Labor

I have a confession to make: I’m spoiled by the perfection of my son. He was an unexpected gift; one I never knew I wanted until I had him, and one I could never do without. My pregnancy was incredibly easy: no morning sickness, no incredible weight gain, no strange cravings, and no second thoughts or regrets. I dreaded his delivery, since I figured that all that smooth sailing had to bring about stormy weather.

I went in for my last ultra-sound on October 21st. They said my fluid levels were low, and I should do immediatly over to the emergency room and be admitted so they could induce labour. That’s when the real fear set in. I don’t think that in that moment there wasn’t a thing that I wasn’t afraid of. Here was the big moment, and ready or not, he was coming. There was no time for regrets, or anxiety (or breakfast!) because before I knew it, I was flat on my back in an uncomfortable delivery bed with a couple of nuses standing over me telling me that I couldn’t move for the next two hours so that the cervidil would have time to work.

Those were the worst two hours of my life; those were the two hours that I would have cursed my husband from here to there and back again — if I could have managed anything out between the moans of pain. I tried my hardest not to move, but that’s like sitting a pregnant woman in an ultra-sound waiting room for six hours and telling her she can’t go pee. I knew that if I could get up,the pain would be bearable, yet I was terrified that if I moved too much then they’d have to give me another one of those damn things, and I’d be in even worse shape. After an eternity, the nurse came in, and my husband, angel that he is, asked her if I could get up, and to fetch me some painkillers. I have almost never been so grateful in my life.

The rest is pretty much a blur to me as I was nice and drugged — almost giddy when I watched the lines showing the strength and frequency of my contractions. Since I couldn’t feel them, that was the only way that I could even tell I was still having them. I remember during the night waking up when six nurses pushed and pulled me, this way and that as my son’s heart rate dropped during the contractions. At first I had no idea what was going on, but the look on their faces, and the urgency in their voices made me comply without question. As they spoke, I gained a vague idea of what was going on.

They lowered the head of my bed, and raised my feet to the ceiling, I spied an equally terrified blonde head poking through them all, trying to figure out what was going on. My poor husband! I can only imagine how hard it must have been for him to wake to see a gaggle of women manhandling him and ignoring every question he aimed to them. Helplessly he stood back and watched until they got things under control. I really did have an idea as to what was happening, but I couldn’t express it, so I was diplomatic and asked the nurse to explain everything. I don’t think my husband believes me to this day.

Then morning came, and with it the incredible urge to -go-. My bladder was full, but I wasn’t allowed up anymore. They were just about to give me the epidural, and let me tell you something. If you think that waiting in that ultra-sound room is hard, imagine having the nurse behind you asking you to lean over your belly more (you know .. on your -full- bladder) and not to move at all because she was going to stick this very -long- needle in your spine and it would be incredibly painful to have to do it twice. After that they got 900 cc’s out of me through the cathoder. I wasn’t kidding when I told them I felt like I was going to pop.

The birth was also a breeze. I didn’t have time to curse my husband, and it really didn’t hurt all that bad. I did have to get one stich after the fact, but in less than an hour after my son was born, I was up and walking around. The nurse had to persuade me to sit in the wheel chair so she could wheel me down the hall to the recovery room. The hospital food was alright, and I only asked for a small amount of painkillers .. mostly for my back where they yanked that long needle out of. I was a little sore, but that’s about it. I know .. I have no idea how lucky I was, but I’m sure that my next pregnancy will show me the error of my ways.

When we brought my boy home, he was a saint. Almost from the beginning he slept through the night. Now he’s good for 10 hours. He’s always been mild tempered, social, and smiley. He was born with a head of beautiful brown hair, which he’s retained along with his adoring personality.

My confession in all of this though, is that I’m even more scared than ever. I’m scared that I’ve been incredibly spoiled by my son, and my second pregnancy and child will be the complete opposite. I’m scared of post-partom depression, and taking on the monumental task of raising another life when I can barely keep my head above the water for this one. And I’m scared that another life will take more of my time away from my baby. I don’t want him to think I love him any less, or am trying to replace him. Although I don’t have any plans for another babe in the immediate future, I do know that I want one. After all, through such an easy pregnancy, delivery, and infant, how could I not?

To everyone else out there who is scared, just hold on too one little fact: If it was so terrible, why would women decide to have more than one child. That kept me sane more times than I can count, and I can tell you first hand that it’s been worth everything. We live in a world of instant gratification, but this is a lesson to us all that should never be forgotten. The things that take time, effort, tears and pain are far more valuable to us in the end then those which we can gain in a second.

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