The second line of our birth plan reads: Avoid an induction. So, our plan is mostly toast from the moment we check into the birthing center for the scheduled induction. The first line of our plan reads: Have this baby in the safest, easiest, and healthiest way possible. Thankfully, we accomplish the latter regardless of the former.
Thursday
We are assigned to a Labor and Delivery room and meet the night nurse by 9 pm. I pee in a cup, she draws blood, inserts my hep-lock, and hooks me up to the mobile monitor. Watching the continuous monitor is fascinating; instant biofeedback! By 945 pm, they check my cervix and administer my first dose of misoprostol vaginally. At this point, my cervix is completely closed. The recliner couch in our room is broken and the night nurse brings Ryan a working recliner chair when they find him lying on his camping mat on the floor. You cannot sleep down there, she says! Settled, we attempt to sleep, but we’re both pretty keyed-up. I never sleep well the first night in a new place anyway. The night nurse is in and out about every 2 hours, checking my vitals. She administers a dose of misoprostol every 4 hours.
Friday
By my last dose at 945 am Friday morning, my cervix is softer, but no more dilated. The doctor says I can shower and eat real food. She is optimistic for a vaginal birth and allows me to progress naturally all-day Friday. After breakfast, I go back on a liquid-only diet. We watch First Man and Mary Poppins and The Spy Who Dumped Me and several episodes of Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee. After minor and irregular contractions all day, my cervix is soft but still closed. I start a 12-hour overnight dose of Cervadil at 6 pm Friday night. The night nurse allows us to sleep, which we do.
Saturday
Around 130 am Saturday morning, my mucus plug begins to pass and contractions kick up a notch. I waddle out to the nurse’s station, which is right outside our room, so as not to wake Ryan, and ask for my night nurse. She comes in and checks to make sure my water hasn’t broken, using a test strip that looks like litmus paper. It hasn’t, but a quick cervix check and I am dilated to 1 cm. A good sign! I fall back asleep and wake to another gushy feeling around 330 am. Contractions are more regular and more intense. More good signs! I try to sleep, but my head is filled with thoughts of labor. I lay awake and listen to Ryan breathing; it is regular, familiar, and comforting.
The night nurse wakes me at 6 am to take out the Cervidil and check my cervix. No progress. She calls the doctor and we make the decision to take a break. They let me eat a real breakfast and shower. Then, back to fluids and 2 rounds of buccal misoprostol. The first round is administered around noon and kicks things up another notch. When I stand, the contractions are spaced 1-3 minutes apart and the most intense-feeling yet – a 7 on the pain scale. When I sit on the yoga ball or get in bed, they slow down to 3-5 minutes apart but are still just as intense. At this point, it is not the intensity that is wearing me out, it is the frequency. So, I spend the time either sitting or leaning on the yoga ball. They administer the second buccal dose at 4 pm. My cervix has progressed to 1.5 cm, depending on which nurse’s hand is used.
Somewhere in the middle of the Rays afternoon game, the baby’s HR spikes. It is up around 172 bpm and throwing an alarm on the monitor. The days nurse takes my temperature to check for fever. I’m not running hot and she starts IV fluids. The first bag of fluids is pushed quickly and the baby’s HR returns to normal. They start a second bag and push it much slower. The IV makes me feel cold. The Rays lose to the Bluejays.
At 8 pm, my cervix is no further along. The doctor calls. We have a very frank conversation about what we’ve tried, next steps, and when she will execute doctor’s choice. She is not keen on another round of induction meds, but she will defer to our choice. If they let me progress overnight and the baby’s HR spikes again, then she will take her. If the baby does not come overnight, she will deliver via C-section in the morning. Ryan and I look at each other; she leaves it up to us to choose – another round of induction meds and wait it out, C-section now, or C-section in the morning. We’re at the end of the second day and I’m tired. My cervix is not cooperating. There is no reason to delay the inevitable. We get off the phone with the doctor, agreeing to a C-section tonight. I can be at the hospital within the hour, she says. I don’t feel disappointed in missing out on a vaginal birth, but I cry anyway. Out of frustration. Out of exhaustion. Out of fear. Ryan holds me and reassures me. Everything is okay, he says. I confess that I skipped all the C-section chapters in all the books out of confidence that it wasn’t going to happen this way. He laughs.
The next hour or so is filled with preparations. The night nurse, the anesthesiologist and nurse anesthetist, and finally the doctor. They change me into a hospital gown and remove my IV. My contractions are still kicking and for the first time I wish they would stop so I can rest. I say goodbye to Ryan; he will meet us in the operation room. They walk me toward surgery and I start to shake. I begin chatting incessantly; I am nervous, I explain. They smile and reassure me that it nothing they haven’t seen or heard before.
The operation room is so bright and much larger than I expected. You could park a bus in here! There are 7 of us, including me, and the team goes to work. They chat with each other and with me with an ease and familiarity that is comforting. This is a team that works often and well together. The doctor comes in and preparations progress. Anesthesia is started, a spinal block, which does not hurt, and then they lay me down. I’m naked from the chest down and it is really cold in here. I am doing the best I can to breathe deeply and stay calm. Certainly, my heart is beating at an insane rate, but the monitor says otherwise. They put up a blue sheet for a barrier so I cannot see; I don’t want to. The anesthesiologist and nurse anesthetist lean over me and ask me how I am feeling. They both have the bluest eyes above their operation masks. I’m good, I say. Now, the pinch test and I cannot feel a thing. Finally, Ryan comes in. He is all gowned up and smiling behind his mask. He gives me a kiss, says some reassuring words, and they seat him at my left shoulder. I instantly feel better. Safer. I make a joke, acting braver than I feel.
They begin. Giving birth via C-section is difficult to describe. I can only feel pressure, particularly the change in pressure when they remove her. It is a strange sensation. The entire team exclaims, She’s a ginger! And I look at Ryan. Did they mix up our egg, I ask? Well, it’s too late for that now, he replies. Ryan goes over to where the nurses are working her up. She poops on the table. I can hear what’s going on, but I cannot see anything. I stare at the ceiling and listen. They call out her time of birth and her measurements. I feel more pressure. That must be the placenta.
Then, Ryan is back by my shoulder and he lays Vivian on my chest. She is all wrapped up and perfect. I look at her and cry. Big, silent tears. She is here and alive and in my arms. I am completely overwhelmed. I kiss her. I kiss Ryan. Time slows. I do not know how long they let me hold her, but it feels too soon when Ryan takes her away. Ryan and Vivian go to the nursery; they will meet up with me later when the procedure is over.
The room is eerily quiet. The banter has stopped and the tones of voice have become serious. I continue to stare at the ceiling and attempt to understand what people are saying. The doctor is having difficulty closing me up. Your uterus is tired, the doctor explains, from all the contracting it has been doing over the past couple of days. The blued-eye nurse anesthetist leans over to check on me. I give a thumbs-up. One of the other nurses stands by my shoulder and speaks to me in soft tones; I cannot make out what she is saying. I do not want to die, I think over and over again. I long to be with Ryan and Vivian. I picture their faces and breathe. I have no idea how long it takes, but the doctor is finally finished and I am closed. The voices go back to jolly. Relief probably. They carefully move me from the operation table to a hospital bed and wheel me to Post-op.
The next bits are fuzzy. I am groggy from the pain meds, but not sleepy. Post-op is a large, dimly lit room. We’re in a nook behind a curtain. Ryan and Vivian are there. I am so thirsty! The nurse gives me the best freaking ice cubes I have ever had. I remembering talking to Ryan, but I do not remember what I said. I remember his smile. I am shivering uncontrollably. Shivering is normal, the night nurse says. She contributes it to my changing hormones. She also says that I was in labor for 40 hours. Is that true?
The lactation nurse comes. She sits very close to my right, uses soft, kind words, and we breastfeed Vivian for the first time. Vivian has a great latch! Then, the pediatricians. They check Vivian from head to toe. I am very tired and having a hard time concentrating. I turn to Ryan and ask if he is taking notes because it sounds like the pediatricians are speaking another language. Finally, we are left alone for a bit and it is wonderful. Just the 3 of us. We sit quietly in the moment.
They wheel us toward the Postpartum Room where we will spend the night. We stop in the hallway to push the new baby button before leaving. Ryan and I push it together. The song finally plays for us after 2 days of hearing it play for everyone else. We get to our new room and meet our new night nurses. They give me water, meds, and more blankets as I am still shivering. By now, it is close to 1 am on Sunday. We opt to have Vivian sleep in the nursey so we can rest. Ryan passes out. I finally stop shivering. I throw up once from bolting my water. Eventually, I sleep. The nurses come and go the rest of the night, checking my vitals, pressing on my belly, and checking my bleeding.
Sunday
The sun comes up and they bring Vivian back to feed. The day nurse tells us the doctor will be in around 10 am. She removes my catheter and I begin the arduous process of trying to use the toilet. I have to pee 3 times and pass gas once before they will discharge me. At this point, I cannot get out of bed unassisted and peeing is next to impossible. The nurse is patient and kind. Afterward, we order breakfast and it is the best oatmeal with honey and milk I have ever tasted. The throat hurts and I feel a cold sore coming on. The doctor arrives. It is good we did the C-section when we did, she says. Another 12 hours of contractions without dilating and my uterus would have been a real mess.
We move to a Mom Baby Room. The chair recliner is missing so the day nurses brings Ryan a hospital bed like mine. He is excited about sleeping in a bed! They take Vivian back to the nursey for tests and shots. I shower; it is very slow going, but I manage by myself. I turn the water as hot as I can stand. It feels amazing! When I get out of the shower, Vivian is back and ready to be fed. It is close to sunset and we order food. The nurse takes Vivian for a bath. We nap. When they bring Vivian back, it is time for a shift change and we meet the new night nurse. She gives me a Velcro supportive wrap for my midsection. It helps. Time moves slowly over the next few hours. It is just the 3 of us. Ryan does some kangaroo time and I nap.
Around 10 pm, the night nurse becomes concerned that Vivian’s HR is too low. She takes her to the nursery for continual monitoring. Ryan follows. I stay in bed as getting up and down is still extremely difficult. In a few minutes, Ryan returns and relays the pedestrian’s diagnosis. Her resting HR is low, dipping in to the 70s, but her blood oxygen and temperature are perfect. The pediatrician calls upstairs to the NICU and they are going to admit Vivian for and EKG and overnight continuous monitoring. It may be a bit before they come down to get her. I haven’t changed out of my hospital gown yet. I put on PJ bottoms and follow Ryan to the nursery. In the nursery, Vivian is on a warming station and hooked up to a continuous monitor. I stand by her side and the pedestrian says exactly what Ryan just said. I watch the monitor while the pediatrician talks. When she is resting and comfortable, her HR dips every minute or so into the 70s for a few seconds. If you rub her belly, touch her feet, pick her up, or disturb her in any way, her HR promptly returns to normal – 120s to 140s. Ryan looks frazzled. I rub his back and tell him everything will be ok. We are ok. She is ok. This is a precaution. The NICU has better machines and more specialized nurses and doctors.
Monday
Waiting and watching the monitor in the nursery is excruciatingly tense. It throws an awful alarm every time her HR dips. They give me a chair to sit in and nurse. I hold her when she is finished. It is after midnight by now and we’ve seen several newborn babies come and go. The NICU nurses finally arrive, take her from me, do a few quick tests, and place her in this huge incubator-looking machine. They wheel her into the hallway. Ryan follows. I stand up and that’s what I hit my wall. A nursery nurse asks if I am ok. No, I respond, and begin to cry. No more adrenaline to hold me together. We only just got her and now they are taking her away! I follow Ryan into the hallway and it is his turn to comfort me. Go back to our room and try to rest, he says. He promises to call with as update just as soon as he can. He goes upstairs with Vivian.
Alone in our room, I pace. It is too quiet. I make several deals with myself and try and hold it together. Ryan calls to say the EKG is normal, but they want a cardiologist to look it over in the morning. They drew blood and are running some other tests, too. He tells me she is resting comfortably and her HR is still dipping every so often. He says he will stay with her and for me to come up for her 2 am feeding. My night nurse comes in and checks me over. I am shivering again. She gives me pain meds and helps me into bed. She says she will be back at 145 am with a wheelchair to take me up to the NICU. It has been just over 24 hours since the surgery. My body is sore and my mind is raw. I set an alarm on my phone and somehow surrender to sleep.
Awake, the night nurse wheels me through the labyrinthine hallways of the birthing center, up the elevator, and down more halls to the NICU check-in desk. I fill out paperwork. A large lady with kind eyes and a quiet voice behind the desk gives me hospital bracelet that will allow me access to this floor. Then, I am being wheeled through the NICU past incubator after incubator of tiny babies in various stages of development. They put Vivian in the very back of a common room near the window. Ryan stands when he sees us. Vivian is in one of the incubator machines with the top off, swaddled and sucking on a nunie. A monitor is tracking her HR, blood oxygen, and temperature. I touch her. She fidgets. She looks so small and fragile and yet gigantic and healthy compared to her roommates.
The NICU nurse finds me a recliner and a pillow. I nurse Vivian. When she is finished, I put her back in the machine. The NICU nurse reiterates what Ryan said, that the cardiologist and attending doctors want to see her in the morning. He says we can come back in 3 hours and feed her again, but in the meantime, we should go back to our room and rest. We agree and begin our goodbyes. Leaving her side is likely the hardest thing I have ever forced myself to do. We make our way back downstairs in silence. Ryan helps me into bed, then crawls in next to me. We hold each other and cry until we fall sleep. This is defiantly not what we planned.
At 430 am we make our way back upstairs. Vivian nurses again like a champ. There has been no change in her status. A shift change will happen prior to our next feeding so we make plans to come back at 8 am. We leave again, go back to our room, sleep a bit more, get up at 730 am, and do it again. I nurse her. Concerned about dehydration, we supplement with an ounce of formula. Afterward, we take turns holding her and wait for the doctors to make their rounds. All around us, monitors beep and IVs push and loved ones start showing up. The room begins to come awake as the sun climbs higher in the sky. Outside, it is a beautiful morning.
The attending doctors come by at 10 am. They read her chart, talk to the NICU nurse, and immediately decide to discharge Vivian once the cardiologist gives the all clear. What is the perfectly healthy baby doing in the NICU, one doctor asks? She smiles and we are overjoyed. I nurse again, then we go back downstairs to our room. Ryan leaves to fill out paperwork related to her admission and discharge. He also goes home to shower, eat, and grab more clothes. It has been almost 8 hours since anyone checked on me and I need more pain meds. I ring the nurse. I shower, put on my PJs, and order food. The lactation nurse brings me a pump.
One o’clock comes quickly. The NICU nurse calls and asks if we’re coming up. I give her the ok to formula feed Vivian, tell her that we will be up at 3 pm if she isn’t discharged by then, and pump. Ryan gets back at 230 pm and we head upstairs. I am still using the wheelchair because I am in pain and feeling weak. I feed Vivian and we take turns holding her again. I am so in love that I can hardly keep it all inside; some spills down my cheeks. We are beyond ready for her to come downstairs with us. The NICU nurse tells us that both hospitals are trying to contact the pediatrician who admitted Vivian to the hospital so he can discharge her back to the birthing center. Not too many babies are discharged back downstairs so the process is not routine. We leave the NICU around 430 pm with the assurance that Vivian will be with us before 7 pm. We return to our room and try to nap. The doctor stops by to check on me. I am feeling much better; the pain is much more manageable and moving around is still slow going, but relatively easier. I’ve peed several times and passed gas. My bleeding is normal and my incision looks good. She tells us that we can go home tomorrow.
At 630 pm, the day nurses bring us Vivian. She is swaddled in the NICU blanket, with her NICU nunie, and wearing a hat with the biggest bow on it. Overjoyed, we order dinner and settle down into our first real night together as a family. Her noises and foreign and frequent. Between napping and nursing, we take turns holding and cuddling her. Ryan spends more kangaroo time with her. He is a natural. I try to sleep, but I just want to look at her. Her slate blue eyes and her red hair and her beautiful face. Her 10 fingers and 10 toes. Her little ears and her cleft chin. I don’t want to miss a moment. I sleep as much as I can and the nurses come and go all night.
Tuesday
The sun comes up. Ryan wakes. I feed Vivian. We order breakfast. The day nurse comes in to remove my staples and applies Steri-Strips.
It is a really long morning, waiting around to be discharged. Ryan is restless and pacing. We skip lunch. We pack our belongings. We watch more Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee. I feed Vivian again. Around 130 pm, the day nurse goes over our discharge papers and sets us free. Another day nurse wheels us downstairs, back out the way we came in 5 days ago. I sit with Vivian in her car seat in my lap. She is sleeping. Ryan negotiates the valet and loads the car. We wave goodbye to the nurse and drive away. It is quick trip to our house; we live only 5 blocks away. Coming home has never held more significance; 3 when there used to be 2. We get inside and I swaddle her and place her in the bassinette. I stand over her. I cry. Ryan smiles. This thing we have been planning has finally happened. A family at last.