So, of course, my water broke on the 3rd.

I'm not embarrassed to admit that when I felt that initial "POP", I was a smidge alarmed. But when I went to change and saw the bright red blood, I was skeered. Not merely scared. Skeered. Thankfully, it was a Wednesday evening and the husband (who in the interest of decency and blog ratings hasn't been given a name yet) was home. Out of the bathroom I came, and out the door I went, with a "Let's go, NOW!" tossed over my shoulder. The entire forty minute drive to the hospital, I'm convinced my baby is suffocating, that the blood means placental abruption.

We arrive at the hospital and proceed directly to L&D. Where we are greeted with a surly, "why didn't you come in through emergency?" So I'm taken into the room you go in before you're given a room and a very nice nurse gets me situated. I beg her to find his heartbeat. Just make sure he's ok. Have I mentioned that I have an intense dislike for being scared (or skeered)? It makes me grumpy. So she ushers us off into our room, where she can hook up a fetal monitor. Why don't medical personnel listen to the person who knows the most about the patient ie: themselves? I have the utmost respect for the medical profession, but, much like it has in law, it appears common sense and logic have gone out the window. I told the nurse I was carrying high. I told her the baby was under my right ribcage. I showed her where his tiny hiney was poking out. She checks everywhere on my torso for his heartbeat. No dear, I don't think you're going to find it in my KIDNEYS! She gets two other nurses. By this time I'm near hysteria. I'm convinced he's in distress and they're playing with their stethoscopes. Finally, one of them checks, wait for it...right! Under my ribcage. What a blessed relief it was to know he was ok.

Finally, a doctor stops by. Out of eight doctors in the practice, I pulled the only one I don't like. And by don't like, I mean despise with every fiber of my being. He shall be referred to as Dr. Toadyhead for obvious reasons. Since my water broke, they don't want me to walk (risk of infection). Because I'm only two centimeters, they can't use the internal monitor so I'm tethered to the bed. Out comes the pitocin.

I tell my new labor nurse, who I love with all of my heart and will be my BFF forever, that I tend to go quick and she may want to get the baby stuff ready. Oh, pshaw! she says. You're only three centimeters. Trust me, I says. And break the bed down, while you're at it. She pooh-poohed me again and went about her business. Twenty minutes later, I told her, very kindly, that this baby would be here in twenty more minutes, tops, and she better get hoppin'. So she agreed to get the nursery to ready the bassinet and she broke the bed into the stirrups, but only to indulge me, you know. Because obviously, I'm insane. She is NOT my bff anymore.

Ten minutes later I asked her if she was going to get the doctor, or did she want to deliver him? I think because I have been very quiet, because I have gone to my inner sanctuary to escape these brutal contractions that are tearing me apart, she doesn't realize that I am indeed laboring to bring this child through. I ask her to turn the pitocin off, the contractions are too much, too hard, too brutal. She does. I turn from my side, and I tell my husband to catch the baby. To his credit, he does. She should have listened to me. From water break to delivery: 5 hours, 10 minutes.

It was after his birth that all hell broke loose. That's a whole nother post.