But, as I was sitting on my bed chatting with her (roughly 9pm), I felt a sharp kick and even heard a pop. I sat there thinking, "That was weird." I even wondered for a split second if my water broke. Alas, nothing happened.
Until I got up from the bed to use the restroom. A waterfall erupted. I stopped my mother mid-sentence. "Well.. Um. Mother. I might need you to come to our house tonight."
"Why?"
"Uh.. Cause my water just broke."
She proceeded to exclaim that I needed to call Brad immediately and go to the hospital. She was somehow more nervous/excited than I was.
Brad was working his second job, so I quickly called him, as I was letting the rest of my water fall as I stood in the bathroom.
No answer.
I was immediately (though unfairly) annoyed.
I took all my wet clothes and threw them in the bottom of my shower. I quickly began waddling around the house trying to pack all the random tidbits I had left for last minute. Meanwhile, I tried Brad's cell again.
Luckily, he answered. I told him my water broke. I could almost hear him take a cliché gulp. "OOookay. I'm on my way."
He got home to his pantless pregnant wife, waddling up and down the hallway, still packing.. occasionally dribbling water as I went.
We eventually arrived at the hospital about 2 hours later. Contractions were roughly 8 minutes apart at that point.
But the 'plan' quickly changed upon arrival. I had hoped to labor in water (as discussed with my OB), but the doc on duty was not 'comfortable' with it. So instead, "You can still labor using a birthing ball or bean if you want." I also had planned to just have a heplock in place -- just in case of emergency. But neither option panned out, as baby boy's heart rate was fluctuating with contractions, so they wanted constant monitoring and an IV in place. Then he noticed I had been on low dose aspirin for a superficial blood clot midway through pregnancy, and insisted I needed to have leg compressors on during labor.
So, all my plans to naturally cope with contractions disappeared within an hour of my arrival. I was soon strapped to monitors, leg compressors, IVs in place, and told that I could only labor in the confines of the bed. I was annoyed -- and in pain. But I, perhaps better than most, know that plans change. I just had to deal.
Luckily, by morning, my actual OB arrived and said the compressors were completely unnecessary. So, one annoying thing I could be rid of.
Then things got worse. My labor stalled, so they pushed Pitocin, which made contractions 20 times worse (seriously, not even a mild exaggeration). I debated with myself for hours about getting an epidural or not. Each contraction getting worse and worse. And I knew I feasibly had hours ahead of me, with no other means of coping. Shaking the bed rails just wasn't cutting it.
I certainly don't knock anyone who has gone the epidural route. But avoiding one was a goal of mine. And it crushed me that I was going to 'cave in' to the pain. I literally started crying solely over my decision. Telling Brad over and over that I was sorry, that I felt like a failure, etc. Meanwhile, he didn't care in the slightest. In actuality, I think he wanted me to take the drugs. Every time a contraction hit, I just saw this helpless look come across his face. I could tell he hated seeing me in pain as much as I hated feeling it.
I finally, after about 15 hours of labor, asked for the epidural.
Things did not go smoothly.
As they started it, I shouted out, "That hurts!" The tech was confused, "What hurts?"
"My hip. My right hip. It feels like it's on fire."
The tech went on to explain how the medication may go to one side first, yadda. yadda. yadda.
So, he proceeded along. As they were laying me back down in the bed, it became evident that my right side was numb, but my left side was completely in the land of the living. I went through 4-5 contractions, with only half of my body numb, before they acknowledged something must be wrong -- even at first insisting that if I laid on my side, the medicine might spread 'correctly.' It never did.
So they had to remove the epidural entirely and start over.
Finally, I was numb.
I kept thinking -- when they talk about the cascade of interventions, they sure aren't joking. My current state could not have been much more deviated from my ideal birth plan. But again, one must adapt. It was too late to change anything.. even if I was beating myself up over it.
Fairly quickly, it was time to push. An odd thing to do when you can barely hold your own legs up. (I did have soooome muscle control, so I was at least pleased with that.) Brad held one of my legs. A handsome doc in training held my other. My OB was at the ready.
All I could do was have a sense of humor at this point. Joking with the OB how we planned to take an Instagram picture with "#crowning." Brad chimed in after I'd been pushing for probably nearly an hour, "My back and legs really hurt." I mocked him in return, and everyone in the room got a good chuckle.
Then we decided pushing wasn't working because the music was too blah. We had some mellow tunes on, so I told Brad we should get some Iggy Azalea up in this place. Sure enough, Brad turned it to the Iggy Pandora station, and perhaps the most crude song came on. Again, everyone laughed. My OB and her trainee even started jamming a little.
For what it's worth, it did seem to help. Pushing started to make progress.
All the sudden Brad sounded way more eager and encouraging. Clearly he was breaking the "don't you dare look down there" rule. o.O
Finally, our son was born. They placed him on my chest. I smiled and said, "Hey there little guy." But no sooner had the words escaped my mouth, the energy in the room shifted.
They were suctioning him, but there was no cry. That cry that every parent waits for upon arrival. Almost instantly, the doctor took him away from me again and scurried him off to the corner of the room. I was stuck there, unable to walk or even sit up.. trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening with my son across the room.
Everything went still. I flashed back to delivering the twins. My eyes glanced at Brad, with that familiar look of worry and heartbreak -- and quickly, they clamped shut entirely -- right after seeing a swarm of doctors and nurses enter the room.
I brought my hands up to my eyes, as if it were even possible to shield the fact that tears were forming freely. I began to sob.. knowing that each second I didn't hear that cry.. I was getting closer and closer to reliving the worst day of my life.
I started to cry that cry that forms in your gut and painfully regurgitates itself.. erupting from your throat with all the pain that you ever hid there.
I felt Brad put his hand on my head. I knew he was feeling exactly the same way I was. Only the two of us knew the depth of that fear.. of that memory.
Less than a minute had passed, but it felt like an eternity. I opened my eyes again -- watching this team of people gathered around my son. I couldn't even spot him in the middle of it anymore.
A cry. Finally, his cry.
I lost all control. A full bawling took over my body. I could feel the warmth of my tears falling down the sides of my face as I still found myself trapped by the epidural -- staring up at the ceiling. My eyes were still closed when I felt a kiss on my forehead. I could hear the relief in his voice, "He's okay. He's okay, Carol... He's okay."
We grabbed each other's hands and just cried. Brad later told me (since he was standing and could see), that our son had visibly turned blue. I can only imagine how Brad felt while watching this unfold -- complete panic, but still trying to reassure me in any way possible.
So, there I was stuck on the bed.. but I didn't much care about that anymore. I heard my son, and all was okay again. You know, other than when I realize there are three people working on me and my 'wounds.' "She has a third degree tear there. Exposed muscle here..." o.O Thanks, kid.
Then I remember hearing someone from the team of doctors call Brad over, "Do you want to see him?"
Brad had been so glued to my side, still holding my hand. He looked down at me in total confusion. He had no idea what he was 'supposed' to do. Stay with his emotionally and physically wrecked wife, or go see his newborn son.
But I knew.
"Go. Go. I'm fine."
After losing two children with this man, there was no way I could keep this moment from him. Everything inside me was happily saying, "Go be a dad."
I was so proud and overwhelmed to witness that moment with them. I could see and feel everything -- his fear, anxiety, excitement, and utter joy. Finally, I got to see my husband be a father, without limitation.
Greatest gift ever.
I could go on and on about watching him with our son, the annoyance I had with the conflicting advice from each nurse we had, the fact that my "on fire" hip is still in excruciating pain since the epidural, how I never thought I'd use so many Tucks cooling pads in a day, and bringing our son home..
Perhaps another day.
It's all really just a side note to the fact that we got to meet our son, Paxton James Shilor. I can't wait to get to know my little man. <3
And for those that missed it, Paxton was a runner-up when we were naming the twins. Pax means "peace" and Paxton means "place of peace."
And he certainly is that for us.
So, whether you call him Pax, Paxton, PJ, or Garby -- or just the P in a PB&J (Paxton, Bodhi, & Jasper) say hello to our son.
I'll let you know when he's no longer grounded for his little Code Pink (neonatal cardiac/respiratory arrest) scare. ;)
It's pretty impossible to not fall in love. There is Peace in our home.
