He is one comfortable, stylin', blessed little guy!
Monday, June 30, 2014
It Deserves Its Own Post!
A huge and thankful and long overdue shout-out to Ann and her expert craftsmanship for the beautiful swaddlers! The cotton gauze is glorious for the summer, the embroidery is just too cute, and they are earning their miles with our new little one!
A Birth Story
This has been a long time in the works, as I have felt the need to revisit and revisit and revisit the birth of our newest addition.
The night my mother flew into town, she and I loaded up the kids and went to "walk out the baby" at the local mall. She was only going to be in town a week, so we had to get labor rolling ASAP. As God, luck, chance, and fate would have it, the walk through the mall did the trick and I was in active labor after about an hour of brisk walking. It was the world's most amazing timing!
We took the kids home, got them into bed, I finished loading my hospital bag and took a shower. I won't lie: I tried to stall and stall and stall (would an "oops" home birth have been too much to ask?!), but my mom ended up insisting that we roll out to the hospital around midnight. I was oddly at peace about it, which is cause for all of my revisiting the entire birth experience in my head. I'll explain shortly.
I checked in and my doctor was called. I got to slip into one of those ever-so-fashionable hospital gowns and I proceeded to walk the halls like a mad woman. This kid was going to come fast, so help me! Well, I didn't take into account that I'd be laboring that whole time without so much as a nap the day before, so I ran out of steam around 4 a.m. and began to fall asleep between contractions. It was far beyond my control. I'd wake up, breathe through it, and fall right back to sleep. John, God love him, was falling asleep and waking up with me through nearly every contraction.
The one time I did manage to stay awake was when I went to turn onto my other side and I felt my water break. I peered down and saw what I had dreaded with every pregnancy: meconium. I had avoided this with every pregnancy so far, and I had read up on the risks involved with meconium, so I, in my exhausted state, buzzed the nurse and woke up John in full panic mode, already anticipating a long NICU stay for the baby that involved complications from pneumonia and full rounds of not-in-my-control immunizations, steroids, and other things that would assault my baby's already fragile system. I know, I'm a total fatalist. It didn't help that the nurse immediately told me the NICU team would be present for the birth to assess the baby and see if any intervention was needed. All I heard, of course, was "NICU needs to intervene, so this is just about as disastrous as it gets." Yay for a heaping dose of the crazies, exactly when I don't need them!
Then, at about 7 a.m., the nurses were preparing for shift change and traffic picked up in my room as I paced like a caged animal, trying to figure out a way to go home. My contractions looked like the Rocky Mountains on the strip, the baby's heart rate looked perfect, I was stalled out at 6 cm for the last 4 hours, and I wanted so much to just go home. I was feeling like He-Man, going without an IV of any kind, and drugs were nowhere in sight, and I hated everyone in that room except my husband, and why was there a stupid gravel roof outside the window, and I hoped my mom was doing ok with Louis, and did I have enough food at home for everyone, and I wanted to go home. Yes, the thoughts were that scattered and insane.
After about forty-five minutes, I crawled back into the bed and wanted so much to cry. The doctor was coming in to check my progress and I knew 6 cm was going to be it, and then she'd start talking c-sectioning. I was all kinds of ready to choke her if she even breathed about a section. Alas, I was up to 9 cm. I was so happy!!!
But then she had me lie back and she got her "rain gear" on. She got into position and told the nurses to flank me and bring my knees up. She then told me to push. I looked at her, utterly bewildered, asking if that would cause the cervix to swell and give cause for a section (as she told me when I was laboring with Louis and felt the urge to push too early). She said baby was still high and left and I needed to work him down with her. I had no idea what that meant, which was the most frustrating and angering thing at that point! I thought I had prepared for everything, and then she throws THAT at me?! Fine. Whatever. Get the baby out safely so he can have his meconium pneumonia and his gazillion shots and I can take him home before his first birthday. (Yes, still with the crazies.)
John said he watched her work her hand like she was turning a doorknob that was hidden within my body. As she did that, the contractions took on an inhuman feel. One nurse pushed the baby's heart monitor into my abdomen in a way that felt like she was keeping the baby from descending. The pressure from the doctor working to turn the baby's head also felt like she was pushing him back up into my body. All of this caused each contraction to feel like my uterus was going to rupture into my chest, and still they were telling me to push through it.
Every fiber of my body recoiled. I wanted to straighten my legs and get them all away, but I also thought the baby could have been in serious danger because he hadn't descended and he was marinating in his own poop. So, against my instinct and against the deafening pleas of my body, I pushed. I pushed and begged them to stop touching me and begged them to go away and pushed and pushed and pleaded with them to give me just a little more time to walk. I pushed nearly to the point of passing out.
Just as I was going to give up, his head popped out and his body followed with little more than a deep breath on my part. The NICU team took him to the other side of the room immediately and he wasn't crying. John, who read me like a book and knew that this was all wrong for me, was working to keep himself composed while he tried to help me pick up the pieces of whatever this fiasco was that shattered me so strangely. The adrenaline and euphoria of having muscled through this didn't come. I felt broken. I clung to John and cried. This was nothing like my other births. I'd have preferred the drugs and the spinal headache and the threat of a section and the pathetic recovery and the extra time spent in the hospital to all of that. It all felt so wrong.
But it was over.
Then the baby cried. My head shot up, as did John's, and we caught the NICU nurse giving the thumbs up. His lungs were clear, his breathing was fine, and his APGAR scores were great. They finished cleaning him off and brought him to me and John and I got to drown the horrifying delivery in the joy of meeting our sweet little boy. After a few minutes of touching him and thanking God that he was here and safe, I let him nurse, and he nursed like a pro. I studied his little face and kissed him and breathed him in and clutched my husband to the two of us as we just let this moment happen.
Everything after that was a bit of a blur. They weighed him and took his stats, handed him back to us for a while as they prepared to wheel me into recovery, and took my stats as they congratulated me. They wheeled me to recovery in these new suites that were just built. I got "the best room" that had two windows as compared to one (they were very big windows). The shower was super nice and the whole floor had a "day spa" feel to it. My room had loads of natural light, all the rooms were private, and the walls were built to be soundproof so the entire floor was very quiet. It was, indeed, very nice overall.
Still, I felt wrecked. I felt the need to replay what happened over and over. Then, when John handed me the baby to hold, I noticed that the baby's forehead and cheeks were bruised. I felt horrible all over again. I wasn't the only one having a really rough time with that delivery, and I hated that he bore signs of it. I was told by everyone that it was normal, given his traumatic delivery (their words). Had he not turned, his shoulders would have been wedged in my pelvis and things would have gotten really bad, really quickly. I tried to let that be of some comfort, but looking at his poor little face made me wonder if they had just let me labor an hour more, would it have been different? Would I have ended up here if a midwife were in charge versus my doctor, whom I truly like and respect?
Then I found out that my doctor high-tailed out of there after delivery to get to her son's kindergarten graduation. My cynicism took hold and I wallowed in the thought that she rushed things to suit her schedule. I totally understand wanting to be there for that. I really, truly do. I was being selfish and I had no sleep at that point, so I asked John to talk me out of this weird, dark funk. He sighed heavily and said he thought she should have waited, that history has proven that my kids stay high until I hit 10 cm. Then they descend quickly and they're out with less than five pushes.
I coiled up around the baby and slept, hoping that my anger was entirely my own selfish reaction to a hard delivery and praying that I'd learn to see past it all and revel in the joy of having a healthy (though beat-up) baby to show the other kids when they came with Avia to visit.
The nap did a lot of good. I felt better physically and mentally, and the cynicism had taken a back seat. When I thought about what had happened, I was left with more of a feeling of shock, like I wasn't sure the whole thing had even happened.
I had great nurses, I had some decent sleep, I got a decent meal, and my pain had all but disappeared. My mom brought the kids, who went nuts over their new brother. I got the ok for my 24-hour discharge and filled out all the paperwork necessary to see that John Elias would be coming with us. A good night's sleep later, and we were sent home.
He had a hero's welcome, for sure!
My mom was a blessing to have around! She kept laundry going, she kept us fed, and she kept the kids happy while we adjusted. She was wonderful company and it was so nice to have an adult around to talk to amidst the usual craziness of the kids. I cried the whole way home from the airport after dropping her off.
However, we weren't alone for very long. In the weeks to follow, our son was Baptized, Chrismated, and received his First Holy Eucharist with his Godmother and Godfather in attendance.
The night my mother flew into town, she and I loaded up the kids and went to "walk out the baby" at the local mall. She was only going to be in town a week, so we had to get labor rolling ASAP. As God, luck, chance, and fate would have it, the walk through the mall did the trick and I was in active labor after about an hour of brisk walking. It was the world's most amazing timing!
We took the kids home, got them into bed, I finished loading my hospital bag and took a shower. I won't lie: I tried to stall and stall and stall (would an "oops" home birth have been too much to ask?!), but my mom ended up insisting that we roll out to the hospital around midnight. I was oddly at peace about it, which is cause for all of my revisiting the entire birth experience in my head. I'll explain shortly.
I checked in and my doctor was called. I got to slip into one of those ever-so-fashionable hospital gowns and I proceeded to walk the halls like a mad woman. This kid was going to come fast, so help me! Well, I didn't take into account that I'd be laboring that whole time without so much as a nap the day before, so I ran out of steam around 4 a.m. and began to fall asleep between contractions. It was far beyond my control. I'd wake up, breathe through it, and fall right back to sleep. John, God love him, was falling asleep and waking up with me through nearly every contraction.
The one time I did manage to stay awake was when I went to turn onto my other side and I felt my water break. I peered down and saw what I had dreaded with every pregnancy: meconium. I had avoided this with every pregnancy so far, and I had read up on the risks involved with meconium, so I, in my exhausted state, buzzed the nurse and woke up John in full panic mode, already anticipating a long NICU stay for the baby that involved complications from pneumonia and full rounds of not-in-my-control immunizations, steroids, and other things that would assault my baby's already fragile system. I know, I'm a total fatalist. It didn't help that the nurse immediately told me the NICU team would be present for the birth to assess the baby and see if any intervention was needed. All I heard, of course, was "NICU needs to intervene, so this is just about as disastrous as it gets." Yay for a heaping dose of the crazies, exactly when I don't need them!
Then, at about 7 a.m., the nurses were preparing for shift change and traffic picked up in my room as I paced like a caged animal, trying to figure out a way to go home. My contractions looked like the Rocky Mountains on the strip, the baby's heart rate looked perfect, I was stalled out at 6 cm for the last 4 hours, and I wanted so much to just go home. I was feeling like He-Man, going without an IV of any kind, and drugs were nowhere in sight, and I hated everyone in that room except my husband, and why was there a stupid gravel roof outside the window, and I hoped my mom was doing ok with Louis, and did I have enough food at home for everyone, and I wanted to go home. Yes, the thoughts were that scattered and insane.
After about forty-five minutes, I crawled back into the bed and wanted so much to cry. The doctor was coming in to check my progress and I knew 6 cm was going to be it, and then she'd start talking c-sectioning. I was all kinds of ready to choke her if she even breathed about a section. Alas, I was up to 9 cm. I was so happy!!!
But then she had me lie back and she got her "rain gear" on. She got into position and told the nurses to flank me and bring my knees up. She then told me to push. I looked at her, utterly bewildered, asking if that would cause the cervix to swell and give cause for a section (as she told me when I was laboring with Louis and felt the urge to push too early). She said baby was still high and left and I needed to work him down with her. I had no idea what that meant, which was the most frustrating and angering thing at that point! I thought I had prepared for everything, and then she throws THAT at me?! Fine. Whatever. Get the baby out safely so he can have his meconium pneumonia and his gazillion shots and I can take him home before his first birthday. (Yes, still with the crazies.)
John said he watched her work her hand like she was turning a doorknob that was hidden within my body. As she did that, the contractions took on an inhuman feel. One nurse pushed the baby's heart monitor into my abdomen in a way that felt like she was keeping the baby from descending. The pressure from the doctor working to turn the baby's head also felt like she was pushing him back up into my body. All of this caused each contraction to feel like my uterus was going to rupture into my chest, and still they were telling me to push through it.
Every fiber of my body recoiled. I wanted to straighten my legs and get them all away, but I also thought the baby could have been in serious danger because he hadn't descended and he was marinating in his own poop. So, against my instinct and against the deafening pleas of my body, I pushed. I pushed and begged them to stop touching me and begged them to go away and pushed and pushed and pleaded with them to give me just a little more time to walk. I pushed nearly to the point of passing out.
Just as I was going to give up, his head popped out and his body followed with little more than a deep breath on my part. The NICU team took him to the other side of the room immediately and he wasn't crying. John, who read me like a book and knew that this was all wrong for me, was working to keep himself composed while he tried to help me pick up the pieces of whatever this fiasco was that shattered me so strangely. The adrenaline and euphoria of having muscled through this didn't come. I felt broken. I clung to John and cried. This was nothing like my other births. I'd have preferred the drugs and the spinal headache and the threat of a section and the pathetic recovery and the extra time spent in the hospital to all of that. It all felt so wrong.
But it was over.
Then the baby cried. My head shot up, as did John's, and we caught the NICU nurse giving the thumbs up. His lungs were clear, his breathing was fine, and his APGAR scores were great. They finished cleaning him off and brought him to me and John and I got to drown the horrifying delivery in the joy of meeting our sweet little boy. After a few minutes of touching him and thanking God that he was here and safe, I let him nurse, and he nursed like a pro. I studied his little face and kissed him and breathed him in and clutched my husband to the two of us as we just let this moment happen.
John Elias was born June 5th at 8:15 a.m.,
weighing 8 lbs. 7 oz. and was 20" long.
Everything after that was a bit of a blur. They weighed him and took his stats, handed him back to us for a while as they prepared to wheel me into recovery, and took my stats as they congratulated me. They wheeled me to recovery in these new suites that were just built. I got "the best room" that had two windows as compared to one (they were very big windows). The shower was super nice and the whole floor had a "day spa" feel to it. My room had loads of natural light, all the rooms were private, and the walls were built to be soundproof so the entire floor was very quiet. It was, indeed, very nice overall.
Still, I felt wrecked. I felt the need to replay what happened over and over. Then, when John handed me the baby to hold, I noticed that the baby's forehead and cheeks were bruised. I felt horrible all over again. I wasn't the only one having a really rough time with that delivery, and I hated that he bore signs of it. I was told by everyone that it was normal, given his traumatic delivery (their words). Had he not turned, his shoulders would have been wedged in my pelvis and things would have gotten really bad, really quickly. I tried to let that be of some comfort, but looking at his poor little face made me wonder if they had just let me labor an hour more, would it have been different? Would I have ended up here if a midwife were in charge versus my doctor, whom I truly like and respect?
Then I found out that my doctor high-tailed out of there after delivery to get to her son's kindergarten graduation. My cynicism took hold and I wallowed in the thought that she rushed things to suit her schedule. I totally understand wanting to be there for that. I really, truly do. I was being selfish and I had no sleep at that point, so I asked John to talk me out of this weird, dark funk. He sighed heavily and said he thought she should have waited, that history has proven that my kids stay high until I hit 10 cm. Then they descend quickly and they're out with less than five pushes.
I coiled up around the baby and slept, hoping that my anger was entirely my own selfish reaction to a hard delivery and praying that I'd learn to see past it all and revel in the joy of having a healthy (though beat-up) baby to show the other kids when they came with Avia to visit.
The nap did a lot of good. I felt better physically and mentally, and the cynicism had taken a back seat. When I thought about what had happened, I was left with more of a feeling of shock, like I wasn't sure the whole thing had even happened.
I had great nurses, I had some decent sleep, I got a decent meal, and my pain had all but disappeared. My mom brought the kids, who went nuts over their new brother. I got the ok for my 24-hour discharge and filled out all the paperwork necessary to see that John Elias would be coming with us. A good night's sleep later, and we were sent home.
He had a hero's welcome, for sure!
Louis got to show baby John his lovely shiner!
Joseph just giggled the whole time he held the baby.
Thomas studied the baby's movement and maintained
a sweet sense of awe and wonder.
And Maria is a natural with him.
My mom was a blessing to have around! She kept laundry going, she kept us fed, and she kept the kids happy while we adjusted. She was wonderful company and it was so nice to have an adult around to talk to amidst the usual craziness of the kids. I cried the whole way home from the airport after dropping her off.
However, we weren't alone for very long. In the weeks to follow, our son was Baptized, Chrismated, and received his First Holy Eucharist with his Godmother and Godfather in attendance.
He was in a diaper only, at first. He had to be anointed
on his chest, back, palms, feet, ears, and head.
All fresh and clean, literally and in every sense!
Now that the passing through of various family and guests has died down for now, we're just taking in his emerging personality and adjusting to sleepless nights and diaper duty all over again. He's an easy baby, crying only when in need of a change or a meal. He'll wake up no more than three times a night so far, and that has been exceptionally nice for me.
We've even had our first non-gassy smile!
Deep thinker, or does he just like windows that much?
Having readily available helpers has been awesome!
Baby wearing is invaluable!
That's it for now. Duty (and doody) calls!
Monday, June 2, 2014
Perspective
I woke up this morning wedged between my toddler and my husband, twisted and uncomfortable, but unwilling to disturb either of them, even with nerves in my hip screaming for relief. My husband did eventually wake up and stumble to the shower, leaving me room to roll away from the still-sleeping toddler.
When I did, something popped in my pelvic area and pain shot through my body. I curled up and began sobbing, letting the rush of self-pity totally consume me. I'm still gigantically pregnant, the house isn't spotless, I hardly sleep anymore, I'm physically and emotionally and mentally exhausted all of the time, nothing is getting done, my nesting is feverish-yet-unfocused, making sure I have a baby before my mom's visit is over is stressing me out, and the list goes on.
Then, out of the blue, comes a message from an old high school friend on Facebook. She had been MIA on Facebook since the beginning of December. I figured it was because she was only days from giving birth to her first baby, a girl, and the chaos and joy of being a new mom was probably consuming her every moment. She asked how my pregnancy was going, excited for me and the expansion of my family, and then tells me that she and her husband lost their daughter. I am not aware of any details, but we have a long overdue phone call planned for tomorrow morning.
I ache so much for her. I ache so much for any mother who has lost any child. How selfish I have been to complain about the trivialities that come with any normal, uncomplicated pregnancy when there are mothers who would give anything to have those aches and pains to a blinding degree in exchange for mere moments with their babies. I should be grateful for the pain, for it isn't even peanuts compared to the pain that could be.
With my whole world slammed back into perspective, in all of its terror and simplicity, I've taken to my meager sufferings with quiet resolve and gratitude, prayers for the souls lost and those that had to let them go, and a renewed effort to quiet my nagging urgency to keep a wholly unrealistic schedule.
Thank you, God, for my sufferings. If they should ever be so great as those of others, please hold me closely to You, that I might remain ever faithful and grateful for the gifts borne of sadness and hardship.
When I did, something popped in my pelvic area and pain shot through my body. I curled up and began sobbing, letting the rush of self-pity totally consume me. I'm still gigantically pregnant, the house isn't spotless, I hardly sleep anymore, I'm physically and emotionally and mentally exhausted all of the time, nothing is getting done, my nesting is feverish-yet-unfocused, making sure I have a baby before my mom's visit is over is stressing me out, and the list goes on.
Then, out of the blue, comes a message from an old high school friend on Facebook. She had been MIA on Facebook since the beginning of December. I figured it was because she was only days from giving birth to her first baby, a girl, and the chaos and joy of being a new mom was probably consuming her every moment. She asked how my pregnancy was going, excited for me and the expansion of my family, and then tells me that she and her husband lost their daughter. I am not aware of any details, but we have a long overdue phone call planned for tomorrow morning.
I ache so much for her. I ache so much for any mother who has lost any child. How selfish I have been to complain about the trivialities that come with any normal, uncomplicated pregnancy when there are mothers who would give anything to have those aches and pains to a blinding degree in exchange for mere moments with their babies. I should be grateful for the pain, for it isn't even peanuts compared to the pain that could be.
With my whole world slammed back into perspective, in all of its terror and simplicity, I've taken to my meager sufferings with quiet resolve and gratitude, prayers for the souls lost and those that had to let them go, and a renewed effort to quiet my nagging urgency to keep a wholly unrealistic schedule.
Thank you, God, for my sufferings. If they should ever be so great as those of others, please hold me closely to You, that I might remain ever faithful and grateful for the gifts borne of sadness and hardship.
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