Cesar is Born (part three)

In the last part, I was finally stitched back together. Vincent managed to hold himself together through the birth, and was dutifully at our side. However, Cesar’s biliruben levels climbed and the doctor decided our son had to go under the lights on Friday night… meanwhile I was about to be discharged Saturday morning!

Will I be as strong as I had hoped to become? Will Cesar be alright? Will they ever let us go home? And will Vincent decide that he’s had enough, and run off to Mexico? In the thrilling conclusion to Cesar is Born, and thus my pregnancy, find out just what will become of our new tiny family!

 Above: Cesar sleeping with his monkey, George. Some nurse took him away later, saying he'd develop allergies, but the other nurses didn't seem to mind. And Cesar didn't develop allergies. (May 2011)

                Vincent stayed by our side almost the entire time in those first days. He was hardly getting any sleep, since he was having to get up every few hours and check on Cesar. I was usually drugged up, bedridden. But by Friday, Cesar being under the lights, me being very unhappy about the situation, I could tell Vincent was starting to wear.

                Eventually I sent him home to get some real rest. While I had the little hospital bed he had to make due with a lousy futon. The mattress was old, lumpy, and worn. However, I’ll let them have their awful mattresses in exchange for the kindness they showed us. I can’t stand to this day that Cesar spent so much time under those lights. However, it could have been much worse. They could have taken him to the nursery.

                Instead, they wheeled in a set of lights to my room, and we were allowed to be with him at all times. He cried every time we had to blindfold him and put him back under the lights. He even displayed his fantastic motor skills, as several times he tried to pull off the blindfold… only to have us put it right back on. The only thing he had was his chupi (pacifier), for comfort. In the beginning, he spit it out, until we gently placed his hands over it, guiding him on how to hold it. He learned very quickly, soon holding it in all on his own.

                Every three hours we were allowed to take him out for feeding. Then we would turn him over and put him back under. Belly. Then back. Belly. Back. The funny thing is, while the nurses often assured us that, “You shouldn’t put your baby on his stomach at home. Here we are monitoring him though,” they would just as quickly leave the room and not return again until three hours had expired. I found that somewhat ridiculously funny. Monitors… sure.

                Anyhow, I sent Vincent home to nap and bring supplies when he returned. He brought me my shampoo, soaps, and razor to shave. That’s right… I can’t stand the feeling of prickly legs even after birth.

               

                Saturday morning I was loaded up with prescriptions. Painkillers and iron pills. I never got the iron pills, because the pharmacy didn’t have them on hand and I just never went back for them. 

                I am very grateful also to say that, while the situation was rotten, we were made special arrangements. We were taken to a room on the floor where premature babies were kept and given a room they had free. That way I could stay with Cesar while he remained under the lights. The downside was there was only a couch, which I claimed since I wasn’t going home. Vincent went home to sleep Saturday night by himself.

                Both of us were dearly praying that by Sunday Cesar would be alright. I prayed to the gods for it, and Vincent (being the funny guy he is) kept saying it would be awesome if we could go home since there was a PayPerView Sunday evening.

                Cesar was tested early in the morning. His levels had only dropped by miniscule points, but the doctor explained that biliruben levels were factored in with how long a baby has been alive. In essence, if a baby has a 10.4 after a few hours of birth that’s extremely bad, but if he has 10.4 after a day or two it’s not nearly as bad, which is about what they had gotten Cesar down to. The next step, he explained, was to remove my son from the lights. They would retest in a few hours and as long as the levels were still dropping we would be allowed to go home.

                We had a great nurse as well. She was very pro-breastfeeding. The previous nurse had fed Cesar lots of formula, saying, “Look, I’m barely supporting the bottle. He really wants it.” I told our “good” nurse about this, that Cesar had eaten so much he had thrown up. She checked the formula, noted how much he had eaten and also that he had eaten the ounces I had managed to pump in my off time. Noting all this, she stepped in, very authoritative, and said, “I wouldn’t give him any more bottles. He’s overeating now. You’ve got plenty of milk and you don’t need formula.” She had also been essential in trying to help me get Cesar back to latching on. In fact, I remember her standing by me, watching as Cesar rejected me over and over and explaining that it was ok, he was just spoiled by the quickness of the bottle, but that we could get him back to the breast if we tried hard enough.

                I remember, at one point thinking, “I can do this. I don’t want to. I hate being here. But I can if I have to.” I prepared myself for the worst. I mean, the worst wasn’t really all that bad, if I thought hard enough about it. Cesar was breastfeeding with just a little resistance. Only a couple days ago I had been weeping, giving up and giving him the formula, resigning myself to his cries and thinking how much we were going to have to spend on formula, how dearly I had wanted to bond and breastfeed only. But now, I had control again. I had a good support system, and I was slowly getting my strength back. Cesar couldn’t be in here forever. And being in the premature floor made me really appreciate everything. Cesar could have been born months early. He could have been born with a really terrible complication. Sooner or later, we would be going home and I could deal with everything knowing that.

                After being retested, Cesar was a 9.something. He hadn’t dropped much, but it was enough to get us home!

                I was so happy. I couldn’t get my things together fast enough.  I remember being so anxious. We grabbed everything we could, bags and bags of things that had been brought to me over the course of our stay. I was thrilled to get out and be on our way!

               

                I remember going home. I remember Vincent rushing back out to buy a few things before his show started. We’d made it home. Finally we had our first night together. Vincent’s vacation time ended that Sunday, and he wanted to go straight back to work to avoid losing any money. This was another reason I had so desperately wanted to be home. I had wanted to feel like a family, in our little home before his vacation ended. We had made it just in time.

                 A wave of relief spread through me. I felt at ease. I wasn’t afraid, I wasn’t nervous, and it was amazing realizing that no one was going to come breezing through our door ordering lab tests or asking questions. I didn’t have anyone looking over my shoulder as I changed his diaper or dressed him. No call buttons, no records to keep of changing times and feeding.  

                In the end.. I was satisfied with the birth. I had no painkillers and no pesky computer monitors. I had done it successfully on my own, and fast too! Vincent had done what we thought best as well, making the decision to call an ambulance rather than wait around. We had gotten very lucky with some of the staff, and not so lucky with others. But all that’s ok.

                I was so very happy, and still am. :) 

(to keep up with Cesar, visit his new blog at All Hail Cesar)

Cesar is Born (Part two)

                Welcome back. So where did I leave off? That’s right… the good doctor had just finished informing me that my stitches had been done incorrectly, that he would have to undo them and redo them. Cesar had been born in just an hour from when I noticed the contractions at 8 pounds 2 ounces with horrid facial bruising, and the state of my lower regions has left the audience (and myself at this point) hanging in suspense!

                So.. what will become of my son? Meanwhile, what on earth has Vincent been up to? And lastly, will I be stuck with two halves instead of a whole vagina?

Below: Here you can really see the facial bruising in contrast to his body. A side effect of the speedy labor. :( (May 2011)

                Well… I told the doctor I quit. I wanted to be put to sleep. I was just in shock that for all the trouble that dreadful nurse practitioner had put me through, and all the snotty remarks, that she had managed to do such a “bang up” job stitching me up (if I only knew her name…).

                Kindly, the doctor undid the stitches, and backed off. He told me he wasn’t going to touch me anymore, and they would prep me for surgery.

                Now.. time for visitors. Great… just great. I was in no position to put on my makeup, and people just started coming in. The Demerol was kicking in, as was the realization that not only was my labor over, but the hospital was just beginning its work. I wasn’t going to get to relax for a while. Vincent I suspect was in mild shock. He would tell me later that he started shaking as he beheld our son emerge. I hadn’t even realized he’d watched the baby come out, because during all of our disarray, he had been getting phone calls from all of our family members.  It was actually kind of funny. The nurses hadn’t even bothered to tell him to turn off the cell phones, just shouted at him as he stepped away to answer a call, “Grab her leg!”

                My father showed up, as did Vince’s mother, and even his best friend. Everyone kept saying how amazed they were, that when they heard I was going into labor they planned on coming by to see us in a day or two... not in just an hour! Then, my father did the worst thing ever… he snapped a picture with his phone!

                “Just leave,” I remember telling him. Of everything that was happening, I felt it like a crushing blow. Sure, everyone was having a grand time. Yeah, the quickness of the birth might be something to brag about, but I wanted to go home.. right then! And  a picture? Well, you know how I feel about those.

                At least my father had the decency to apologize and then offer to delete it. I don’t think he actually did, which still keeps me somewhat at odds on the inside about it.

                Anyhow, thankfully I was wheeled away to surgery. I don’t recall much, except that they had me curl forward. The doctor stuck a needle into my spine, and I felt a horrible pain course through my left leg. He said he had to take the needle higher, and then he removed it. I laid back, and I remember him asking me if I felt him.

                “Hey what are you doing?” I felt him pinch my leg.

                “You feel that?”

                “A little.”

                “The way I’m pinching you now, you’d want to slap me.” Then.. thanks to all the Demerol and drugs, I managed to get some sleep in. I was told later that I was in surgery for two hours, and it was probably a good thing.

                As it turns out, Cesar and I would pay dearly for our fast labor over the next few days. I suffered a hematoma forming inside of my uterus (a huge blood blister, they said), that they had to drain. They had inserted a long piece of what looked like plastic with holes into the blister to allow all the blood to flow out over the next two days. I also had third degree lacerations.

                Despite everything, I still asked, “So, I guess I won’t be going home tomorrow?”

                “No, no… you’re too injured,” the doctor had told me, “and you’re a new mom…” Okay, that last part kind of got on my nerves.

                In any case, with a ton of packing and fluids all dripping in (antibiotics) and out (blood, urine) of me, I was wheeled to a room I wouldn’t leave for three nights.

                Cesar was wheeled in to be with us, and I finally got to enjoy him. I laid him down beside me so he could try to eat his first meal from me. He did splendidly considering he had been given formula all the while I was out. I was finally ready to give bonding a shot.

                I won’t go into detail over every little hour, since it will mainly be bits and pieces of my recollection. I will tell you that with the nurses, it was hit and miss. I had some good ones, we had some sour ones. In fact, I had one nurse that told me all sorts of things about how I would feel and more, and then we came to find out that she didn’t even have children! Look, it’s cool if you are a nurse who wants to work with babies and moms.. but don’t try to tell me you know how I feel when you don’t!

                Anyways, the bad news, the doctor warned, was that any future doctor would be very resilient to let me have a natural labor if I ever had another baby due to the damage Cesar and I suffered from this one. In fact, he said they would most likely push for a c-section, or at the very least an induction (bleh). 

 Above: If you look closely, you can see that his eyes are bloodied red. Yeah, even his eyes suffered from the impact as well. The blood red wouldn't disappear for a few weeks. (May 2011)

                Cesar’s facial bruising had begun to raise eyebrows by Thursday night. Then again, apparently EVERYTHING raises eyebrows. A nurse whisked him away at one point because he cooed to himself while he slept. We thought it was cute, something he was doing to soothe himself. She said, “If he can’t maintain oxygen levels then we have a problem.”  She came back a while later, to let us know that he was fine… he was just (ahem, as we suspected!) soothing himself.

                Now granted, some have told me that I should be thankful that all these tests were done. That way if something was wrong we would know. I guess there is that… but sometimes I think, “Well just  how much can you test for? I mean really?”

The pediatrician in charge had done tests on Cesar’s biliruben levels, and they were climbing alarmingly fast. A nurse warned me that because he had such severe bruises, and yellow skin to begin with, there was a good chance that the body was unable to keep up with the disposal of the red blood cells. In essence, he had severe jaundice.

                By Friday he was under the biliruben lights. I won’t forget that, because I was going to be discharged come Saturday. I remember the pediatrician telling me they were going to put him under the lights, and a wave of depression came over me.

                “Cesar wasn’t well,” I thought. “I want to go home,” I remember thinking. “And I don’t want to come back.”

                It was my mother who inspired me to be a little stronger. I remember my father telling me that I wasn’t being fair. I told him, “What’s the point? If they send me home, what will I do? Do you really think that I should hobble back and forth from the house to the hospital to try and feed him every few hours, only to be told I have to give him formula anyway? No.. I’d rather just wait until they think he’s up to their standards of what’s ‘normal’ and then I’ll finally get to have him home.”

                Just the idea, coming back and forth, icepacks and pads all up my butt, in the heat, wobbling there was awful. They were good enough to encourage me to breastfeed him at the start, but there wasn’t enough milk to clean out his system, they said, and followed up with loads of formula. Cesar was already starting to reject breastfeeding, having taken to the quick flow of an easy bottle.

However, it was my mother who said, quite angelically, “Now Amanda, he needs you there. You’ll feel bad if you’re not there. Someone needs to hold his little hand while he goes through this.”

From that perspective, I realized I had no choice in the matter. I was a mom now. A tiger mom! I would have to call on the strength of the gods and do my best, because there was no time to be depressed about it. I needed to hold him no matter how much I hated the situation because he needed me to.

               

Cesar Is Born (Part One)

I’m going to do this in parts since I have a feeling it will take a while. It’s been three months since Cesar was born, and I kick myself for not having gotten this done with sooner, while the memories were fresh. However, so much has happened that I have been preoccupied loving my new life.
This, is the end of the story of my pregnancy. I had a hard time deciding whether or not I should end this blog with Cesar’s birth story, or begin my newest blog, All Hail Cesar, with it. For this ending chapter was a beginning to a new one. Yet, in my logic, I came to the conclusion that it would be a rather abrupt and unsatisfying ending to just leave off this blog with hardly a conclusion. And so, after three months, it’s time to share the story of Cesar’s birth.

    In retrospect, I think my blog may have come off a little haughty and perhaps even negative. I needed a place to vent, and I did that here. But before you go saying, “Oh, you learned your lesson..” no, I did not. I’m just as snooty as ever but, I think I am much calmer now that this is over. The worrying, the stress, has moved on. I’m no longer having to be consumed by what’s going to happen to me because I no longer have to fight the pregnant woman‘s battle. Now I can fight a mother‘s battle, the battle of a tiger! And I had a decent (good, not great) birth experience.
    On May 18th, 2011 I woke up feeling a little odd. It was four days past my EDD, and I was beginning to get a little anxious. So much so, that the night before I had walked two miles with Vincent, come home, and jumped up and down, up and down, at about two in the morning as we made a video about how much we wanted Cesar to be born.
    I had my doctor’s appointment at 11 am, and to be honest I seriously considered whether or not I actually wanted to go. I was tired of the annoying check up, “Well you’re still 2 centimeters dilated… any day now.” Naturally I went, only to be told that since I was four days past, it was time to start scheduling induction. I politely told the doctor I’d like to wait until the following week. He scoffed at me, and asked why. I tried explaining to him that I felt the EDD might be off, and he started to argue that it was not off by any means because the calculations were just right. I finally gave up and scheduled the induction for that Sunday. To his credit, the doctor did tell me that if I still felt strongly about waiting that I did have the option to call and cancel, which is more than I would expect of my previous doctor.
    And so, I left the office with a scheduled birth date for my son, and some disappointment. We went out to eat, where I realized that I had what seemed to be a pain in my kidneys. I sipped iced tea like crazy. I’ve had kidney pain before, and good hydration clears it up quickly. But this would come and go, come and go.
    By the time we got home I was ready for a shower. I took a nice shower, hoping it would ease some of my pains that didn’t seem to be subsiding. Once I got out, however, I threw myself on the bed and gasped. Vincent was worried, and I was too. I suspected by that time that the pain I was experiencing was contractions. For while the pain started in the kidneys it circled around to the front of my abdomen, and then subsided. I had been ready for labor, I had prepared myself for it… but I began to fear something was wrong. Labor, I had read and reread, takes a long time. Sometimes days in it’s natural course. What was happening, was something wrong? Or was I just a wimp after all?
    Vincent, also confused and concerned went straight away to the internet. He said we should time the contractions to see just how bad off I was.
    “Okay,” he told me, and I‘ll never forget this part, “If they are five minutes apart your next one should be at four twelve.”
    “Ahh!” I relayed, as another one started.
    “Well …that was a minute.” 
    In our confusion we decided the best option was to call 911. I felt totally unprepared, like a failure, and I did NOT want to spend days on end in a hospital only to be induced. The fear sprang upon me, but I did my best to fight it. I got up, started collecting what I could to take with me. I remember grabbing makeup and tossing it on the bed. And then, the ambulance showed up. They had me lay on my side, and warned me cheerfully that if I delivered in the ambulance I’d have to name my son after one of them. They also timed the contractions and confirmed that yes, they were exactly a minute apart and I might very well deliver with them. Despite the fact that the hospital was a block away, I would have delivered in the street had I tried to make it there on foot.
    Luckily, we did make it in. And here is where the not so fun part began.
    Labor itself is phenomenal. I don’t mean phenomenal in a “it’s like having your cake and eating it too,” kind of way. For me it was work. It was pain and pleasure, all wrapped in one consuming experience. Perhaps it’s because it happened so fast. Some would argue that I’m lucky. Some would even say that I still don’t get to have an opinion on labor since it was so fast. I say, screw you.
    The horror began in the room. Imagine a big, white, sterile room. You’re busy trying to experience the most intense thing ever, and if you have been reading my blog you know that I am very opinionated… I’m also very private when it comes to intense, womanly experiences. By private, I mean I didn’t need the whole world tuned into my vagina. So I felt like I am a tiny spectacle in a large, white room, where people come and go as they please. Inside my bubble of labor, I was a whirlwind of emotions. I felt pain, excitement… I can only imagine it’s like a thousand doses of drugs (no I haven’t experienced that). I felt like a delightfully crazy woman.
    Outside of my bubble, everyone was very mechanical. Now, while I understand that to doctors and nurses who see it every day, an emergency birth may seem very routine. But honestly, at the very least they might have mustered up some sort of empathy. Instead they talked as if they were operating a computer. Only one nurse was kind enough to speak to me. She suggested I breath deep. Of course, I might also add (to my complaints) that everyone was not on the same page as far as breathing. I didn’t take Lamaze, and I was just fine with breathing how I wanted (gasping and whining). However, every time someone came by they had a new suggestion for how I should breath, which became not only confusing but very annoying.
    Another nurse checked my dilation, shouting that I had gone to six centimeters. She then told me she couldn’t feel a water bag, and accused it of having broken in the shower very casually. A few moments later, I felt a bubble squeeze out of me and burst! I shouted, “My water broke!” and she actually replied, “Are you sure? I didn’t feel anything?”
    Really?.. Really? Am I sure? Might I also take pause to remind everyone that I had no time for any pain medications. I had absolutely no drugs in my system. In fact, the ambulance had failed to get any kind of blood pressure readings, pulse, ect. Adding onto that, the birth came about so quickly that one of the nurses actually said, “Too bad, I would have liked to at least get a fetal heart rate.”
    That’s right.. Nothing. Au natural.
    The nurse practitioner called for Vincent to be brought in. He had no gown, just his, “I BRING IT” T-shirt on we were all in such a hurry. My real contractions had started. My gut was pushing on it’s own. It was actually pretty awesome. I must have looked like a fat, flailing fish on a table.
    I remember at one point crying out, “I’m going to pass out!” I threw my arms up, and the one thing they did manage to stick me with came out. I only know this because I heard a nurse say, “She’s ripped her IV out.”
    Vincent came around to hold my left side, and the kinder nurse was on my left, while the nurse practitioner stood waiting. Since I was doing my own thing, when the moment to push came, my body was doing it on it’s own. I screamed out. It felt fantastic to shout! It was like letting lose upon the world.
    “You’re not helping yourself by screaming. You need to push,” the nurse practitioner told me. What a bitch. Yes, a bitch. I said it. And if you don’t agree with me now you will shortly, since her plethora of bitchiness does not end there.
    I did push. I felt his head slide down and then up again. I pushed a second time and I felt his head crown. It wasn’t that bad. Everything else was so intense that this just seemed to be the cherry on top. Then his head came out, and as the rest followed, it just felt like a weird bungled mess was coming out.
    Another nurse got right to work, she pushed down on my abdomen, trying desperately to get the placenta out. What a rush they were all in. I had finished my work. At 5:05 p.m. on May 18th, 2011, Cesar had been birthed. I was ready to relax and enjoy my son.

Below: Cesar Adolph Alejos is born! He's alien looking just like all other newborns, but give it some time and he will become a gorgeous ladies' man! 

   Well, was I in for it. No relaxing for me. Ms. Bitch decided to stitch me up. She kept sticking me without warning, and then saying idiotic things like, “You need to stop twitching.” At one point I yelled back at her, “Well if you gave me a little warning first I would know it’s coming.” I just wanted to relax, and I kept vocalizing it but no one cared. I was so tingly, I felt like I’d just had a deadly orgasm of some kind and I was incredibly sensitive.
    At one point the woman in charge of my newborn son offered him to me. At least she was joyful. She said, “This will take your mind off the stitches.” The placed him gently on my chest, and I looked at him. His face was bulbous and bruised. He had come out so fast that his face had literally slammed into my pelvis, and he did not have a “cone head” at all. I looked at him, and I am afraid I cannot tell you much. In my mind, I think his eyes were closed. I think besides the puffy face, there wasn’t much else to see. I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t cry, I didn’t experience a wave of hormones. I felt another needle stab into me, and I told the nurse, “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to take him back.” I guess I should have expected as much. I’m not the kind of person who can make a perfect moment happen in such disarray. I feel very guilty about that actually…. I let them take Cesar away and I wouldn’t see him again for hours.
    A nurse informed me that she was adding a drug to the IV. It would make me feel loopy, she said. I asked her why.
    “Because,” Ms. Bitch cut in, “If you don’t have the Demerol we will put you to sleep since you won’t stop twitching.”
    Well guess what? I didn’t stop twitching because I could still feel the pricks of her needles, I was that sensitive. The doctor finally arrived, apologizing. He had been stuck in traffic, he said as he took over for the nurse practitioner. He went to work right away and after just a few moments, he said, “Oh I’m sorry. I have to undo these stitches and redo them.”
    I told you she was a bitch.
    “That’s it. Put me to sleep,” I said. “I’ve had enough. I can’t do this any more.”
   

Any Day Now…

    Or so they keep telling me. Understandably, the EDD or Estimated Due Date is just that, a neat little estimate that gives us something to look forward to and causes a lot of tension for expecting moms and doctors when it passes unheeded by baby. I have a sneaking suspicion that my date will pass unmarked as well. Mostly because, while I feel my body preparing, I just expect I won’t be that lucky. Not to mention, while they assure me that I measure out, between all the first clinic, my first doctor, and my specialist’s sonograms all seemed to be slightly off in their expectations of what my due date was supposed to be.  My very first sonogram, done at the little clinic I went to, was at six weeks, and supposedly, the most accurate in terms of clocking measurement. According to that sonogram I was expected around May 19. Then it dropped to the 15 which aligned with the nifty little chart doctors used as time went by, and even my newest doctor challenged that by saying that the due date was the 14th according to the chart.
    Well, in any case, my next appointment is on the 11th and I expect they will make some mention of Cesar’s no show. Especially since I was last measured as being dilated 2 centimeters. Rest assured, little Cesar, I don’t plan on letting them admit me or start planning for an induction too soon.
    What I do know is that both Cesar and I are ready to be done! Mother Nature would be the culprit, taking Her sweet time in tidying up any last minute trimmings for him or I. I can tell because I do have the tightening sensations in my tummy, nothing painful, but the contractions of practice or pre-labor are really irritating Cesar, as he kicks and moves a bit more in response to the cramping. I feel nauseous lately, which made me feel better when I learned it’s a sign of pre-labor, except it’s lasted for almost two weeks now, which makes me just that much more relaxed about the whole thing. Not relaxed in a nice way, just a little less caring. I was determined from the beginning of pregnancy not to overreact, or jump up at the first sign of any labor, and I’m thankful for sticking by that because by now I would have been immensely irritated playing the waiting game.
    My mother bought me my first Mother’s Day gift, even though some would argue I’m technically not a mother yet. It was an awesome video game, Mortal Kombat! Vincent and I went to town playing the game for six hours on Saturday and finished it up on Sunday (Mother’s Day). I told my mom it was the first Mother’s Day present I’ve ever gotten and is the best! Sure does help take my mind off of everything as well. If there is one thing I can say I learned with Cesar, it’s how to relax and balance work and play. I have no intention of keeping an untidy home, as I have previously mentioned over and over. However, I learned that what I could do was, instead of trying to always clean the whole house at once, I clean one room every day as my project. I formed this routine and am quite pleased with it, because I feel like I can relax knowing that, since there are only four rooms, the home is kept quite nicely by this cycle. It certainly does help me to enjoy myself as well, and be a little more lazy like my son is going to be.
    I am so thankful for Vincent as well. With everything that has happened in this last month (unfortunately, it has been quite intense and I have been unable to write about it), I am grateful he is able to understand my stress. I have stopped working finally, taking home my very last paycheck. My father and I had a tremendous fight, which spread out to the rest of the family, and while I talked to him the other day for a small bit it seems to have done no good to smooth over the situation. I’ve gotten quite big and I feel ridiculously fat, which is really beginning to irritate me, especially since a walk can now knock the breath out of me (though I still refuse to waddle!). Getting comfortable is growing increasingly difficult, especially since I feel as though I spend the majority of my time laying down… wouldn’t be such a bad thing as I love cat naps except that my fat tummy bears down on anything it can, including ribs, pelvis, lungs, and just takes up a lot of space in general. I’m hungry all the time despite nausea, so that’s annoying too.
    Then there was the whole issue of possibly giving birth at home. I started reading about unassisted childbirth, a subject I hadn’t even dreamed existed but now feel quite foolish. Of course, I think now, why wouldn’t there be advocates for it. Groups of women who felt like I do even before me and have had experiences without hospitals. I found whole websites and books on this taboo subject. It’s completely amazing and refreshing. I told Vincent I wanted to keep it as an open option after doing much reading, and we had our first real argument. Which, in all honesty, was frustrating but involved no yelling or screaming, nothing with a typical fight except that I went to bed angry, which I try to avoid.
    The next morning, I woke up to,  “Hey Prego, I’ve been reading and it’s okay if you have the baby here.” I was so surprised and drowsy from sleep that I could hardly express myself appropriately. It makes me feel quite special that he took the time to do this for me. I suspect he might actually care about me! But more importantly, it makes me feel like I should do something especially nice for him in the future, because this was really important and I can’t say that in my entire life I have had anyone do something so nice.
    So there it is. We will play this out by ear, and I feel so much relief with that as we venture into this waiting game. I said my prayers to my goddess Hathor on Mother’s Day, and continue to look to Her for confidence on this day coming up.

What’s the problem with nine pound babies?

So what’s the problem with a large baby? Having come from a family of large children, I always thought that six pound babies must be especially weak (no offense). Growing up I didn’t know any better, since I was large, my brother was large, my father, and everyone else in my family. I thought it must mean that I was especially strong.

Well, apparently I was completely off. Apparently the truth of the matter is that if you don’t meet the weight requirements of a “normal” 6-7 pound baby it’s an emergency. At least, that’s how I feel right now. Having been seeing this new doctor, I can appreciate that he is a nice gentleman. He is not very imposing in personality and his staff has been very friendly. However, on a regular basis comments are being made about Cesar’s size. Upon my first appointment, it was that he was most definitely a large baby, and that might be difficult. Last week it was, “How large were you when you were born? And how large was Vincent?” and this week the inquiry was, “So how big do you think your baby is going to be?” Slightly annoyed, I replied, “Ummm.. 15 pounds.” This led us to the discussion of how that would make the doctor shriek, and that led to him telling me that I will be fine since I am getting the epidural, then stopping and saying, “You are getting it right? Yeah, you have that look in your eyes like the type that does.”

                While I understand he doesn’t know me, and that he is trying to form some kind of connection, I think sometimes if you say presumptuous things to the wrong person the effect can be somewhat counterproductive. I’m the wrong kind of person to say these things too. Especially when I have already tried to make it clear that I don’t like hospitals, doctors.. ect. In fact at the last appointment we had spoken about this, and I thought we had a good understanding of one another. Well, politely I reminded him that I am open to just about anything should the situation arise, but that we would have to see. I’m not so pompous as to assume that I don’t need one, but at the same time, I feel like this is a big challenge for me.

                In any case, I am appreciative of my mother, who gently reminds me that in the end, it’s up to me how calm I want to stay, and within reason it is up to me how I want to handle the situation and somewhat within my power  to have Cesar where I want to and how.

                So they say any day now. I’m pretty much full term at thirty seven weeks. He could come tomorrow, he could come a week late. I would prefer sooner rather than later, although it has become clear Vincent doesn’t feel the same way. I can’t blame him, since he’s not having quite the same experiences I am. He is still drinking, working, having fun, and I suspect part of him does have that worry that things are going to change so drastically once Cesar comes that he won’t be able to handle it if it’s too soon. I on the other hand, while I share this feeling to some extent, probably feel like most mothers do. I’m ready to be able to move around again without my ankles blowing up. I’m ready to start being flexible and active again the way I was. I’m ready to start losing weight, and to be honest, I’m tired of feeling like two people in one, sleepy all the time, and am becoming increasingly irritated with work. In fact, just today I wanted to walk out, so irritated was I with my manager. Now, in all fairness, that’s not really because of the pregnancy. It’s more because I am trying to get ready on my end for Cesar, yet the small hotel I work at is not doing so well management wise, and with the stress they give to me I end up sleeping on my days off instead of being productive as I would much prefer. Yet I remind myself, I do have an end in sight.. or rather, a new job just about to begin any day.

Ditched!

On March 18, 2011… I took my father to an appointment in which we told the doctor I did not care to be induced without medical reason, and that I was fairly confident that even if my baby was nine pounds, I wouldn’t opt for a c-section since big babies are considered the “norm” in my family. No one asked me about how I felt about the head nurse, and the meeting was, while awkward, non confrontational.

That was on a Friday.

The certified letter I received the following week was dated March 21, 2011.  This means that while the weekend gap exists, the office (like most businesses) was not open and therefore it’s safe to say nothing of great impact occurred between the day of my appointment and the day my letter was written.

The letter was one paragraph, and stated that as of April 5, 2011 the doctor will no longer see me and will not be responsible for the delivery of my child. This was stated as being due to, “circumstances involving the nursing staff…”

Talk about a load of capital BS. I called the office, asked to speak with someone regarding the manner, and was transferred to the office manager’s voicemail. I left a polite but firm message stating I needed clarification on what exactly this all meant, and why no mention of it was made during my last appointment.  I never received a call back.

I’m not really upset about losing my doctor in particular. It’s more that my pride was damaged. I feel like they handled this very childishly, and that they “got the last word” without even giving me the chance to finally chew someone out. I had one more appointment scheduled that I didn’t even show for (due to the fact that I scheduled another appointment with a new potential doctor same day and time), and rather than receive a call confirming I had missed my appointment I got nothing. The office totally shunned me.

Now, I believe it’s due to a combination of things. I’m certain the nurse did not think she could handle me anymore, and I also think the doctor felt that since I was taking more control with my birth that he didn’t need me either. Oh well…

A coworker of mine suggested I call her doctor, which I admitted I was hesitant to do since this last disaster was due thanks to a previous coworker.

However, despite what you may think that I am completely anti-hospital (which I am to an extent), I am not so naïve as to believe that I am beyond incident. I know something could go wrong, and I am well aware that a circumstance might arise in which I’d need medical intervention. For this reason, I decided I would get a move on and try this recommendation out.

What a difference. Perhaps also because I’ve changed and grown due to my last experience… still, while I remain hesitant I will admit that upon first impression I was impressed.  This new office is located in the medical center, which is farther away (about a ten minute drive). However, since it lies amongst other medical buildings it has a much more impressive and clean look to it. The staff was very pleasant to me! And everything was computerized.. not in a scary, overwhelming sort of way. Rather when I filled out my medical history I worked on a laptop and all of my info was easily retrieved by the nurse later when we met in the examination room. Via her computer, she was able to address a variety of things I had checked (here I thought they wouldn’t pay attention!). 

I also met with the doctor, and I discussed with them previous issues and how I had ultimately come to end up there. The doctor immediately told me that, “It sounds like you have an aversion to being induced… so we’ll avoid that. I induce medically, say if you go a week past your due date. But we will play it out and see how this goes when the time comes.”

The nurse went over my eating habits, told me she wasn’t too concerned with my weight as long as I am eating healthy. She encouraged more exercise and then, when I laid down to have my belly measured, she did something my old nurse never did. She actually dug her hand into my gut and wiggled it fearlessly! Then she told me, “The baby is head down.”

Wow… and I told her I was amazed that she could tell me his position just by the feel.

So.. all in all I do feel much better. I have another appointment in two weeks (as time gets closer to the big day the appointments get closer together) and by that time they said they should have all of my records and we can go over everything in further detail.

My project? My weight went up… due to swelling I’m almost certain… since the jump was another ten pounds in two weeks. It’s so frustrating. And my blood pressure was horribly high. The nurse suspected that it was because I was extremely nervous.. it was at 139/94. She said it’s probably much lower since I am young, but that I should avoid caffeine, lower my salt… these things make the blood pressure rise. She also said drink more water, drink cranberry juice.

Yeah, apparently swelling with water can put loads of pressure on your kidneys, and cause the blood pressure to go up. And I knew I’d been slacking off with my water intake and drinking more caffeine (which also causes anxiousness and high BP). So… decaf tea, water, and juice, here I come. This should help lower my weight and get me ready for my next appointment, in which I’ll really get to see how this new place is.

In any case, I give them major appreciation for allowing me to vent my feelings and responding so politely.  

Overprotective and irrational...

So women and I don’t really click. (Don't worry, I'll whine about how I don't want a baby shower later). When I was little I was picked on by girls from time to time, and often I went to play with the boys. I think that may be because I was in a military family, and traveling every four years turned my brother and I into closer companions, until we settled down in Corpus where I would graduate. I was lucky to meet a group of people, all of us strange. We were friends, mostly female and two males and we all were together on a regular basis. We had sleepovers and little parties.. one of our friends, her mother owned a storage place and we would run throughout the vast number of little garages at night and try to spook each other. We’d hang out in the empty ones… and it was a good segment of my life that I greatly enjoyed. While there was a core of us, others came and went or stayed a while to make profound impacts.

                I miss that sometimes. We changed greatly, each of us, and I do not regret that. However, having a nice variety of close friends was pleasant. I am not sure what it was about those particular females (perhaps because they too were of a unique variety) that made me so well adapt to them. Now is definitely a time when I could use them.

                I feel a lack of trust developing between myself and a few of the men in my life, mainly because of the baby issue. One might argue that it’s hormonal however I have calculated and reexamined my logic and I believe I have a pretty decent case developing.

                I was really disappointed in my appointment  on the eighteenth. My father accompanied me, and I was very grateful because I felt that he would question everything.

                I have to wonder if the nurse remembered who I was at all or if she had forgotten. She had another nurse with her who observed her actions. She told me first that I am anemic, and unlike usual in which she simply told me this, she came and showed me the paperwork.  She showed how I had dropped from my original borderline measurement of 11.8 down to 9.8. I lost five pounds, which she congratulated me on and then said that I must have “had some swelling going on last time.” She said my blood pressure was good, a little high at 120/70 but the bottom number was good so that was ok. I was very guarded which was obvious, answering her questions with short phrases and not really participating in any conversation she tried to stimulate.

                I kept thinking that I had nothing to be nervous or anxious about. Why? I live once, and in this one life, I have a chance to do right for  myself and my child, and I feel strongly that my decision is the best and has been well thought out.

                So then the doctor comes in. This is the second time we’ve met, and while I know he doesn’t know me I remember him. Upon our first meeting he scolded me about my weight. He likes to talk to me like a child when I’m in trouble, although I’m not sure why that is. This time, he scolded me about my iron levels, asking me why it had dropped so significantly, what had I done? Both times he asked I told him I don’t know, the way someone who’s playing along does. In other words, I just cooed, “I don’t know.” I mean really, I take my prenatal they prescribe, I take another daily vitamin including iron at night. Even when I told him I thought my prenatal had iron, he said he was going to give me more. He questioned if I ate my vegetables.. oi, twice. What a frustration! I’m very aware that I may not eat tremendously healthy, but my dinner almost always includes a meat, and two sides of veggies one always broccoli because that’s what Vincent likes. I don’t think he believed me. He commented that my baby’s growth was quite large… and that the larger the baby, well that “increases your chances of a c-section.” This seemed like my cue to step in.

                I told him that I didn’t want a c-section. He immediately said, “Well no one wants a c-section.” I let him know that I was a large baby, my father confirming I was almost nine pounds and even he being large. He told the doctor that on both sides of my family most babies were large, and I told him I was confident I could handle it if my mother could.

                Then I let him know I wasn’t interested in being induced. I began by explaining that I felt elective inductions were a bad idea, and that I felt strongly about this and didn’t want it done. He asked, “Well why would we do that?” I told him the nurse had explained that it was typical of the office to choose the day to induce and he assured me, “Well that’s fine.” At which point I felt I hadn’t quite made myself clear. I told him I didn’t want to have Pitocin used at the hospital just to speed up my labor, and suddenly, it was as if I had said something magical.

                For some unknown reason, when someone says they don’t want to use a drug (a drug which, by the way, is not even intended for use unless there is an emergency situation) everyone starts in. Suddenly, people feel the need to school you on all these possible scenarios in which you will just have to use the drug.

                The doctor began by telling me if I go a week past my due date, well I have to be induced. He and my father decided to tell me that if labor stops then I will have to have the Pitocin. The doctor told me, “I won’t risk your baby…” if there’s any situation he felt he needed it, I’d have to have it.

                For someone who has had a normal, healthy pregnancy, it sure freaking seems like I am doomed to have something go wrong. I felt like I had to throw up my arms and say forget it. Instead I tried to keep my fuel by adding, “I understand all that. However, if it’s not medically necessary, I don’t want you to just say that ‘it’s been five hours so we need to go ahead and get this moving.’”

                At which point, the doctor smartly replied, “Let me tell you, I don’t do anything that’s not medically necessary.” At which point I replied, “Well, it seems to me that elective inductions would be not medically necessary.” Apparently that didn’t really deserve a response from either party.

                Even on the way back to my home, my father began to school me on why I’d need pitocin. He started out saying that in case I didn’t know, when the water breaks, chances of infection increase over time. I cut him off… “I know all that,” I told him, and then explained that most often times, however, the water is broken for you by the hospital to speed up birth, which then puts you in a predicament. Labor that stalls isn’t a big deal until the water breaks, however if a hospital intervenes to “speed up the process” and breaks it for you, well then yes, you’re pretty much screwed.

                So why are men so quick to turn to the hospital? Surprisingly it is most often women, however doubtful they might be about your ability to handle the pain aspect, who are more likely to tell you to do it however you want as long as you are comfortable. I am still surprised that my father, a fervent believer in facts and figures, in rechecking and distrusting what any scholar might say, that he was quick to be so understanding of why I’d need pitocin.

                My friend explained to me her husband questioned many of their preplanned choices, despite her wishes and their research, because the hospital staff scared him well. It’s not the first time I’ve heard of this. I suppose it’s the male way of maternal instinct kicking in, only it does so in a  (forgive my French)half –ass way. I know my father cares about me immensely, but it’s as if all of the sudden, he doesn’t have any faith in me. It’s as though despite the fact women are designed to give birth, men see this need to protect them from themselves and “all the horrible things that could go wrong…” and instead of trusting us to know our bodies or provide support by conversing with us about our decisions and following through, they want to hand us over to professionals for safekeeping. Even if it’s the last thing we want.

                I start to feel a little betrayed, and discuss my personal birth plans with my mother and my close friend and no one else. I’ve always been fairly headstrong, and even a little bratty when it comes to getting my way. I can’t tell if Vincent has an opinion, so I assume he doesn’t care one way or the next. This can also be a little disheartening when faced with so much annoyance. Because it leads me to this conclusion: I can’t trust my doctor whose logic I can’t follow entirely, I can’t trust my dad to make the decision I want, and I can’t trust Vincent not to get talked into anything.

                I really, really wish I’d gone with a midwife. I wish I had paid more attention in the beginning to my feelings instead of thinking I should listen to what the majority said. Mistake on my part… but all’s not lost yet.. I still have some good advice rolling my way from my mother and my friend.

Gaining Control...

Today I had my nails done. For a while I could feel my hormones kicking in with a vengeance. The color of the tips wasn’t purple enough, the nail tech had made the mistake like all those who have done my nails before and gone too deep (my nails are thinner than most) and left light red indents around the edges.

                After an excellent morning, I dipped very low, and struggled to ward off my growing temper. I was very aware as to what a silly thing it would be to fret over. Nails grow back, and I was also aware that not only were they pretty, but that I would get over it and then feel like a fool later.

                Waiting it out felt like an eternity though. I’ve never felt such a boiling of the blood that I couldn’t rationalize a bit quicker. Still, after about an hour and a half I managed to return to normal.

                Knowing that I still have a rational mind keeps me at ease, especially since I have definitely started to succumb to the hormones as of lately. I had a great chat with my mom yesterday, who instilled my  sense of control over my situation. She gently reminded me, “Just remember, no matter where you are or what’s going on, that baby’s coming. Stay home as long as you feel you can or are comfortable with, so that you’re not restricted to the bed of a hospital.” She reminded me of her birth, in which for the first stage she went swimming, saw a movie, and did other activities to pass the time at her leisure. So today, luckily, I feel more at ease.. that I will determine how I feel and when it’s appropriate to do what… I mean, I don’t think anyone can say for certain what is going to happen, nor can they give me a step by step guide that will apply directly to me.

               

                Hormones are a tricky thing, as it turns out, and boy was my mother right! The first six months were a breeze…  but now it’s as though they have been unleashed!

                Still, I keep my chin up, and am pleased to report I still admit my mood swings to Vincent, and can handle them as appropriately as possible.

                My next appointment has also been set for the 18^th. After the clinic called and informed me that the doctor was unavailable to see me on the date of my previous appointment (ummmm, I thought the nurse said he was there every day?), I cancelled completely. I called my father later and asked him if when I rescheduled he would like to come along and he agreed. I was very surprised at how smooth the conversation was. I asked, he said he would just take the day off for it. I called the clinic, and negotiated a day  which was a week out from my original appointment date. I feel relieved knowing my father will be there. I have always felt that he can fight and win just about any battle, and I hope I can achieve as much in the eyes of my son someday. I actually feel somewhat guilty that I asked him to come along… as I know this is a battle I should have probably just fought myself. However, in this particular case, with all the scenarios involving women getting taken advantage of by a doctor who “knows better” during labor, I couldn’t help but feel that I didn’t want to be labeled, “that irrational, hormonal girl.” Not to mention my mother pointed out that I probably feel very alone right now and when you combine that with the idea of being drugged up, lied to, or taken advantage of in a hospital, it can have serious effects. So yes, I am so grateful for my father.

Once again, I think in my next life I might like to be a man, that way I can stand up for some pretty lady in her time of need.

It’s amazing what upping my water intake has done for me. My thick ankles and feet that were attributed to preeclampsia by my nurse have lost much of their girth. I can see the bones in my feet again!

I am so grateful for my family and the things they do for me. My mother is even coming down for a week in May, after the due date, to help me out and ease any transition for Vincent and I. Which is extremely important to me. I don’t want our lives to become solely about our son. I want to make sure we have fun together with each other as well, and while I know it will be hard, it’s probably the best advice I’ve gotten for a successful family environment.

On a side note: I am very anxious to experience my first Braxton Hicks contraction. Yeah yeah, I know most women will tell me I shouldn't be excited. But of course I am! I'll actually be able to have some gage of the pain (even though real labor pains are more intense) and my body will begin practicing. I want to see how I will respond to them, and since my pain tolerancy has always been fairly decent. I understand that the Braxton Hicks are quie uncomfortable for some and for others they are not even noticeable... I would like to get some practice in!

Spirit of the Tiger!

                When I get in a rage, I often think about my favorite animal, the tiger. I envision a tiger at peace, her tail lazily flopping up and down in some mild display of boredom. She’s a large beast, her great girth not so imposing though, until she stands up in a rage. I see this tiger’s teeth, as ferocious and ugly as murder, and I try to invoke just a bit of that.

                On Friday, I spent the majority of my day trying to finish up what I’d been so desperately trying to take care of… my Rhogam shot. I’ve waited twenty eight weeks to get it, and after my previous appointment, I was so completely stressed out that the idea of having to jump more hurdles to get this one thing was breaking me. I don’t understand how the medical field can insist that something like Rhogam is detrimental when having a baby, and then make it so difficult to come by?

                My day started at nine. I woke up, got ready, and headed out to the hospital. There I was told to go to the Labor and Delivery Floor. Once I arrived there, the nurses (who by the way, were extremely nice), told me that I needed to be registered, and that I couldn’t get my shot until I had blood taken and reviewed by a lab, the results would take about three to four hours to come back. Oh, and they told me that I HAD to have the shot the same day as the lab work. I never really did inquire further as to why, but apparently it all had to be done in one day, even though I would be allowed to leave the property while awaiting the results.

                I won’t delve too much into the annoyance I had to go through from there. Between going to the lab, being told I should have been given paperwork from Labor and Delivery, to going back to Labor and Delivery, then escorted at last to registration, I finally had blood drawn and was on my way out at about ten thirty in the morning. Tacking on about four hours to that, I gave work a call and let them know I might be late coming in, but I would make sure I had an excuse.

                Two o’clock p.m., I call the office to see if my results are ready. When they tell me it’ll be about an hour, I wait patiently, then decide I’m just going to head straight over because I’m starting to get anxious again – I had a sneaking suspicion at that point that things were going awry.

                The nurses in Labor and Delivery welcome me back, and let me know my lab work still hasn’t completed. They say maybe another hour, get me set up on a bed, strap some monitors over my belly to hear the baby’s heartbeat, and then throw on the device used to measure my BP and set it to go off every fifteen minutes. At that point, I start to get agitated. I didn’t understand why it was taking so long, nor why I was then being hooked up to monitors. Part of me guessed that they decided hearing the baby’s heartbeat would soothe me… little did they realize I don’t stay distracted for very long.

                At 3:40 the nurse returned to tell me that the lab had called, and that it was going to be another hour and a half. At this point, I started taking off monitors, which put quite the look on her face.

                “I  have to leave,” I told her, “I’ll be happy to come back another day when I can devote the whole day to this, but I just don’t have the time for this right now.”

                Scrambling, the nurse got right back on the phone with the lab, and talked them down to thirty minutes, which I agreed to. We didn’t bother putting the monitors back on.

                At four thirty, I was injected with Rhogam… finally.   They monitored me for an additional fifteen minutes to ensure I did not experience a reaction to it, then sent me on my way. Honestly, for all of that work, I expected a large, intimidating needle with a lot of fluid accompanied by a tremendous amount of pain.

                While the liquid was oily, the needle was small, and nurse who injected me very nice. She explained that relaxing the muscles would make it less painful, and even rolled it between her hands to try and warm it up since she also explained that cold liquids were more uncomfortable.

                This entire  process would prove not to be in vain though, as some interesting results came of it. To begin with, the nurses were extremely kind, and we did exchange a number of words. I was relieved to discover that my clinic’s head nurse would not be involved in the birthing process, and I found out that at this particular hospital the baby is not taken from the mother unless it is being taken into critical care. Yet probably most profound, I had been monitored for over an hour, blood pressure measured every fifteen minutes. I asked the nurse after how my blood pressure looked over all. She explained that it was a “little high” when I came in, probably because I was agitated or had worked myself up a good bit. However, over time it had dropped, even become a bit low. My ending BP was 112/70.

                I let the nurse know why I was so interested, that my clinical nurse had said I have “red flags” for preeclampsia. The reaction I received made me feel good, as the attending nurse’s face contorted.

                “No, no,” she said, “I don’t even know why she would tell you that.”

                Needless to say, I was left relieved to have finally gotten the shot, and furious with my clinic.

                How much half truths, or lies, have I been receiving? Vincent thinks I have this outrageous mistrust in doctors, that I will refute anything they say. The truth is, I do to a reasonable extent, but for the most part, I want to know that I am safe. I’m an average woman, although I question things to a higher degree than most. Still, this is a prime example of how even someone such as myself, the cautious type, had been pulled along, and made to feel foolish.

                To make matters even more extreme, the next night I got to talking with my father, and a friend of his who is currently in nursing school and very close to finishing. She just completed her course concerning prenatal care and labor, and was very informative. She explained to me that inductions are very common, but reaffirmed my previous research that they are nothing akin to natural childbirth despite what my clinical nurse had told both Vincent and myself.

                I felt so awful and angry, and to make matters worse, I had this image in my head of her, enjoying her weekend, not giving a damn about me since I had so easily been mislead.

                Sunday morning… couldn’t sleep. I organized my thoughts, wrote and rewrote them, and then made the call. I left her a nasty message. Not cussing or calling her names… that trash is not my style. But I did let her have it.

                I told her:

                This is Amanda Keller, you saw me Thursday morning. I’m calling because I’m very upset right now, so much that I’m pretty sure my blood pressure is high again. This is the second time you’ve overreacted to a situation. First, when the unidentified antibody showed up. You said it was definitely an issue, that it couldn’t be anything else but something to do with the pregnancy. Then I go to the specialist and find out it’s nothing.

                Now, you said I have the red flags for preeclampsia. I was monitored for over an hour at Baptist Hospital while waiting for my Rhogam shot, and they say my blood pressure was a little high because I was agitated but after I calmed down, that it is fine, that I absolutely don’t have the symptoms. Do me a favor, next time I gain ten, twenty, or even fifty pounds, don’t freak out, run out of the room, come back and  take my blood pressure and then wonder why it’s gone up.

                And another thing, I also talked to a recent nursing student. I don’t understand how you say the synthetic drug used in inductions is akin to normal childbirth when they are flat out teaching the students it’s not. I don’t know when you went to nursing school, or when you got your information, or perhaps the rest of the world is lying to me. However, it seems like it’s a lot easier for my to verify what everyone else is saying than what you have told me.

                I apologize for leaving this message to you, but I’m stressed over this, and while you have told me that emotions don’t affect the baby, that’s another thing I learned: that the higher blood pressure and stress associated with the emotions mean that they do affect him. I may be a first time mother, but I don’t need this and I can’t believe you made me feel bad about myself!

                : Then I hung up.

                Still upset, but greatly relieved, I vented to Vincent later that night. What a relief it was to have him home. While I am certain it was the last thing he wanted to hear about so soon after his return, I couldn’t emphasize enough how foolish I felt, and how much it had upset me that we had been taken advantage of.

                Then, there’s the pride aspect of it. I wonder, will I feel proud of myself if later in life I have to tell my son, “Well, I didn’t like or agree with any of the things that were done to me, but I just didn’t do anything about it.” I told Vincent, I’d rather be seen as a tyrant than someone who will be walked over. What kind of example will I set for my own child if I can’t feel proud of my own decisions, or stand behind them. Granted, I admit I thought that I would be able to wait until he was in school before I started having to defend my son and myself (..looking forward to that first parent-teacher conference), but I guess that was silly of me to think that.

                My clinical nurse called me this morning. I suspected she would, but what I wasn’t prepared for was how docile she sounded. I expected we would have a phone chat, and I was ready to answer, reminding myself of the tiger. Instead, she tells me, “I got your message and we don’t want you feeling bad so why don’t you come in and see the doctor and he can talk to you.” I told her I couldn’t today, and she asked if I was sure. I said maybe tomorrow.

                So I call my family, who offered some great perspective in all their wisdom. The first was my father, who advised, “Why do they want you to come in? You‘ve been cleared by other medical professionals as being ok. If you don’t want to go in… don’t. Tell them if he wants to see you, he can at your next appointment, but that you don’t feel like being stressed out by going into the clinic again.” Ect. Ect.

                Then, my mother, who asks, “If he just wanted to talk to you why couldn’t he over the phone? Every time you go into that clinic someone gets billed for your visit, be it our tax dollars or someone else’s.” Which is completely true. All of the extra tests which were ordered, going to the specialist, moving my appointments closer together because of the supposed preeclampsia… all of this costs taxpayer money.

                My concern, however, was also that the nurse is going to use the doctor to her defense, which I completely expect. They apparently have been in league for years… so, seeing him as someone with more authority, I’m sure she expects me to sit down and listen to him explain why inductions are practical as well as safe ect.

                So I called back… office was closed again (seems to happen a lot even on weekdays), and left a message for the front desk that my schedule’s tight, and I’ll just keep my appointment for the tenth. If the doctor has anything to say to me, I let her know he could see me at my appointment or call me. I keep thinking about the tiger, and how I want to be seen.

               

                How many other women, I wonder, have been lied to, or strung along? I hear about them all the time… friends who were deceived. Then, there is the great majority. The women who tell me that all three of their births were induced, for example, and they seemed normal. Why? Well, imagine, if you don’t do any research, that the first birth sets you up for the next one and so forth. If you put your trust in the hands of a professional who told you the things I had been told and you did not question them, I suppose you would come to expect it from all of your births.

                Now, in no way am I mocking mothers who are happy being induced. I realize that this comprises the majority of the American population at this point. Only when I talk to those learned in the subject, or foreigners do they stare in wonder and remark at how incredibly irresponsible it seems to have an induction purely for the convenience of it. As I’ve said before, America is the land of convenience, so I suppose it would seem perfectly natural for childbirth to play along into that.

                However, some of the best advice I’ve gotten in my time, “If a procedure is not medically necessary, then you probably don’t want to have it done.” I personally, feel in no way scared of childbirth.. anxious, certainly as well as curious and excited. But my body was made for this, right? It’s the other people I’m concerned about.

                My father drives quite confidently. On the road, he is brilliant, smooth, he knows the laws and maneuvers accordingly.  Yet often times, I cringe at the way he drives. The other day, he commented on this and I told him, “I trust you. I understand you know what you were doing, but just because you do doesn’t mean anyone else abides. What’s to stop someone in the next lane from swerving over recklessly and hitting us?” It’s the perfect metaphor really.

If it’s not one thing…

                ….it’s another. Sometimes I wonder if my nurse, or doctor doesn’t want to make me miserable on purpose. No, that would be too much attention paid to my case. I suspect rather, that pregnancies are treated a lot more like cows, as I’ve said before. I imagine that we cows are just herded along, and every time we undergo inspection there’s always room for improvement. Either you’re a little heavy, or you’re a little thin. Also, if there’s a “red flag” for anything, the most extreme, worst case scenario is noted, often with little to no real explanation.

                I say this because I have already once undergone an unnecessary scare with my RH factor. Being told you have an antibody that might try to kill your baby can put you under a lot of stress. When you find out that it’s really nothing you are so relieved that you forget how angry you should be with the practitioner who (in my humble opinion) handled the situation so poorly.

                Now, it’s another. I was so happy to go to my appointment today. I knew I’d gained weight. In fact I told my nurse right away I had complaints to whine to her concerning my new swelling body. My hands are swollen, my feet swell up to a ridiculous level. I figured I was retaining water at a very troublesome level, but thought she would recommend something like taking some water pills to flush my system and of course lowering salt intake. As I’m in my third trimester, I also suspected that now was the real time I was going to start getting heavy with little to no effort.

                What I got was much more troubling. After describing my swelling, the nurse looked at my feet, and noted that early in the day I did seem to have a bit of swelling (what she failed to note was that I had only been awake for about an hour at that point). We discussed possible issues such as salt, and then it was on to taking my weight. Ten pounds. She was howling, and I mean she wasn’t doing the “that’s not a good sign,” light pep talk, but actually making troublesome grunts and moans. “Ten pounds!” she whined after it was all said and done. I already felt just dreadful.  My heart starts racing as she says she will be right back, and I imagine that she’s going to get the doctor to yell at me.

                When the nurse returns, she takes my blood pressure, then says that it has “gone up a little,” as well. She starts going over my diet. What did I have for breakfast this morning?

                “Nothing.”

                “Why?”

                “I was tired and not really hungry.”

                “What do you normally have.”

                “Eggs.”

                So she starts looking over my diet the past couple days, and I admit to having had chips the other day with my sandwich, and ice cream on another occasion. She asks if I drink soda or juice, I tell her I drink tea mainly, and when she asks if I sweeten I let her know it’s typically artificial sweetener.

                So after that she returns to her desk, and whines, “I don’t want you to get preeclampsia.”

                Well what on earth is that? Like I’m not going to ask!

                She ends up describing it as being water weight gain, high blood pressure, and protein in the urine… two of the three symptoms I have for mild case scenario.

                I tell her I don’t understand why, it seems like all the people I know gained huge amounts of weight… and they didn’t have all these problems. She responds saying that it’s because it’s water weight. Then proceeds to scare me by telling me worst case scenarios. Such as the possibility of me having to be confined to bed rest… worst case scenario (when you get headaches, blurred vision due to the pressures on the kidney and brain) early delivery.

                “Ummm.. isn’t that kind of counterproductive? Like gaining weight but then you get confined to bed? I’d hate lying down all day.”

                Apparently, no. Confining a woman to bed, despite the weight I’d probably gain from eating and not moving, is totally reasonable even if it does stress you out. Why? Because it helps to allow for better passage of water through the body.

                I told her I still didn’t understand. Sure they’re symptoms, but just because you have them, how can three symptoms of something which (after research) doesn’t even have a clear definition or cause mean you have this problem? Well, those are two red flags.. she replied. Now I have to return to more frequent appointments, and oh yeah, even though I never had a glucose test to begin with, they decided to perform one today to, “make sure we’re not dealing with that,” as the nurse said. `

                Oh yes, and I didn’t even get my shot… the important solution to the first issue of the RH factor. No, I can’t have that at the clinic, I have to go to the hospital, have blood work done there, and then get it. So while the nurse decided to give me the order for it today, I said screw it, I’ll go tomorrow and deal with the glucose test today. I didn’t really feel like having all my blood taken and injected in one round.

                So I went to the lab, where I had three vials of blood drawn, since they are also running a score of other general analysis at the nurse’s request. I have a bruise on my right arm from the initial draw, then had to drink a bottle of glucose drink and sit in the office for an hour so they could perform another blood test for the after effects.

                I can’t help but feel conflicted. The first part of me thinks that this office is just anxious to classify me as a high risk pregnancy, just for the sake of the extra money on the government’s behalf, and because if I am classified high risk, they can pretty much dictate exactly how my delivery will go and when, and I really can’t refuse without seeming like I don’t care enough about my child.

                The other part of me just feels guilty. After the nurse telling me about this, I received some scant reading material but was able to look it up online at work. Even though no real cause can be identified, I feel like everything I put into my body is potentially harming poor Cesar. I ate a subway sandwich, and wondered how much salt it had and if it would stress him out. I have to start counting kicks too, she said, to make sure he’s not under stress. I just feel awful, like I’m crushing him or pumping him full of garbage that will harm him and me. Apparently everything is bad for me, which I just can’t follow.

                I don’t understand how pregnancy is considered different for every woman, but then doctors insist you fit into categories. When I was early on, I was eating too many carbs… cereal was bad for me.. everything was bad if it had carbs. Now all of the sudden, it’s nuts, yogurt, and fruit I should be eating, along with cereal. Oh and before walking was such a healthy exercise, as was belly dancing and any kind of core work out. Now I should be laying down, I should have my feet up all the time, even when sitting. I can tell she’s even reconsidering her original statement that I would be able to work until delivery, since she asked about my job then openly concluded I was probably on my feet a lot.

                It’s just completely disheartening. To tell the truth, I also get frustrated because I don’t feel the doctor knows me very well at all. Today she asked me about scars I had on my stomach, and I replied “Remember? We talked about that at my very first visit.. they are from years ago.” It’s hard, in my opinion, to diagnose someone with anything if you don’t have a solid, accurate picture of the kind of life they are living. I’m not saying I am healthy or that I don’t have this preeclampsia. I just feel that using scare tactics and jumping to worse case scenarios is a little unfair, and I can’t help but feel that the office is not out to protect me, but rather to prove a case. It’s as if they think they have a lead, and now they really, really want to prove it. I feel like once again, if anything goes wrong, it’s all my fault, and they have a case as to why it would be, like they are always on top of covering their own asses.  

                I can only hope I passed the glucose test to her satisfactory, or else I am going to be hearing about that in the next couple of weeks as well. Oh, who am I kidding… of course I’m going to be hearing about it. I’m sure she’s going to tell me just how bad it is, or how close I was to failing if I managed not to.

                To be honest, I sometimes wonder if the stress is worth it. I’m starting to think that if I have another child, I’m better off making few appointments, or making myself readily unavailable to them. And no, it’s not because I don’t care about my children. It’s because after talking with other women, I’m beginning to realize that this practice of making the patient feel some extent of guilt is typical. A coworker of mine describes it as their way of, “making sure that if something does go wrong, they can say they brought it up, that they never promised you a healthy baby or that you were doing everything right.” Another friend reassured me that after watching his wife have three kids, “They just want to make sure you go to your next appointment.”

                In any case the best and most accurate advice I’ve been given throughout the day is just not to worry about it. In an effort to make me laugh, after telling my coworker how I had two of the three symptoms of preeclampsia, she said, “You should have told your nurse, ‘Well you act like a bitch. When I come in the office I don’t like you, and when I leave the office I don’t like you. That’s three out of three symptoms of being a bitch so I guess you are one.’”