I suppose I should put a disclaimer at the top of this one – something to the effect of this entry may contain graphic content and is not suitable for young readers, squeamish men or any women on the fence about ever having a baby…
It’s been quite the ride.
For the last several anti-natal visits my blood pressure has been in orbit. Each time they send me over to Labour and Delivery, they take blood and urine – I lie there for a few hours and they send me home. It’s to the point I’m about to just bring in the blood and pee and lie down in the waiting room to get things over with.
But on Friday July 3rd, things didn’t go according to the status quo.
Oh, I got to the clinic. They took my blood pressure – and it was up – shocker. So they sent me out to L&D. Unlike the last dozen times though the doctor actually spoke to my own doctor and then took the time to speak to me.
“You’re blood pressure is high. I think we’re going to admit you for a few days,” she said.
Okay – so we’ve got a plan for this. Rick stays and gets me settled and then takes the kids home. He’ll bring my bag later, after all – it’s basically a spa day – right?
Wrong.
A nurse comes into my room.
“The doctor is coming down in a bit to give you the gel. She may even break your water.”
I wonder if she’s got the right room.
Rick walks in just as the nurse leaves. He’s left Liam with Dani and Holden. It’s just him and Kate to drop off my stuff. And I tell him what’s happening.
He shoots me a look that would shrivel grapes. As if I had the ability to stop this particular freight train.
We call our friend and tell her what’s happening. She’s on her way to pick up Kate. Rick is going to stay with me. She’ll watch the kids until Rick gets home. I’ve said it a dozen times – I’ve got the best friends.
The doctor doesn’t break my water. But the gel is doing its job. Just a few hours later Rick is snoring and I’m in labour. The nurse comes in hourly to check my blood pressure. It’s still climbing so they’re going to try another drug.
By morning the second drug seems to have slowed down the labour pains (it’s a side effect apparently) and we’re waiting for a bed to open up in labour and delivery. Rick is pacing like a caged tiger.
Just after two we head to the delivery room. Nausea has set in from my short walk up the hallway.
“Perfectly normal considering your blood pressure, says Nurse Andrea as she hands me a bowl. “Puke in there if you need to.”
Like I said before – the doors to labour and delivery should read: Leave all dignity in the hallway.
The doctor comes and adds more gel. My head throbs. Contractions resume.
Jenn comes to check on us. Her hands are cool on my head. Only a fellow migraine sufferer knows how to work this particular magic. She’s decided that after she runs a few more errands she’s coming back to stay with us.
At 1630 Nurse Andrea checks my progress.
“Three centimetres dilated, let’s get you over on your side for comfort.”
Why is it that the solution they always present to the labouring woman is to get over on your side? The beds are so narrow that it’s like moving a beached whale.
I’m on my side for what seems like only seconds. Rick is talking to me and I feel a warm gush.
“O hell, my water just broke,” I tell Nurse Andrea.
“Really?” She says and moves to check.
I fight the urge to say, “No – I just made it up so you’d have to look up my stuff” but a huge contraction stops my sarcasm well short of me actually vocalizing it.
“Let’s get you over on your back,” she says.
Easier said than done as white hot pain racks my body. Rick helps me to roll and move.
“The head is right there. I’ll get the doctor.”
I puff and blow through the pain.
The doctor comes in, takes two seconds, and says, “Get the cart.”
Nurse Andrea’s hand is holding the baby’s head as the cart is being wheeled in.
My body launches the baby into the world as if it were a t-shirt cannon. The doctor catches her like a football. I haven’t pushed. But she’s here and I look at Rick and actually say the words. “Liv is here.” He’s only half paying attention his eyes are fixed on the baby.
It’s been quite the ride.
For the last several anti-natal visits my blood pressure has been in orbit. Each time they send me over to Labour and Delivery, they take blood and urine – I lie there for a few hours and they send me home. It’s to the point I’m about to just bring in the blood and pee and lie down in the waiting room to get things over with.
But on Friday July 3rd, things didn’t go according to the status quo.
Oh, I got to the clinic. They took my blood pressure – and it was up – shocker. So they sent me out to L&D. Unlike the last dozen times though the doctor actually spoke to my own doctor and then took the time to speak to me.
“You’re blood pressure is high. I think we’re going to admit you for a few days,” she said.
Okay – so we’ve got a plan for this. Rick stays and gets me settled and then takes the kids home. He’ll bring my bag later, after all – it’s basically a spa day – right?
Wrong.
A nurse comes into my room.
“The doctor is coming down in a bit to give you the gel. She may even break your water.”
I wonder if she’s got the right room.
Rick walks in just as the nurse leaves. He’s left Liam with Dani and Holden. It’s just him and Kate to drop off my stuff. And I tell him what’s happening.
He shoots me a look that would shrivel grapes. As if I had the ability to stop this particular freight train.
We call our friend and tell her what’s happening. She’s on her way to pick up Kate. Rick is going to stay with me. She’ll watch the kids until Rick gets home. I’ve said it a dozen times – I’ve got the best friends.
The doctor doesn’t break my water. But the gel is doing its job. Just a few hours later Rick is snoring and I’m in labour. The nurse comes in hourly to check my blood pressure. It’s still climbing so they’re going to try another drug.
By morning the second drug seems to have slowed down the labour pains (it’s a side effect apparently) and we’re waiting for a bed to open up in labour and delivery. Rick is pacing like a caged tiger.
Just after two we head to the delivery room. Nausea has set in from my short walk up the hallway.
“Perfectly normal considering your blood pressure, says Nurse Andrea as she hands me a bowl. “Puke in there if you need to.”
Like I said before – the doors to labour and delivery should read: Leave all dignity in the hallway.
The doctor comes and adds more gel. My head throbs. Contractions resume.
Jenn comes to check on us. Her hands are cool on my head. Only a fellow migraine sufferer knows how to work this particular magic. She’s decided that after she runs a few more errands she’s coming back to stay with us.
At 1630 Nurse Andrea checks my progress.
“Three centimetres dilated, let’s get you over on your side for comfort.”
Why is it that the solution they always present to the labouring woman is to get over on your side? The beds are so narrow that it’s like moving a beached whale.
I’m on my side for what seems like only seconds. Rick is talking to me and I feel a warm gush.
“O hell, my water just broke,” I tell Nurse Andrea.
“Really?” She says and moves to check.
I fight the urge to say, “No – I just made it up so you’d have to look up my stuff” but a huge contraction stops my sarcasm well short of me actually vocalizing it.
“Let’s get you over on your back,” she says.
Easier said than done as white hot pain racks my body. Rick helps me to roll and move.
“The head is right there. I’ll get the doctor.”
I puff and blow through the pain.
The doctor comes in, takes two seconds, and says, “Get the cart.”
Nurse Andrea’s hand is holding the baby’s head as the cart is being wheeled in.
My body launches the baby into the world as if it were a t-shirt cannon. The doctor catches her like a football. I haven’t pushed. But she’s here and I look at Rick and actually say the words. “Liv is here.” He’s only half paying attention his eyes are fixed on the baby.
I feel the world slip sideways.
I’m bleeding heavily. The nurse tells me that because labour was so fast it’s even more traumatic on the body – no shit Sherlock – tell me something I don’t know.
Nurse Andrea from Hell is pushing on my abdomen and I feel like every fluid in the world is gushing from my insides.
I send Rick to count Olivia’s fingers and toes. My words sound mushy even to me – but he understands me and does as I ask.
Jenn arrives just as the Nurse Andrea is attempting to get me to the washroom to see if the blood will stop. It doesn’t. And the world starts to grey around me.
Rick is holding the IV bags and can’t quite catch me before I go down. The bathroom floor is cool and I remember thinking I’ll just sleep here for awhile.
The whole room looks like Freddy Kruger and Psycho have had it out one last time and invited Jason for good measure.
The baby has been whisked off to the NICU. She’s tiny. Weighing in at only 4 lbs 14 oz. She’s breathing on her own though – so maybe it’s not going to be so bad.
I’m worried about her. Rick looks torn – he wants to go with her – he’s afraid to leave me.
Jenn is back. She’s missed the festivities, but she’s here to witness the carnage left behind and, God love her, she doesn’t blink.
I send them both to check on my wee girl.
The nurse gives me drugs to stem the blood flow. I can’t remember all the meds I’ve been fed in the last hour. This isn’t anything like the deliveries of my other two. Then again the pregnancies weren’t the same either so maybe it’s fitting that a pregnancy fraught with issues ends with a delivery that isn’t exactly something you’d want to see on W.
In the end I got my prize.
She’s tiny but perfect.
Her name has been chosen for months – Olivia Dawn – it means “peace at the beginning of a new day”. Fitting, I think, given everything we’ve gone through this last year. Rick has decided to call her Olly for short – mostly because it annoys me.
Olivia Dawn Reid born at Dr Everett Chalmers Hospital at 1645 on July 4th, 2009. Weighing just 4lb 14oz and measuring 18.5 inches long.
Sometimes the best things come in small packages.
I’m bleeding heavily. The nurse tells me that because labour was so fast it’s even more traumatic on the body – no shit Sherlock – tell me something I don’t know.
Nurse Andrea from Hell is pushing on my abdomen and I feel like every fluid in the world is gushing from my insides.
I send Rick to count Olivia’s fingers and toes. My words sound mushy even to me – but he understands me and does as I ask.
Jenn arrives just as the Nurse Andrea is attempting to get me to the washroom to see if the blood will stop. It doesn’t. And the world starts to grey around me.
Rick is holding the IV bags and can’t quite catch me before I go down. The bathroom floor is cool and I remember thinking I’ll just sleep here for awhile.
The whole room looks like Freddy Kruger and Psycho have had it out one last time and invited Jason for good measure.
The baby has been whisked off to the NICU. She’s tiny. Weighing in at only 4 lbs 14 oz. She’s breathing on her own though – so maybe it’s not going to be so bad.
I’m worried about her. Rick looks torn – he wants to go with her – he’s afraid to leave me.
Jenn is back. She’s missed the festivities, but she’s here to witness the carnage left behind and, God love her, she doesn’t blink.
I send them both to check on my wee girl.
The nurse gives me drugs to stem the blood flow. I can’t remember all the meds I’ve been fed in the last hour. This isn’t anything like the deliveries of my other two. Then again the pregnancies weren’t the same either so maybe it’s fitting that a pregnancy fraught with issues ends with a delivery that isn’t exactly something you’d want to see on W.
In the end I got my prize.
She’s tiny but perfect.
Her name has been chosen for months – Olivia Dawn – it means “peace at the beginning of a new day”. Fitting, I think, given everything we’ve gone through this last year. Rick has decided to call her Olly for short – mostly because it annoys me.
Olivia Dawn Reid born at Dr Everett Chalmers Hospital at 1645 on July 4th, 2009. Weighing just 4lb 14oz and measuring 18.5 inches long.
Sometimes the best things come in small packages.
