There are many wonderful and rational reasons that we shouldn't reproduce: The world is overpopulated as it is... There are already so many children in the world who need a loving home... Raising a child in North America is often such a resource-intensive endeavour, that we can't possibly justify it in light of current environmental conditions... The world is such an awful place, why bring a child into it to inevitably suffer, only to satisfy our own selfish desires... Trust me, I was an annoying IDS kid in school, I get it.
There are also a host of arguments that people use to defend their primal, instinctive need to have a baby. Some of these are utterly ridiculous, but we partially subscribe to some of them if we like to fancy ourselves an optimist: Well no, actually, the world is a beautiful place, and my child will be a flower that thrives among flowers, rendering it even more beautiful... Maybe they will even be the one to cure cancer, HIV/AIDS, world hunger, or, you know, like, the next Gandhi ... Life is too short to worry about other people so I'm just going to carpe diem... One child won't make that much of a difference to the numbers so if we're screwed, we're screwed either way...It's not about the numbers, it's how we live that's the problem... Humans are animals just like any other, why should I be expected to suppress my reproductive instinct? That's not fair!
Call me pessimistic, but the odds of me giving birth to the child who will grow to give global food distribution a complete makeover, or unearth the cure for symptoms of social dis-ease, are slim to none... and Slim just got disappeared by the thugs for the New World Order. Besides, that's a lot of pressure to put on my child.
And that's odd... It's only after having a baby that I've become open to giving this a really good think. Maybe deliberate ignorance is an evolved trait, just like women's tendency to forget the pain of labour around the time their body is ready to bear another child.
Before I met my reproductive mate, I was sure I'd spend my life travelling the world, acquiring infinite knowledge, wisdom, and yoga moves... attaining spiritual enlightenment, at the very least. Then, in my last year of school, I got incredibly dissatisfied. I didn't feel the slightest sense of accomplishment upon graduating from university, and a trip across the country didn't scratch my itchy feet. The thought of going to India for a fourth time didn't even do it for me. To me, the trippiest of all trips would be to build a home with the man I'd fallen in love with over the phone over the course of the past year.
Okay, fine, you say, but there are a lot of cohabitating heterosexual people of the opposite sex who don't reproduce. There is a lot of other stuff to do before you have kids, right? It was a choice, it didn't "just happen", and it was a choice that we didn't wait very long, by some's standards, to make. I'm not going to suggest that everybody is so old-school as to insist that marriage, a mortgage and a station wagon must precede the baby choice. But if you are so-old school as to make the insinuation that a couple's readiness to reproduce can be measured through their material acquisitions, then you'll admit that our two-out-of-three is pretty impressive, considering we seem to be perma-broke.
So we got hitched, moved, got knocked up, moved again, got a new car suitable for our 6-member canine/human unit, and had our baby (still no mortgage). The end.
At what point in there do I make my point? I don't. The moral of the story is? Don't. Judge.
Yes, the world's messed. Yes, it's going to get worse before it gets better. Yes, having a child was a selfish choice, and it is one that I didn't so much make with my mind as I did surrender to with all my being. Even if my dabbling in the rational argument of it all had resulted in my being unequivocally against having children, I wouldn't regret my actions.
If anybody ever hears of a convincing argument as to why it is a good idea to reproduce, let me know, I would like to use it. Until then, I'm just going to hang out being happy.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Monday, November 22, 2010
"A Birth Story: A Fairly Honest Recounting of the Events Immediately Preceding the Birth of Our Daughter"
Part Two:
The In-Hospital Part
We stumble around the house, gathering what we need to bring with us to the hospital. I manage to get my contact lens solution into a canvas bag. I am just starting to pick out a suitable first-ever outfit for Saoirse to wear home from the hospital - blue or red? it seemed like a very important decision at the time - when John announces that we are ready. Not only has he remembered that we had somewhat prepared for this eventuality by making a list of things to bring to the hospital, but he has also managed to gather everything on said list in under five minutes. He's also reinstalled the carseat, packed us a feast of peanut sauce stir-fry and chocolate, gathered some baby paraphernalia, provided for the dogs, located the spare house key for their walker, and even packed the iPod dock. So, correction: I stumbled around aimlessly, while John turned on the super-dad afterburner and actually pulled it off.
We arrive at the hospital and meet Claudia on the maternity ward. She greets us warmly and enthusiastically, and the staff behind the desk all do the same, referring to me by name and assuring me that I'll simply love the room. Although I don't feel able to fully appreciate everybody's efforts - I still feel on the verge of tears - I do smile. I add "social lubricant" to my growing mental list of Claudia's incredible talents, as I feel myself melt a little. The whole hospital experience, which I had once held in such sharp contrast to my idealized vision of "natural" childbirth, is softening. Then, I feel another powerful contraction coming on, so we begin to slowly make our way down the hall to our room.
I notice that the room itself is massive, and boasts a wide view of the Experimental Farm. Doesn't really matter, doesn't really hurt matters. I explore my way to the bathroom, and am blown away by the size of the tub. This is a big deal to me. Since early pregnancy, I have put the idea of having a water-birth on a pedestal; although I know that I can't get into it until I am 5 centimetres dilated, I am grateful to have it to look forward to as providing some pain relief.
We settle in. A doctor comes in and informs me that they are going to put me on the Oxytocin at a regularly increasing dosage until they "have that baby out of me, in no time at all". I tell him that I don't mind if this thing takes a bit of time. I look to Claudia for help, wishing she wouldn't be so damn respectful all the time, and say, "You're going to remain my primary caregiver, right?" And she reassures me that she will. The doctor leaves shortly thereafter and, when he's gone, John tears down the sign above the bed that advertises an epidural.
We go for a stroll down the hall and I discover my love of ice chips.
Later in the afternoon, around 5 pm, Claudia's 24-hour shift is over and Paula's begins. Paula has been my primary mid-wife since the beginning, so I have been meeting with her regularly for almost a year. Paula is warm, positive and realistic, and she is not prone to overreaction, exaggeration or fear-mongering. I've always felt we are compatible in the unique relationship that we've found ourselves in. She provides the care willingly, as is her job, as she has done with countless other women; I accept it, gratefully, without giving up any of my autonomy. There is no strange power dynamic complicating things, just pure co-operation.
Shortly thereafter, the mission is to get the Oxytocin drip connected to my IV, or something to that effect. At this point, I'm really not able to be present to that type of discussion. I do get the sense that they are having some difficulty, though, because they are not familiar with the particular thingy that that connects the thingy to the thingy on the IV thingy. They call in the nurse, who turns out to be something of an old friend, and the room erupts into happy banter and loud laughter. Me? Oh, don't worry about me, I'm just over here by the chair, totally freaking out. That's right. I'm losing my control, I can't concentrate, my breath escapes me and suddenly, the contraction peaks and another one has already begun, leaving me no time to recover. I hear Claudia say, "She was doing great, I don't know what's happening", and someone else says something about an Oxytocin flush.. the whole dose... I don't want to hear that, I don't want to know anything other than whether or not it is going to continue on like this. I need them to understand that I can't handle this, if this is how labour is going to be from now on, forget it. I'm open to anything, but not this. I'm relieved when it's finally over, and they assure me that there was not an accident with the Oxytocin, it was just a one-off double whammy contraction. The trust is still there.
I spend another long time leaning over the bed, with my head down, holding John's hands... until my legs get sore... then I move back to leaning over the chair. I want to try other position - no, I want to want to try other positions - like squatting or hands-and-knees, but I find both positions so uncomfortable that I always hurry back.
Later in the evening, my endurance starts to falter, and my optimism goes with it. I ask Paula for some idea of what's going on. I feel trapped in time, like this one moment is stretching way longer than I can cope with, and start to distrust the process. I'm getting really tired of being in pain.
Paula gets that I am craving a sense of accomplishment, or at least some measurement of progress other than time. I find that time can be a surprisingly unpredictable unit of measurement, in times of intensity. She checks me again, and I am 5 cm's dilated. This is the best news I have ever heard. I can get in the bath.
The bath's warm water doesn't disappoint. In the tub, I relax to the point of drifting off between contractions, which are now a minute long and a minute apart. After about an hour, my sounds become more guttural - I can hear myself, it doesn't sound like me, but I know it must be because I was told there was no one else on the ward - and my pitch goes up at the end. I'm feeling the urge to push.
"Are you feeling the urge to push?" Paula is on top of it.
"Yes! Can I?!?" I'm pretty much begging.
"No. As long as you can keep yourself from pushing, don't push!" I think of a Sublime song but I can't remember how it goes.
Some time later, I rebel and I push. I can feel Saoirse inside, moving down; I can tell, inch by inch, that my pushing is being productive. There is show in the tub, and Paula finally tells me that it is alright to push. I don't want to disappoint.
Several pushes later, she informs me that I have to get out of the tub because in Ontario, water births are illegal. Somehow, this information didn't register with me before. I don't think it's possible to get out of the tub, and I want to sneakily push her out while Paula's in the other room prepping, but I don't. I curse Ontario all the way back to my leaning chair.
At the chair! I bear down and push. Between pushing, I feel absolutely nothing. I don't actually feel the urge to push. I start pushing because I want this to be over, and it's only once I'm pushing that I can't stop. It feels sort of amazing in an awful way. The infamous ring of fire, that I learned about in prenatal class, lasts much longer than I thought it would. It lasted long enough for me to scream that I am feeling it, swear, repeat that I'm still feeling it, and swear again for a really long time. The ring of fire is aptly named, as it really does feel like there's a fire lit inside of you and the flames are lapping at your exit point.
I'm told that her head is out, but I don't dare look.
I'm in bed, shaking like a fiend, totally dazed and confused. Some time later, Paula hooks Saoirse up to my breast and she latches on. I can't believe it. I'm totally floored. I get it now. There are no more words.
Part Two:
The In-Hospital Part
We stumble around the house, gathering what we need to bring with us to the hospital. I manage to get my contact lens solution into a canvas bag. I am just starting to pick out a suitable first-ever outfit for Saoirse to wear home from the hospital - blue or red? it seemed like a very important decision at the time - when John announces that we are ready. Not only has he remembered that we had somewhat prepared for this eventuality by making a list of things to bring to the hospital, but he has also managed to gather everything on said list in under five minutes. He's also reinstalled the carseat, packed us a feast of peanut sauce stir-fry and chocolate, gathered some baby paraphernalia, provided for the dogs, located the spare house key for their walker, and even packed the iPod dock. So, correction: I stumbled around aimlessly, while John turned on the super-dad afterburner and actually pulled it off.
We arrive at the hospital and meet Claudia on the maternity ward. She greets us warmly and enthusiastically, and the staff behind the desk all do the same, referring to me by name and assuring me that I'll simply love the room. Although I don't feel able to fully appreciate everybody's efforts - I still feel on the verge of tears - I do smile. I add "social lubricant" to my growing mental list of Claudia's incredible talents, as I feel myself melt a little. The whole hospital experience, which I had once held in such sharp contrast to my idealized vision of "natural" childbirth, is softening. Then, I feel another powerful contraction coming on, so we begin to slowly make our way down the hall to our room.
I notice that the room itself is massive, and boasts a wide view of the Experimental Farm. Doesn't really matter, doesn't really hurt matters. I explore my way to the bathroom, and am blown away by the size of the tub. This is a big deal to me. Since early pregnancy, I have put the idea of having a water-birth on a pedestal; although I know that I can't get into it until I am 5 centimetres dilated, I am grateful to have it to look forward to as providing some pain relief.
We settle in. A doctor comes in and informs me that they are going to put me on the Oxytocin at a regularly increasing dosage until they "have that baby out of me, in no time at all". I tell him that I don't mind if this thing takes a bit of time. I look to Claudia for help, wishing she wouldn't be so damn respectful all the time, and say, "You're going to remain my primary caregiver, right?" And she reassures me that she will. The doctor leaves shortly thereafter and, when he's gone, John tears down the sign above the bed that advertises an epidural.
We go for a stroll down the hall and I discover my love of ice chips.
Later in the afternoon, around 5 pm, Claudia's 24-hour shift is over and Paula's begins. Paula has been my primary mid-wife since the beginning, so I have been meeting with her regularly for almost a year. Paula is warm, positive and realistic, and she is not prone to overreaction, exaggeration or fear-mongering. I've always felt we are compatible in the unique relationship that we've found ourselves in. She provides the care willingly, as is her job, as she has done with countless other women; I accept it, gratefully, without giving up any of my autonomy. There is no strange power dynamic complicating things, just pure co-operation.
Shortly thereafter, the mission is to get the Oxytocin drip connected to my IV, or something to that effect. At this point, I'm really not able to be present to that type of discussion. I do get the sense that they are having some difficulty, though, because they are not familiar with the particular thingy that that connects the thingy to the thingy on the IV thingy. They call in the nurse, who turns out to be something of an old friend, and the room erupts into happy banter and loud laughter. Me? Oh, don't worry about me, I'm just over here by the chair, totally freaking out. That's right. I'm losing my control, I can't concentrate, my breath escapes me and suddenly, the contraction peaks and another one has already begun, leaving me no time to recover. I hear Claudia say, "She was doing great, I don't know what's happening", and someone else says something about an Oxytocin flush.. the whole dose... I don't want to hear that, I don't want to know anything other than whether or not it is going to continue on like this. I need them to understand that I can't handle this, if this is how labour is going to be from now on, forget it. I'm open to anything, but not this. I'm relieved when it's finally over, and they assure me that there was not an accident with the Oxytocin, it was just a one-off double whammy contraction. The trust is still there.
I spend another long time leaning over the bed, with my head down, holding John's hands... until my legs get sore... then I move back to leaning over the chair. I want to try other position - no, I want to want to try other positions - like squatting or hands-and-knees, but I find both positions so uncomfortable that I always hurry back.
Later in the evening, my endurance starts to falter, and my optimism goes with it. I ask Paula for some idea of what's going on. I feel trapped in time, like this one moment is stretching way longer than I can cope with, and start to distrust the process. I'm getting really tired of being in pain.
Paula gets that I am craving a sense of accomplishment, or at least some measurement of progress other than time. I find that time can be a surprisingly unpredictable unit of measurement, in times of intensity. She checks me again, and I am 5 cm's dilated. This is the best news I have ever heard. I can get in the bath.
The bath's warm water doesn't disappoint. In the tub, I relax to the point of drifting off between contractions, which are now a minute long and a minute apart. After about an hour, my sounds become more guttural - I can hear myself, it doesn't sound like me, but I know it must be because I was told there was no one else on the ward - and my pitch goes up at the end. I'm feeling the urge to push.
"Are you feeling the urge to push?" Paula is on top of it.
"Yes! Can I?!?" I'm pretty much begging.
"No. As long as you can keep yourself from pushing, don't push!" I think of a Sublime song but I can't remember how it goes.
Some time later, I rebel and I push. I can feel Saoirse inside, moving down; I can tell, inch by inch, that my pushing is being productive. There is show in the tub, and Paula finally tells me that it is alright to push. I don't want to disappoint.
Several pushes later, she informs me that I have to get out of the tub because in Ontario, water births are illegal. Somehow, this information didn't register with me before. I don't think it's possible to get out of the tub, and I want to sneakily push her out while Paula's in the other room prepping, but I don't. I curse Ontario all the way back to my leaning chair.
At the chair! I bear down and push. Between pushing, I feel absolutely nothing. I don't actually feel the urge to push. I start pushing because I want this to be over, and it's only once I'm pushing that I can't stop. It feels sort of amazing in an awful way. The infamous ring of fire, that I learned about in prenatal class, lasts much longer than I thought it would. It lasted long enough for me to scream that I am feeling it, swear, repeat that I'm still feeling it, and swear again for a really long time. The ring of fire is aptly named, as it really does feel like there's a fire lit inside of you and the flames are lapping at your exit point.
I'm told that her head is out, but I don't dare look.
I'm in bed, shaking like a fiend, totally dazed and confused. Some time later, Paula hooks Saoirse up to my breast and she latches on. I can't believe it. I'm totally floored. I get it now. There are no more words.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
A Birth Story: A Fairly Honest Recounting of the Events Immediately Preceding the Birth of Our Daughter
Preflections
I love my birth story, so I don't know why I haven't wanted to write it down. While pregnant, I read many a birth story and found a lot of comfort in them. They provided a possible framework for my own story, which seemed mysterious and expansive from my outsider's perspective. Generally, hearing other women's stories left me feeling iron strong and freakishly confident; but the odd time, they came with a twist ending that left me absolutely terrified.
What was I afraid of? It wasn't the pain or the possibility that I couldn't do it. Nope, there was never a doubt in my mind that I could do it. Maybe it would hurt like hell, but the pain would be merely physical and I would persevere in the throes of active labour. Then, I knew, the pain would be over - it always does have an end - and I'd be left with a child. I'd be left with my brand new universe.
I wasn't afraid of the unknown, either. That's too big and broad a fear to apply to a discrete event that literally has a countdown, however inaccurate, leading up to it.
Most of my fears were specific, and I was able to manage them as they arose throughout my pregnancy. For instance, I feared the possibility of hemorrhaging after the birth and being rushed to the hospital, so I had an INR test to convince myself that this wasn't going to happen. I was also wary of the looming threat of having a hospital birth from the get-go, which opened up a whole snowballing of fears: at the hospital, I would be hurried along, I wouldn't know my patient's rights well enough, I would be induced with hormones which would make the contractions unbearable... I would beg for an epidural, which would numb me to the experience, I would push too hard, too fast... I would rip wide open and before I could recover from a hundred stitches they would have my perfect daughter drinking formula from a bottle and wearing makeup and refusing to look me in the eye after breaking curfew...
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!
Ultimately, I had nothing to fear but fear itself, as my story illustrates.
*****************
Part One
The At-Home Part
On November 4th - my estimated due date, mind you, so a baby was what I least expected - my contractions started late in the evening. "How delightful!" I thought. Every ten minutes, I would feel my uterus gently clench, a kind of pleasant discomfort. They weren't nearly as bad as cramps. I was off to a grand ol' start.
On November 5th, at 4 am, just as I was starting to doubt that this could possibly have anything to do with labour, my waters broke. My side of the bed was soaked. But how could I be sure? Classic denial. I googled it. Convinced, I called the midwifery hotline, where a male voice congratulated me and advised me to get some rest. A midwife would be 'round in the morning. Obviously, I didn't sleep that night, despite my best intentions.
When the midwife arrived, we were hustling about, preparing snacks and putting a tarp on the bed. I baked goods and contracted at home, while John went out to gather some last-minute supplies. We told family that it was on, and we all put on our game faces. The midwife, a stranger to me, checked my vitals and prescribed me extra-strength Tylenol or Baileys (a no-brainer) and a Gravol shot in the leg. I took it, and I passed out for a couple of hours.
By 11 am, the contractions had come to a complete stop. Visions of my worst fears started skulking about in the darker corners of my mind. That poor midwife was my scapegoat: I would blame her for killing my contractions for quite some time, until I am told by my own midwife, a fountainesse of wisdom and knowledge, that, "If you are really in labour, nothing can stop it. You needed the rest".
Although relatively mild contractions had resumed by mid-afternoon, they weren't accelerating or intensifying nearly enough to silence my monkey mind. I knew that they wouldn't let you sit around with your waters broken forever, and I couldn't shake the awareness that the clock was ticking.
At 5:30 that evening, we went for a walk, and as I walked through the neighbourhood I secretly stimulated my nipples and tried to relaaaaax. My anxiety was seeping into John, and I could feel it coming back at me in full force. Castor oil! John went and got some. I guzzled those fish oil bubbles down like my life depended on it and I didn't notice the taste. After big fat nothing for a few hours, I spent an hour on the toilet. Wrong kind of contraction. Still, the contractions I was needing to stay out of the hospital eluded us.
At 7 pm, Claudia - my secondary but equally super-human midwife - comes over for another cervical sweep, and the contractions start in earnest that night. Honestly.
It's now November 6th. At 2:30 am, Claudia returns for another round of antibiotics. All along, I've been receiving antibiotics intravenously every 8 hours, a reward for being Group B Strep positive. She informs us of our options and their associated risks and, when pressed, advises us of both her professional and personal opinions. She has attained the perfect balance of compassionate care and professional discretion.
Because I'm on antibiotics and the baby and I are both doing fabulously, she grants me the gift of time and empowers us to make our own decision by morning. I'm to call her at 8 am. After listening to some hypnosis, I drift into a night of 3-minute catnaps between contractions which are about 40 seconds long, every 7 minutes. Give or take.
At the crack of 8 am, we touch base with Claudia. Then we're out of bed and off to the dog park for a walk in the woods. In the car, the contractions are gaining an edge, and my heart goes out to women who've had to labour in bed. The unpleasantness of the pressure of the car seat is ever so slightly mitigated by the fact that we have heated seats. At the dog park, the fresh air makes everything more okay, and I arrange to be next to a tree for each contraction so I can assume the pose that will get me through the next million or so contractions - bending at the waist at a 120 degree angle is where I find the most relief. The car ride back pretty much sucks.
At 10:30 am, we meet our beloved Claudia back at our place for an antibiotics date. We also have an uninvited guest, who gushes in and can't be ignored - green baby poop. Meconium. Procedure and common sense dictate that this is the point at which we must go to the hospital. I know this. Claudia confirms this. Despite having tried to remain open to a hospital birth throughout my pregnancy, I feel the loss and cry it out. After 5 minutes, John brings me back to positive zone and a sense of acceptance, then urgency, takes over. It's off to the Civic we go.
I love my birth story, so I don't know why I haven't wanted to write it down. While pregnant, I read many a birth story and found a lot of comfort in them. They provided a possible framework for my own story, which seemed mysterious and expansive from my outsider's perspective. Generally, hearing other women's stories left me feeling iron strong and freakishly confident; but the odd time, they came with a twist ending that left me absolutely terrified.
What was I afraid of? It wasn't the pain or the possibility that I couldn't do it. Nope, there was never a doubt in my mind that I could do it. Maybe it would hurt like hell, but the pain would be merely physical and I would persevere in the throes of active labour. Then, I knew, the pain would be over - it always does have an end - and I'd be left with a child. I'd be left with my brand new universe.
I wasn't afraid of the unknown, either. That's too big and broad a fear to apply to a discrete event that literally has a countdown, however inaccurate, leading up to it.
Most of my fears were specific, and I was able to manage them as they arose throughout my pregnancy. For instance, I feared the possibility of hemorrhaging after the birth and being rushed to the hospital, so I had an INR test to convince myself that this wasn't going to happen. I was also wary of the looming threat of having a hospital birth from the get-go, which opened up a whole snowballing of fears: at the hospital, I would be hurried along, I wouldn't know my patient's rights well enough, I would be induced with hormones which would make the contractions unbearable... I would beg for an epidural, which would numb me to the experience, I would push too hard, too fast... I would rip wide open and before I could recover from a hundred stitches they would have my perfect daughter drinking formula from a bottle and wearing makeup and refusing to look me in the eye after breaking curfew...
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!
Ultimately, I had nothing to fear but fear itself, as my story illustrates.
*****************
Part One
The At-Home Part
On November 4th - my estimated due date, mind you, so a baby was what I least expected - my contractions started late in the evening. "How delightful!" I thought. Every ten minutes, I would feel my uterus gently clench, a kind of pleasant discomfort. They weren't nearly as bad as cramps. I was off to a grand ol' start.
On November 5th, at 4 am, just as I was starting to doubt that this could possibly have anything to do with labour, my waters broke. My side of the bed was soaked. But how could I be sure? Classic denial. I googled it. Convinced, I called the midwifery hotline, where a male voice congratulated me and advised me to get some rest. A midwife would be 'round in the morning. Obviously, I didn't sleep that night, despite my best intentions.
When the midwife arrived, we were hustling about, preparing snacks and putting a tarp on the bed. I baked goods and contracted at home, while John went out to gather some last-minute supplies. We told family that it was on, and we all put on our game faces. The midwife, a stranger to me, checked my vitals and prescribed me extra-strength Tylenol or Baileys (a no-brainer) and a Gravol shot in the leg. I took it, and I passed out for a couple of hours.
By 11 am, the contractions had come to a complete stop. Visions of my worst fears started skulking about in the darker corners of my mind. That poor midwife was my scapegoat: I would blame her for killing my contractions for quite some time, until I am told by my own midwife, a fountainesse of wisdom and knowledge, that, "If you are really in labour, nothing can stop it. You needed the rest".
Although relatively mild contractions had resumed by mid-afternoon, they weren't accelerating or intensifying nearly enough to silence my monkey mind. I knew that they wouldn't let you sit around with your waters broken forever, and I couldn't shake the awareness that the clock was ticking.
At 5:30 that evening, we went for a walk, and as I walked through the neighbourhood I secretly stimulated my nipples and tried to relaaaaax. My anxiety was seeping into John, and I could feel it coming back at me in full force. Castor oil! John went and got some. I guzzled those fish oil bubbles down like my life depended on it and I didn't notice the taste. After big fat nothing for a few hours, I spent an hour on the toilet. Wrong kind of contraction. Still, the contractions I was needing to stay out of the hospital eluded us.
At 7 pm, Claudia - my secondary but equally super-human midwife - comes over for another cervical sweep, and the contractions start in earnest that night. Honestly.
It's now November 6th. At 2:30 am, Claudia returns for another round of antibiotics. All along, I've been receiving antibiotics intravenously every 8 hours, a reward for being Group B Strep positive. She informs us of our options and their associated risks and, when pressed, advises us of both her professional and personal opinions. She has attained the perfect balance of compassionate care and professional discretion.
Because I'm on antibiotics and the baby and I are both doing fabulously, she grants me the gift of time and empowers us to make our own decision by morning. I'm to call her at 8 am. After listening to some hypnosis, I drift into a night of 3-minute catnaps between contractions which are about 40 seconds long, every 7 minutes. Give or take.
At the crack of 8 am, we touch base with Claudia. Then we're out of bed and off to the dog park for a walk in the woods. In the car, the contractions are gaining an edge, and my heart goes out to women who've had to labour in bed. The unpleasantness of the pressure of the car seat is ever so slightly mitigated by the fact that we have heated seats. At the dog park, the fresh air makes everything more okay, and I arrange to be next to a tree for each contraction so I can assume the pose that will get me through the next million or so contractions - bending at the waist at a 120 degree angle is where I find the most relief. The car ride back pretty much sucks.
At 10:30 am, we meet our beloved Claudia back at our place for an antibiotics date. We also have an uninvited guest, who gushes in and can't be ignored - green baby poop. Meconium. Procedure and common sense dictate that this is the point at which we must go to the hospital. I know this. Claudia confirms this. Despite having tried to remain open to a hospital birth throughout my pregnancy, I feel the loss and cry it out. After 5 minutes, John brings me back to positive zone and a sense of acceptance, then urgency, takes over. It's off to the Civic we go.
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