the mom

At Disneyland - June 2010 - stamp from previous blog

It's funny, but when you say mom I still think of mine, not myself - I'm not sure when that will change. Maybe when Owen starts to talk and calls me his mama on his own, instead of me just calling myself one, he'll be claiming me as his. I can't quite believe that it's really me. I'm really his mom. I cannot even beginning to articulate just how blessed that I am. I still have days that I have to go to his crib while he's sleeping and touch him to confirm that all of this is real - he's really mine and this isn't some amazing (yet cruel) dream.

I wish I would have been better about writing all of this out at the time to capture the details and emotion that I feel get lost writing this now, but I know if I don't write it now - I'll only lose more of that over time. Here it is:

Getting Owen (known in vitro as "Nacho") here was quite the endeavor and I felt a little like my little baby and his birth experience were being attacked from all sides. I originally wanted a home birth with a midwife (like my mom), but based on how everything went down, I'm glad J vetoed that early on.

Overall my pregnancy went pretty well, complicated only by a mild case of gestational diabetes (diet controlled), but I probably should have switched doctors when I was diagnosed and my doctor told me I was turning my baby into foie gras, but I didn't. Instead just felt guilty that my body was sabotaging my baby and read about all the risks for him both during my pregnancy and his life because I "did" this to him. I spent the rest of my pregnancy on very structured diet and watched my blood sugar levels religiously, felt just a little a lot jealous of the mommies out there with "regular" pregnancies, who didn't have to worry like I did. I'm sure it was hard on J too with his 'Dr.' mind reeling with all the things he knows can go wrong with babies - let's face it he was pretty much a nervous wreck from the day we saw those two pink lines to the day he held Owen and could confirm for himself that all was well, but I digress.

The last few weeks of my pregnancy (in July in the desert) were pretty miserable and my feet and hands started to swell a lot and I had to put them up every night, but I attributed it to the heat and went along my merry little way. I headed to the doctor twice a week for non-stress tests and blood pressure checks - which no one ever commented on one way or another. Due to the GD and O measuring big, my doctor didn't want me to go all the way to or past my due date, so he scheduled me to be induced at 39 weeks and 2 days (conveniently the day he returned from a vacation he failed to mention until I was about 37 weeks pregnant. He checked at my 38 week appt. (Thursday, July 28) and I was dilated 3 cm but he assured me that I wouldn't go in labor while he was gone and that as a first time mom, this would take a while...

J was on call that weekend and it was a pretty busy one with him gone a lot, but we thought we had another week before things got started and possibly another day after that before Nacho/Owen would make his appearance - just in case he had some people ready to cover him over the last month of my pregnancy. Sunday (July 31), I was uncomfortable most of the day and was having some irregular contractions that I just thought were braxton hicks, and they were not nearly as bad as as the every growing feeling that I had to go to the bathroom, yet every time I tried I couldn't go (surprise - that was Owen trying to push his way out). Sunday at 3am, I hoisted myself out of bed for one of my usual mid-night pee breaks and felt that tell-tale gush - Oh no, did I pee myself..or is this it? I called J at work and went to pee - not yet sure of what was beginning. I called my OB's office hoping I was both right and wrong - the panic of not being ready, the readiness to hold my baby in my arms, and all the other conflicting thoughts and feelings that were rushing through my mind. Plus the fear of the embarrassment I would be in for if I called the doctor, my family, and drug everyone out of bed in the middle of the night only to find that my water hadn't broken and it was all a false alarm.

The on-call doctor called me back and I explained what was going on. She told me to head in to the hospital to get checked out. I called up my mom and about half an hour later she picked me up and we headed in to the hospital - telling J to stay at work until we were more sure of things. On the way to the hospital my contractions began to get much closer together and much more intense. I remember telling my mom that if this wasn't the real thing, then I didn't know if I could do it when it really was (thankfully it was). Once I got to the hospital, I walked into triage and swoosh there went the rest of my waters all over the floor - the nurses sprang into action cleaning up, getting me things to change into, and getting me situated in a triage bed. I let them know that I had tested Group B Strep positive and that I would need antibiotics once things got started - the nurse took note and proceeded with all of her checks.

This is where things took a turn. Things changed from what I planned - to reality - funny how "plans" work out for us. This is also where it got scary and stressful and where my memory gets blotchy. The nurse took my blood pressure and exclaimed, "wow, let's try that again." Which she did, and it was still crazy high, she began asking me questions about my blood pressure throughout my pregnancy, which I thought was normal, and calling my doctor's office (who said I had one high reading and the others were all normal). They decided to put me on magnesium and pitocin (in addition to my antibiotics and fluids) to prevent seizures and all sorts of horrible things, and to speed things up and get this baby out faster. By this point, we had called J and he was on his way from his hospital to "mine" and he was scared, because he had a much better idea of what all the numbers they kept telling me meant. My labor had already been progressing quickly, but once I was on the pitocin and the magnesium - things got much worse. Contractions were painful excruciating, and I started to feel sick from it all. I threw up twice before I consented to the Zofran being offered. This was already so far from the laid-back no interventions home birth I had wanted.

Things continued to progress quickly - with the nurse telling me to focus on my baby through the contractions - but that was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to focus outside of myself, I found myself staring with intent-laser-beam eyes at the paper towel dispenser across the room, or the frame on the wall, anything but what was going on inside my body. I felt an intense desire to push, but the nurse said I couldn't yet (I think now that she was really stalling for the Dr.) and it was all I could do to hold him in for the last half hour or so. The plan had been for it to be just J and me in the room when the time came, but in the end I kicked out my dad, but I needed my mom in a way that I still can't explain. As I focused on not ripping apart at the seams, I was vaguely aware that I hadn't seen a doctor and that they were all talking back and forth about which resident was supposed to be here and how he was in a c-section. They eventually called another resident in and just as I was about to start my first push the on-call doctor from my OB's office (who I'd met once) came in.

Owen's first picture - again the watermark is from my
 previous blog

The last part is even blurrier than all the rest. He crowned rather quickly, then I remember pushing with all my might and feeling like everyone was mad at me and that I wasn't doing a good enough job. J and my mom were holding my legs and the OB kicked my mom off to the side and had a nurse take over. Each contraction, the OB would tell me to to push to the count of ten and not to stop and she kept telling me not to yell and to push harder. I kept saying in my head, "hey you b*, I'm pushing as hard as I can here...it's not like I'm trying to yell...it's just coming out because I'm pushing so hard!" Finally after what I'm told was 15 minutes,out came Owen's head, and I heard the resident say "nuchal cord...reduced." That was the first indication that I had that anything was any different than normal and maybe they weren't just being mean to me. While I had been in labor the nurse had told me that once he was born they would pass him up to me and then take him over to the table in the room to do the tests/etc. that they needed to do with him, but that wasn't what they did. As soon as he was born and the cord was cut, he was off to that little table. I heard them call an apgar of 6, and a few minutes later an 8, as I birthed the placenta and sewed up some tearing.

The watermark is from my previous blog

Eventually, after what felt like forever, but was really only a few minutes they brought my baby to me. Apparently, (as I was told about a month later by J - yea, everyone just assumed I knew what was going on and never told me) during the last part of my labor, Owen was in distress and they needed to get him out urgently (hmm no one thought it might be important to explain this to me - that it might have helped me...evidently they thought it would just upset me and make things worse...still a little bitter about that). The resident finished stitching me up and we hung out in the room until we were moved to another wing to our recovery room - where we ended up staying for the next three days as they hoped my blood pressure would stabalize and eventually put me on medication to be released. J's first "vacation" in almost a year and he spent it in another hospital - eating hospital food and sleeping on a cot - but all for the best reason. I was miserable for those three days, wishing desperately for them to let me out, and to start our lives together as a family - little did I know how unbelievably fast "our lives" would go - how quickly my maternity leave would end and how soon I'd feel like I was missing out on his life. I hope to never wish our time away again. I hope to savor each moment in time because he will never be that newborn again, sure, he'll have siblings, but it will never be my Owen and me that way again.

 

Our First Family Photo - - again the watermark is from my
previous blog

It saddens me how much I've already forgotten and how many details have been forever lost in the furthest reaches of my memory. I need to write, I need to document, I need to remember this time. These fleeting moments - my squishy newborn boy, with his poor squashed face has grown and changed so fast - to a giant long (95th percentile) little guy who seems less like a baby every day. I want need to remember this time better than I remember the times that have past.