D-Day

The Story of Keaton: (This is an old blog post but I was thinking about my last delivery so I went back and found where I had written about it. And it brings back horrific memories)




So, Keaton Gray is finally here.

On Friday night, we sat in the hospital room awaiting the results of my bloodwork—thinking there might be a chance we would get to go home.

When my doc walked in he instantly said, "Well, we're having a baby tomorrow."

So, that was that.

I actually felt a little relief in that moment because I was really tired of being pregnant and swollen.

Plus we were ready to meet our little guy.

Then, my doc busted my bubble of excitement by uttering the words I had dreaded hearing.

He told me my platelets were even lower now and I couldn't have an epidural. It would be too dangerous.

All these thoughts were running through my mind. “What? Did I hear him correctly? This isn’t the 1920’s…it’s 2011. Give me my epidural!”

But, I tried to act brave and simply said, “okay”, as if the thought of another human coming out of me while feeling the excruciating pain of it all didn’t bother me one little bit.
So, that was that.

I guess I was half-expecting it, since he had warned me on Thursday that this could be a reality.

But, I really think that deep down I thought it would work out so that I would get my beloved epidural.

So, I took a sleeping pill that night—because I wouldn't have been sleeping a wink without one.


The next morning at 5:00 am we headed to the delivery room to begin the birthing process.

Little did I know the process was going to take for-ever.

And it was going to suck. Really badly.

When we got in the room, the nurses began my IV.

Then, we waited.

My doctor wasn't going to be in until about 8:00 or so and that's when they were going to break my water.

In the meantime at around 7:30, they started my Pitocin to try and get things moving.

When, my doctor came in and "checked me"—which is a horrendous act in itself—I was at a one (crush my spirit) and the baby was still too high to break my water.
A one?

I just knew I was more than that. He must have made a mistake.

So, we waited and waited through contractions that weren't all that painful yet.

After several more checks I was still a one.

One.

I never thought I would hate that number so much.

Finally at around 4:00 pm, I felt a painful popping sensation.

Then, the waters broke loose.

And from that point on, it was game time.

At least as far as my pain was concerned. But, as far as things starting to happen—it was not game time.


My heavy contractions started the minute my water broke.

The nurse came in to check me and what do you know, I was still a one.

A freaking one.

I wanted to scream in her face—even though I guess it wasn’t really her fault.

I was in disbelief and almost tears, because this "one" felt about like the four or five I experienced with Cale (right before they gave me an epidural) .

And this time all my pain was in my back lower half, which I didn't experience at all with my first child.

I hear that's called "back labor".

Whatever it is, it sucks.

As time passed, the pain got worse and worse.

I went from grimacing to self-consciously moaning to almost yelling.

I remember I kept looking at the clock as I slowly became more dilated...and thinking "I can't do this. I'll never be able to tolerate what a "ten" is going to feel like."

The hard thing is, there is absolutely no turning back. There’s no way to get out of the pain.

It must be endured.

Earlier in the day my husband had kept saying things like—"Oh I bet this baby will be here by early afternoon."

Then, when early afternoon came and went with no baby he said, "I bet this baby will be here by 7:00".

When 7:00 came and went, he started to make another prediction but quickly stopped when I snapped, "Just shut your mouth".

And apparently that’s around the time I got mean.


Through the course of getting from a one to a ten, I told my husband to "shut-up" repeatedly and to "quit touching me".

I told him I felt like I was "dying".

I slapped the phone out of his hand as he began to type a text.

I can actually remember being appalled when he picked up his phone.

It infuriated me off that he felt comfortable at that moment—comfortable enough to have a friendly conversation with someone—while I was lying there practically being tortured right before his eyes.

And he thought he was going to make a call.

Dummy.

The closer I got to a ten I evidently even tried to bite him a few times. The reason I say "apparently" is because the medicine they give you when you don't have an epidural—knocks you out.

This sounds great, right? Well, it only knocks you out in between contractions.

Every time a contraction started back up, I was awoken by the excruciating pain.

But, hey, at least in between I got some relief.

One of the things I remember thinking was how mad I was that fast food burger place that I was craving was going to be closed by the time I got this baby out of me.

Not that I was hungry in those moments, but that was supposed to be my reward for childbirth and I knew I wasn't going to get it.


Finally at about 10:15 or so, I had made it to the magic number: Ten.

It was time to start pushing. Really I had no choice because when you can actually feel the pain of labor, and it's pushing time, there's no denying it.

I don't think it would be possible not to push by that time.

Looking back, it's funny. I remember telling Carl early that morning that I hoped I didn't “let one” during the pushing because that would be absolutely mortifying.

It was a fear I had when I delivered the first child. But luckily, I was gas-free during that delivery.

Well, let me just say that a mere poot would've been a blessing.

What actually happened was a pregnant girl's worst nightmare.

Me and my husband’s marital relationship has gone to a whole other level.

A disgusting level.

I'll leave it at that.

Luckily the pushing only lasted about forty-five minutes or so.

Yes it hurt. It hurt very badly.

But I actually think the hours of contractions themselves without the pushing, were worse.

My mom would be proud of me. Throughout the whole ordeal, the worst "profanity" I uttered in those moments was, "goodness".

No curse words came out—even though I'm pretty sure I thought a few—or thirty.

At 11:01 pm Keaton was born.

I can't tell you how relieved I was that it was over.

Or so I thought.

Just like last time, the nurses scooped Keaton up and instantly started doing their thing. I’m not really sure what they do in those moments.

I kept trying to catch glimpses of him as my doctor sewed me up.

Now, the next part is probably TMI, but here goes.

About tem minutes after I had Keaton my doctor started pushing on my stomach to try and get the placenta out. Somehow this part usually gets left out of childbirth stories.

Maybe because, to people who have epidurals, this isn’t a very big deal because they still have some pretty good pain medicine coursing through their bodies.

But for me, it was a big deal.

In fact, I think this is an inhumane act. For real.

After about ten minutes of pushing, my doctor realized it wasn't going to be easy.

I had some type of problem with my placenta not detaching.

He told me I had two options at this point:

1. He could knock me out, take me into surgery, and do a D & C procedure or

2. He could go for it—push with all his strength—but it would be painful.

I don't know what I was thinking, but I said "go for it".

I guess it was because about a month after my first delivery I ended up having to have a D and C because I was having massive bleeding.

I guess I figured I didn’t want to do that again.

After about thirty minutes of extreme pushing, that was truly worse than the contractions and birth, my doctor gave up and told me they were going to take me into surgery to get a D&C.

I can remember my doctor apologizing as he pushed on my stomach and I cried out, all my shame and self-consciousness long gone.

I also remember feeling like a whiny little kid, thinking, "This isn't fair. It's supposed to be over. I'm supposed to be holding my little boy, enjoying congratulations from close family members, and scarfing down on my burger, fries, and coke. This isn't supposed to be happening."

Well, besides the cold, bright surgery room, I don't remember anything else until about 7:30 the next morning.

I remember waking up totally disoriented at first and coming to my senses and thinking, "It's over, it's actually over".

Then, I got really excited because I remembered that I hadn't really even seen my little boy. So, I woke my husband up and asked him to go to the nursery to get Keaton.

I think the second thing out of my mouth was, "We're not having any more babies".

Wouldn't you know the on-call pediatrician was making his rounds and I didn't get to see our little guy for about another hour.

And breakfast wasn't going to be served for about another hour.

Seriously ya’ll, they treat people better than this in prison.

But, it's over now. We're all home now as a family.

Childbirth is a memory—not quite a distant memory and still a little horrific--but a memory nonetheless.

I've been pretty uncomfortable since the birth, but hopefully I'll feel better in a week or two.

All-in-all, things are pretty great.

Mark my words: NO MORE BABIES FOR ME.

No more being pregnant, no more swelling, no more getting bigger each day, no more dorky pants that go up to my boobs, no more labor pains, no more uncontrollable gas—no more.

Our family is complete.