Baby Elliot is here!
He totally arrived unexpectedly
early—ironically, just three days after a baby shower in his honor. September
was, therefore, an extremely busy month for me!
Thursday September 10th: Today is the day I will travel five hours to go visit relatives in Nebraska. But first, I go in for a routine BPP and
prenatal checkup. Doctors find protein in urine and my blood pressure is high.
Concerns about preeclampsia skyrocket. More blood is drawn and the lab tech
hands me a giant orange jug in which to do a 24-hour urine collection. Great;
this will be interesting to explain to the family.
Friday September 11th: I feel like a walrus shuffling along
on my fat flippers. The doctor calls me up and asks me to go to the nearest
hospital for more blood work—now my potassium is low and they want a second
screening done to be sure there’s no mistake. Getting real sick of the needles,
people.
Saturday September 12th: I freshen up to attend the baby
shower. My cousin is a magical, organized, party-planning genius! Everyone
regales me with stories of giving birth, and I start praying for something safe and somewhat normal. Afterward, I go
back to the hospital to hand over the orange jug. I pick up a prescription for
potassium pills. Nothing about this feels normal at the moment.
Sunday September 13th: I return home, but sleep is difficult; I'm hot, I'm fat, I'm so freaking uncomfortable. "I just want this baby out," I cry to my husband. He will later use my words to point out the ultimate irony, but I have no regrets.
Monday September 14th: At 4:00 PM, the doctor tells me I
have mild preeclampsia, and that the safest route—confirmed by another reliable
doctor—is to induce labor that very evening. Well, this is great, just great.
So much for having a baby in October, the most awesome month of the year. Also,
um, what exactly is induction, how does it work, and will it hurt? I didn’t
really get around to reading that part in What
to Expect When You’re Expecting. I spend the 45-minute trip home thinking
about humorous punchlines for my comedic husband. In the end, I think I said
something dumb, like, “Surprise!” I mean, I like to think I can easily roll
with life’s punches, but this one pretty much knocked me for a loop. Hubby
informs me that he has called up his parents and mine, officially freaking both
families out. “Honey, we need to stop by Wal-Mart and get some slippers and Depends,” I remind my dear husband. “All
the blogs were unanimous on those items.” I totally don’t have a hospital bag
packed; I throw some extra clothes in a suitcase along with toothpaste and a
toothbrush and some Brian Jacques novels—like I’m going to have time to read in
between contractions, but YOU NEVER KNOW, OKAY?!
We eat Subway and listen to U2 on the road to the hospital. We are
quickly admitted and the kindly nurses make sure I am quite comfortable before
giving me medication to soften my cervix. By midnight I am feeling
contractions. EVERYTHING HURTS, ALL NIGHT LONG. Good-bye, sleep. I know not when I shall see thee again.
Tuesday September 15th: From sunup to sundown the nurses
monitor my vital signs and coach me through different exercises and positions.
At some point a catheter is inserted, a process that must have been used in the
Dark Ages as torture. I am also hooked up to an IV, another
medieval process that involves needles. Later, when the contractions grow
stronger, I get an epidural—another needle. Briefly I consider wearing a
chastity belt for the next ten years, but say nothing to my husband because he
is being a sweetie and holding my hand and petting my head and saying nothing
that would warrant a cast-iron frying pan to the face. On the other hand, when
they break my water, and he’s laughing at the weird faces I’m making as foreign
liquids pour from my body, I rethink the pan and the chastity belt.
In the evening I have not dilated beyond 7 centimeters and my blood
pressure is rising dangerously. I try not to panic when the doctor informs me
that a C-section is necessary. This couldn’t hurt, right? I’ll be numb from the
chest down, and I won’t have to look at the surgery. I am regretting watching
the C-section video on the web. It was strangely akin to that chest-bursting scene from "Alien." Now I'm praying again, except I can't focus on the words because I'm trying to listen to what the doctor is telling me. She is being so sweet and kind to explain everything to me in a comforting manner.
As they wheel me into surgery, my husband gets
the bright idea to play “Sirius” by The Alan Parsons Project. I tell him to shut
up.
In the operating room, I see a lot of what I’d never in my life hoped to see,
ever—doctors in face masks, bright lights, and a ton of sterile equipment. I'm so freaking scared, but I know this has to be done. Someone
gives me laughing gas, and its lights out, goodnight. Next thing I know, there
is tremendous pressure down south and then my husband is squeezing my hand and
I hear a baby crying. When I come to, they place him in my arms, and I try to sing "Edelweiss" to him, from The Sound of
Music. Through my loopy haze, I somehow remember that I want my baby boy to
hear my voice, singing to him, for the first time. Whether or not I am on pitch
is irrelevant.
And that’s pretty much what
happened. They kept me in the hospital until Friday morning. I’d had a blood
transfusion and was still recuperating from surgery when we finally packed up
our newborn son and went home at last. I went back to the hospital that weekend
because of a fluid overdose, and received some medication that reduced a lot of
the swelling. Between the operation and breastfeeding, I am now back down to—if
not less than—my original weight, albeit a wee jiggly here and there.
Elliot received a lot of
attention from friends and relatives the first two weeks, and my mother came to
stay with us for a week, helping me to adjust to the new addition to the
family. Today, three weeks later, my husband and I have gone back to a somewhat
normal routine, keeping up with our interests, jobs, and hobbies with the new
addition of baby care thrown in to make us extra adult-y. Elliot is the little
love of our lives; we count ourselves blessed to have him with us so beautiful
and healthy. We love the funny little faces and noises he makes, and the way he
sticks out his tiny tongue and blows raspberries into the air. We love his
gigantic blue-gray eyes and how they look around so curiously at everything. We
love his “serious” expressions, as if he wants to know why the heck he’s out
here in the cold, weird world and not still snug and toasty inside mommy. We
love his soft little head and tiny fingers and toes. We love him because he is
a gift from God and the product of our love together as man and wife. He is a
strong, growing boy, already with his own unique individuality, which we love
and admire so much!
Welcome, Elliot! May God continue to bless our
little family on the path to heaven!
