Reality Bites (Wk 1: NEWBORN DAZE)

March 22, 2006

Looking Back at Peter's First Week

In my birth fantasy, I labored at home then popped into the hospital just in time to push. After my med-free delivery, the baby remained in my room, never to see the nursery. The next day we'd bring home our exclusively breastfed, uncircumcised baby who effortlessly slept 16 hours a day.

An induced, 31-hour labor followed by a c-section wasn't in the picture. Nor was waiting several hours before attempting to breastfeed, not because of hospital policy but because all I could think about was sleeping for the first time in two days. Nor was watching everyone but me hold the baby for the next two days, as I was in too much pain to do much more than hold Peter in a football clutch to feed him.

What else wasn't in the picture?

Got Milk?

Both the lactation consultant and in-house pediatrician told me to nurse frequently and don't supplement to hasten the arrival of my milk. That is, until Peter's third day in the hospital, when he became inconsolable even with hourly "feedings," quit producing dirty or wet diapers, and had peeling lips. He had lost well over a pound and was becoming dehydrated.

On day four, with no sign of my milk, the pediatrician had us supplement Peter's feedings (while continuing to nurse) until he produced a wet diaper. Demoralized as I felt, watching him gnaw his fist in hunger was too much for me not to follow orders.

As I lamented my inability to feed my newborn like women have done for thousands of years, one nurse told me she sees it all the time with the c-section moms. "You don't hear about women in developing countries with milk problems, but they're not having c-sections." For an almost 10-pound boy born ready for a steak dinner, the colostrum of his c-sectioned, first-time mother was leaving him hanging.

When did my milk come in? I'm still not sure. I never became engorged, never felt full or heavy, never had any of those textbook signs...

The pediatrician, though, ordered me to quit supplementing as soon as that wet diaper came through, less than 24 hours after we started. She assured me that my colostrum would increase until my milk came in. Sometime since then, without ceremony, it has surreptiously arrived.

My Friends, the Nurses

Even aside from the feeding fiasco, my feelings of ineptitude surged.

I've learned dead languages in their original alphabets. So I can learn how to swaddle a baby, right? Wrong. Each time I saw a new nurse, I'd have her give me a lesson, not letting on that a nurse from a previous shift had already shown me. Then she'd leave the room, I'd try it again on my own, and Peter would kick his way out.

Every sneeze, every hiccup, every fuss Peter made had me frantically unsure of myself. I started calling the nursery for advice. Next thing you know, I was asking them to take the baby so I could have a one-hour catnap. Then another. Within a couple of days, I was sending Peter for overnight visits to his new aunts in the nursery. They still brought him back every two hours for me to feed him.

When discussing discharge dates with the doctor, Tom and I opted to take a fifth day in the hospital. I just wasn't ready to go it alone yet.

Snip, Snip

Given how everything else played out, I guess it's only fitting that my last remaining principle was out the door too.

Months earlier, my husband and I had discussed circumcision. Tom had said there was no compelling medical reason to do it, and that he'd probably opt against it if we had a son. His saying that gave me the generosity to say, "I'll let you make the final call on that one."

Well, Tom still says there's no medical reason to do it. But we did, based on the whole like-father, like-son argument. It was done by a pediatrician using local anesthetic.

Reality Bites

So much for the fantasies. My first week of motherhood wasn't the love fest I'd imagined. It was survival. I lived the week in a fog, vulnerable to the whims of everyone around me.

When I (reluctantly) left the hospital, I told myself that one week later-- certainly within two weeks-- I'd have things under control enough for me to start enjoying my new role.

Ha.

The Birth

written February 16, 2006

I took out the birthing earrings my husband had given me early in the pregnancy. No jewelry in the operating room. After 31 hours of labor, I was headed for a c-section.

The day before, I had sat on the couch watching a rerun of Sasha Cohen's appearance on Project Runway. Tom snuck up, leaned over me, looked at his watch, and said, "So how many hours warning did you want before the induction? Two and a half?"

With quivering legs, I jumped into the shower. I blow-dried and even curled my hair. I wanted to look my best welcoming our baby into the world.

The Induction

At the hospital, Dr. E. inserted a saline foley catheter into my cervix. The idea was that it balloon over the next four to eight hours, falling out when I reached three to five centimeters.

My contractions began immediately. The first hour, they were like menstrual cramps. "Was that one?" I'd ask. Soon, though, there was no questioning. About every five minutes, a belt would pull tightly across my abdomen, growing tighter and tighter as the night wore on. Sleep was out of the question.

It wasn't a bad night, though. The hospital brought me food and drink, and I didn't have to have an IV... yet. Even once those contractions required my full concentration, I gloried in it. It meant I was making progress.

So I thought. Eight hours later, that catheter still hadn't fallen out. I could see on my doctor's face that that wasn't a good sign.

We waited awhile longer, then I started pitocin. This meant having an IV (the first of six, since I blew one out every few hours) and continuous fetal monitoring. As my contractions grew more intense and closer together, I wanted to rip from me all these lines, drips, and monitors.

Still, I managed to remain mobile. I changed positions in the bed and stood beside the bed. I rocked on all fours. Tom massaged every part of my body.

My frustration began when, after several hours on the pit, I was only four centimeters dilated. My doctor wanted to break my bag of waters. While I had originally planned to postpone this step, knowing it would place a time limit on my labor, I agreed. By this time, I wanted a time limit. Plus, the doctor said we could quit the pitocin if my contractions got strong enough, and I figured breaking my water might do the trick.

I had somehow forgotten that the force of contractions greatly increases after the waters are broken. Oh, the pain! I added visualization to my coping strategy, but when I pictured "riding the ocean's waves," all I could picture were tidal waves.

The contractions came every two minutes. I spent a couple of hours like this with no progress. After a total of 20 hours laboring on my own, I asked for an epidural.

Progress?

Unfortunately, my luck with epidurals wasn't much better than with IVs. It took two tries to get one to work, and it quit working on one side after several hours. Still, it provided much-needed relief. For a time.

As the time drew near to push, though, I remembered all the reasons I didn't want an epidural. I dreaded the thought of pushing that baby out on my back.

Furthermore, I didn't feel capable of pushing. By then, I hadn't slept in over forty hours, 31 of which had been spent in labor. My stamina was gone. I cried to Tom, cried to the nurses (Brandi and Candy!), telling them I couldn't do it.

So when the doctor checked me again and found that after 4 hours in transition, I still had not reached 10 centimeters, and apologetically suggested a c-section, I could have hugged his neck.

The C-Section

Efforts to up my epidural proved fruitless. As the anesthesiologist gave me a spinal block, I blew the fifth of my IVs and received the sixth.

I shook uncontrollably. I began to feel delirious, like I couldn't catch my breath. Tom held both sides of my face to keep my shaking jaw from ramming into my head over and over.

Then came the most beautiful sound I'll ever know. I wasn't even sure the c-section had begun when I suddenly heard a loud, strong baby wail. Tears streamed down my face.

I heard the medical attendants saying "wow" and "whoa" and "I want to know the weight on that one." Then the doctor whipped the baby around the curtain and showed me my screaming babe.

"I can't see what it is!" I cried, and Dr. G. moved the umbilical cord. "A boy! It's a boy! I knew it!"

I continued to cry. So did the baby. All 9 pounds, 11 ounces of him! My husband was able to hold him, and I kissed his head.

Our First 24 Hours

After I was sewn up, I took a while to recover. The hospital offered to bring him to me to nurse, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't try, I mean. I still feel guilty about this, but all I could think about was how tired I was. I wasn't myself. I was jacked up on morphine and still in extreme pain from the surgery.

It wasn't until 4:00 a.m., almost four hours after his birth, that I was ready to see him. My memory of this is vague, since I was still on morphine and had been unable to sleep (whether from pain or excitement, I don't know). I had an IV in the crook of my arm, which made holding a baby difficult. A nurse and my husband held Peter to my breast to eat.

I remember feeling overwhelmed, a feeling that hasn't left me. I am overwhelmed with the responsibility. I am overwhelmed with joy. I am overwhelmed by the new side I see to my husband, now a father. I am overwhelmed with worry. I am overwhelmed by my own emotions.

Most of all, when my son meets my eye, I am overwhelmed with love.