I was completely shocked when my water broke around 9:45 that normal Sunday night. I had just taken a bath and was stepping out when I felt that first gush. My plans on going to bed early and catching up on the sleep I had missed out on the night before went down the drain along with the water from my last bubble bath as a childless woman. I felt my eyes grow big and my heart swell with panic. I starred into the bathroom mirror for a moment at the terrified lady looking back at me. I attempted to dry off and put on my clothes as the second gush came. I needed a piece of gum to ease my anxiety. I wrapped one towel around my plump midsection and straddled another and left the bathroom in search of Watermelon gum.
Damon was sitting in the living room eating a sandwich. Such a comedian, he called out "Did your water break or something?" This of course is followed by a chuckle. I try not to encourage him. I look him right in the eye and nod. His next comment is not worth repeating. I tell him not to panic as he is freaking me out. (The roles are reversed a lot around here.) He begins asking me way too many questions. "What do we do?" "What do we need?" "Do we need to call someone?" "Where are the keys?" Sigh. I ignore his questions and scoot cross-legged into the bedroom. I'm not going anywhere without any clothes on. By this point I am trembling with fear, anticipation, excitement, and a little irritation, if you must know. I manage to change my clothes four times before giving up on the possiblity of actually leaving the house in dry clothes. Damon has called his parents, who are on their way to the hospital, I have called my Dad and Vicki, who are on their way to the hospital, and Mom has called me before I can call her, and she and Casey are on their way to the hospital. I give Damon the list of last minute things to throw into my bag. We finally gather ourselves as neatly as possible and head out the door.
Damon was sitting in the living room eating a sandwich. Such a comedian, he called out "Did your water break or something?" This of course is followed by a chuckle. I try not to encourage him. I look him right in the eye and nod. His next comment is not worth repeating. I tell him not to panic as he is freaking me out. (The roles are reversed a lot around here.) He begins asking me way too many questions. "What do we do?" "What do we need?" "Do we need to call someone?" "Where are the keys?" Sigh. I ignore his questions and scoot cross-legged into the bedroom. I'm not going anywhere without any clothes on. By this point I am trembling with fear, anticipation, excitement, and a little irritation, if you must know. I manage to change my clothes four times before giving up on the possiblity of actually leaving the house in dry clothes. Damon has called his parents, who are on their way to the hospital, I have called my Dad and Vicki, who are on their way to the hospital, and Mom has called me before I can call her, and she and Casey are on their way to the hospital. I give Damon the list of last minute things to throw into my bag. We finally gather ourselves as neatly as possible and head out the door.
We arrived at the hospital a little before 11:00. A nurse examineD me and I was dilated to a 1. I knew at that point it was going to be a long night. They took me into my room where I would have the joy of experiencing labor, delivery, and recovery. They hooked me up to all the monitors and gave me an hour to begin contracting consitently on my own. About an hour later they began the Pitocin drip.
This may be a good time to tell you how naive I was about labor. I watched all the Baby Story's and read a lot of books. I watched the women on TV do the breathing. I watched them pace the hallways of the hospital. Now, I consider myself to have a fairly high pain tolerance. Ha. By 1:00 a.m. I wanted to die. Breathing at all was barely an option. Any kind of breathing pattern was completely unrealistic. Walking the hallways? Please. I was walking the hallways of hell. Don't get me wrong, I could handle the contractions. But for every 90 seconds of strong contracting, I needed about 15 minutes to recover. Again, ha. The contractions were right on top of the other. I kept telling myself, "This is good. This is good. This means I'm dilating."
They checked my cervix every 1-2 hours and apparently it does not like change. I've lost all sense of time by this point, but eventually they asked me if I wanted some Stadol to 'take the edge off'. OK, people. Apparently circles do not have edges, because I was in a circle of pain and there was no edge taken off. I wanted the epidural really badly by this point, but they refused to administer it until I was dilated to a 4.
Finally, around 7:00 a.m., the angels sang. I was a 4. Epidural time. The epidural gives true meaning to 'hurts so good'. It was painful, but it was by far the best pain I have ever felt. Not to mention the best $750 I will ever spend. Once the real drugs were in, I was good to go.
8:30 a.m. Fully dilated. Time to start pushing. I remember hearing, "OK, Lacy, let's have this baby by 9." So, I push. And I push. And I push. One of the nurses gets the idea to try the 'towel trick'. My mother-in-law stands between my spread-eagle-legs and holds one end of a towel. I grab the other end and pull as I push. Nothing. One of the nurses takes my epidural button away from me. Apparently I can't feel anything. (Isn't that the point?) They give me time to rest and let the epidural wear down some. I remember hearing, "OK, Lacy, let's have this baby by 10." (Who's 'lets', anyway?) So, I push. And I push. And I push. One of the nurses calls Dr. Porter who threatens me with forceps. So, I push. You get the idea. I remember hearing, "OK, Lacy, let's have this baby by 11." Finally, Dr. Porter comes in around 11:24, makes a tiny incension in my nether region, and at 11:25 a.m. on Monday, August 14, 2006, out popped the most beautiful baby I have ever laid eyes on.
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