I wrote this several years ago... My first girl's birth story. It's so hard to believe it's been 12 years... A nickname I have for Peyton is Hearts of Fire. I literally call her that, though I can't remember why. She is my everything -- my heart.
Peyton’s Birth Story.
I never wrote Peyton’s birth story. It’s
been eight years now… and while one would think the details would have
become murky in all that time… they haven’t. The days before May 10,
2002 and Peyton’s actual birthday are surprisingly vivid – even after
all this time. Surprising, because eight years isn’t a small increment
of time… so many things have happened in those years – two more
daughters, joys, sorrows, the most beautiful days imaginable, and the
most difficult, as well as the deep and undeniable brain damage that
accompanies raising three children. But still, despite the brain damage
and every memory in between, the experience of Peyton’s birth is pressed
firmly – permanently, into my memory. Remembering now, however, is
interesting… because I have the added benefit of hindsight… all the
experience of these last several years – my subsequent pregnancies, and
births.
But the first… it is nothing short of magical. Every step
of the way is mysterious and fascinating. Though millions of women have
gone through the very process, while I was navigating it, I couldn’t
help feeling I was the center of the universe. I was carrying a life – a
child. I was growing her. My body was making every little piece of her –
her eyelashes and her toenails, her tiny bellybutton and knees and
shoulders and hair. I know it’s cliché to talk about these things, but a
brand new mom really does feel this way. There’s something so innocent
about it… which probably makes us first-timers both “cute” and extremely
annoying to our seasoned OB’s. On my 40 week appointment, I hoisted
myself onto the exam table and let a few very melodramatic tears fall.
“I want this to be over now.” I told Dr. Amies - the most fabulous
doctor I’ve had before or since. She, coincidentally, was 9 months
pregnant too. Her round belly was nearly touching my own and she looked
at me with what looked like genuine… pity. She told me it would be soon.
“Now.” I told her.
I realize now most OB’s would have shrugged
off this plea with a quip about “how the baby couldn’t stay in there
forever…” and with a hurried shuffle of paperwork add, “see you soon,”
the door slamming shut, white coat flying behind. But Dr. Amies with her
lovely demeanor was kind to me, even when I sat there weeping like a
bloated pathetic time bomb about to burst. She put her hand on mine. “I
could sweep your membranes,” she told me. I had never heard of membranes
being swept, but it sounded intriguing – and industrious. “This could
get things going for you,” she added with a hopeful look. Though I
wasn’t all together sure what this ‘sweeping’ would entail, I was
already in. I liked the sound of it, and I was down with whatever could
‘get things going.’ So she swept, and while it was more uncomfortable
than I had anticipated, I lay back and practiced my breathing. I needed
to practice breathing through pain, I reminded myself. I was going for a
med-free birth.
I spent the rest of the afternoon lazing on the
couch waiting for something to happen. I find this particularly amusing
when I recollect it… I don’t believe I’ve lazed on the couch since this
afternoon. At least not in the way one can when they have no children
that, at any moment, may interrupt a perfectly good couch laze. John
came home with the favorite meal of my pregnancy: a grilled eggplant
sandwich, which I will detail because it was absolutely amazing, and I
ate it almost every single night for weeks: grilled eggplant, roasted
red pepper, mozzarella cheese, basil, and a drizzle of olive oil on
focaccia bread. All of it was grilled. A moment of silence for that
sandwich, which I’m sure more or less contributed to the nearly 40 lbs. I
gained…
I went to bed ticked off. So much for the grand ol’
sweep. I felt: exactly nothing. Though it sounds ridiculous even to me, I
wholeheartedly believed I would be pregnant forever.
I woke up
at 3:00 for my nightly pee. I stood up and realized I was already wet.
How humiliating, I thought. Pregnancy really does take you down a notch,
I told myself grumpily… How would I explain to John that I peed on
myself? I stood up and continued to drip on the hardwood floor, and it
clicked… and I smiled. Oh dear Lord, it was happening. But was it? Could
this be It? I woke John up, who in go-time fashion got ready and called
the hospital before I could fully admit that we were going to have this
baby after all. I had no pain, no gut wrenching contractions – just a
wet bed. This isn’t what all the classes and books said labor would feel
like… But my water had broken (go Dr. Amies for sweeping my membranes!)
and so we were off to L&D.
I remember driving the two miles
to the University of Washington hospital in the dark. I remember
laughing and joking with John who was both driving, and trying to film
me with the video camera. I looked down at my big belly, with a pink
long sleeve tee-shirt stretched tightly across it, and realized this
pregnancy was coming to an end, and on the other side of it, we were
going to see a brand new person… We were soon to be a threesome. It was
all very surreal and unfathomable really.
We checked in at the
front desk – me smiling and cracking jokes. The no-nonsense nurse behind
the desk looked at me narrowly. I realize now, probably wondering why I
was in L&D when I looked so jovial. She sent me to a room to run
some tests. They wanted to make sure that I was indeed leaking amniotic
fluid and not, well… pee. The test revealed that it was amniotic fluid,
and the nurse looked at me and said, “honey, you’ll be holding your baby
before noon.” Still no contractions, though. I felt just fine. So far,
labor was pretty easy.
My Mom was on her way - travelling from
San Juan Island on a little plane. I didn’t want her to miss the birth,
and hoped our little baby girl could hold on at least until my Mom
arrived. I changed in to my hospital gown and got hooked up to the
monitors. The monitor revealed what I already could feel – no business
like contractions were happening at all. I felt self conscious, and
wondered if they’d make me go home. I clearly wasn’t in labor here. But
because my water had broken, I was allowed to stay. The anesthesiologist
came into the room and I, very decidedly, thanked him very much but
told him I wouldn’t need his fine services. Nevertheless, the nurses
told me I needed an IV line started. I agreed, but took the needle in my
hand with zero pain medication. Turns out, it was quite difficult to
get that line into my hand. Here again, I practiced my breathing, while
the nurse told me grimly, “for many women, this is the most painful
part.” As she scraped around in my hand with that fat needle, I could
see how that would be quite possible.
My Mom arrived. She blew
into the room with a sense of urgency… Immediately, she could tell she
had made it before the baby had. I was perched on the hospital bed,
playing a rather competitive game of Scrabble with John. Noon rolled
around (when the nurse said I would be holding my baby) and still
nothing. No major contractions… Not anything of note to speak of. I
again considered the possibility of being pregnant forever. It seemed
altogether possible. The nurses were being extremely patient with me,
but were concerned that my water had broken, and that meant labor needed
to start or my risk for infection would increase. They told me they
would start pitocin, which would kick things off. I remembered from my
pregnancy book that pitocin is a synthetic form of oxytocin, which
stimulates labor. I didn’t remember, however, that with pitocin came the
most ground shaking, violent labor contractions imaginable. The pitocin
drip began. “pain management?” the nurses asked me expectantly. “No,
thank you.” I replied.
I walked the halls for hours, trailing an
IV drip of pitocin. John and I must have walked miles – back and forth
through the hospital, the medical halls, the offices… my big pregnant
rear-end hanging out the back of my gown. They bumped up the pitocin so
many times I lost count.
It was beginning to get dark outside, a
movie was playing in the labor and delivery room, and everybody was
chatting and hanging out. I believe they too were finally realizing that
I would, indeed, be pregnant forever. No baby here. Not today.
My
Mom was lying across my belly talking to the nurse. They were comparing
labor stories. John was watching a Mariners game. I was semi-dozing in
bed (pretty exhausted by this point) when the first contraction hit. It
blew my socks off. I sat up and gasped. My Mom and the nurse continued
their conversation. There was nothing to see here… I wasn’t having this
baby. John was watching the game. In my mind, I thought. “Dear sweet
Heavens… that was only the first one.” And then the next one came. There
was no gradual build up. I went from feeling rather comfortable, to
instantly feeling like a truck was trying to drive out of my cervix. I
grabbed my Mom and when she looked at me, she knew. I don’t remember
what I said, but suddenly there was some scrambling around, and the room
became very quiet. Soon, the birthing ball arrived on the scene. I
bounced on the ball for several contractions, and felt quite certain my
body was breaking into a million fragments. It felt as if bones were
splitting, and organs were being smashed and squeezed and exploded. I
was quiet though. My Mom, the nurses, and John kept telling me how
“good” I was doing. My brain was somewhere far, far away… I didn’t want
to be touched, talked to or otherwise disturbed. My eyes were closed. I
was concentrating so hard on making it through and it was so
ridiculously painful. This feeling is bringing my girl closer to me, I
kept reminding myself. This is good pain… In the deepest part of my
thoughts, however, the pain wasn’t good at all – it was very, very bad.
Then I needed to move. I wanted the tub. Generally, they won’t allow a
woman with a broken bag of waters to sit in the tub, but they said they
would monitor me, and they allowed it. I hobbled to the tub. The warm
water was soothing, but the pain was insane - deep, brutal, unforgiving.
I hallucinated when I closed my eyes. I remember seeing magenta
waterfalls behind my eyelids, and big bursting magenta flowers cracking
into other shapes – morphing into other flowers. I may have moaned a
little bit, but for the most part I was silent. I’ve never been
comfortable with the expression “ripping me a new one…” I’ve always
found it a bit grotesque in the visual department, but that was
precisely what it felt like my sweet baby girl was doing to me. That was
indeed exactly what she was doing to me. There was no way out now, I
knew… Just through.
When I felt that I would rather give a limb
than feel more of this pain, the nurse suggested she check my progress. I
thought I’d certainly be at least 9 centimeters and nearly ready to
push. Her internal exam revealed I was at a 5. Just over halfway. This
was so disheartening, I wanted to cry. It had been hours, and I wasn’t
even close. More hours slipped away. Me: on the birthing ball, then back
to the hospital bed, then back to the tub again. More time passed – it
may have been minutes, or days. I completely lost myself. Somewhere in
that time warp I heard myself utter it… “epidural.” Once I had said it,
there was nothing I wanted more in the world. But because I had refused
earlier on, I wasn’t on the schedule, I had to wait for what seemed like
forever. It was an hour. Time takes on a completely new meaning when
you find yourself in exquisite pain. By the time the anesthesiologist
arrived, I was shaking uncontrollably on the bed – a combination of the
pain and the hormonal shift going on in my body. It happened with each
of my births, but it was extremely disconcerting this first time. The
doctor told me to hold still so he could put the needle in, which I
thought sounded like a great plan if only I could control my violent
shakes. I managed to curl up between contractions so that he could get
to my spine. I didn’t even feel the needle go in, but soon I felt
something incredible… relief. Something beautiful happened - the end of
those bone shaking contractions. Very inappropriate offers were made –
shamelessly from me to the anesthesiologist. Maybe something about
French kissing, perhaps marriage…? Looking back, I’m sure he gets that a
lot. Looking back, I think John would have French kissed him too, just
so he didn’t have to see me in so much agony.
I was 9
centimeters. There was no pain now, only an unbelievable sense of
pressure. I was so grateful to have the epidural in full effect. There
was a brief moment when, because the pain was not so intense, I was able
to rest a bit. The next time they checked me, I was fully effaced and a
complete 10 centimeters. My baby girl was almost here! Though it was
the middle of the night, Dr. Amies, who had been at home sleeping,
arrived on the scene, her big pregnant belly preceding her. At the time,
I knew that was fantastic of her, but now I realize just how incredible
that was – is.
It was go time. There was nothing holding us back
now from our baby girl aside from a few pushes. Right? Everybody can
Push, right? Right? So I pushed. And pushed. And pushed and pushed and
pushed and pushed…. until my face was reddish purple and I felt I had
sprinted up 97 flights of stairs. “Push!” They all said. My Mom held one
leg, John held the other, and everybody else’s head in the room seemed
to be between my legs watching for something to pop out. I pushed and
gasped for breath. Over an hour later I was deflated, demoralized and
otherwise exhausted. My attitude was starting to suffer. In between
pushes I tried to get Dr. Amies to make a deal with me. “Just
GETHEROUT!” I told her. I was thinking prongs, vacuums – whatever it
would take… I couldn’t have been more serious, but everybody else
thought it was pretty funny and started to chuckle. Dr. Amies looked at
me with the sternest look I had ever seen cross her face. “You need to
keep working.” She said with her eyebrows raised. My lovely doctor got a
little aggro on me, and I loved her for it all the more. “Now PUSH.”
She demanded. I did. I went for it and gave it everything I had left,
which at this point wasn’t much. But there was soon excitement from all
the people down between my legs. Something was happening. A head… they
could see a head. “Push! Push! Push!” This was the only word that
bounced around that room… the only word that reverberated in my head.
I
felt her head come all the way out, and distantly heard all the
cheering that followed. The rest of her body slid out, John cut her
cord, and Dr. Amies brought her up to my chest. “She’s so pretty,” She
said, shedding some tears. John was tearing up too, and came up close to
my shoulder to see our girl. All I could see was her face coming toward
me. Her eyes were open, very serious and alarmingly intelligent, with a
very distinct look in them. It’s taken me all these years to understand
what those precious eyes were telling me. “You’re mine.”
I cried
on her sweet face and kissed her and said hello about a million times.
The elation I felt is something that just can’t be put into words. It
was simply the most meaningful, beautiful moment in my life. I couldn’t
stop staring at her tiny pink body, her little lips, and those eyes that
stared back at me – so knowingly.
Everybody cried and marveled
at her. Though babies were born every day, all day long in this labor
and delivery room… Peyton seemed to me an out of this world miracle - a
perfect, sweet little miracle. The world was so beautiful and complete
in that moment.
I felt blessed beyond words. Looking back, I feel
even more blessed. During my first pregnancy and birth, I was so naïve
to all the possible outcomes. I was of the mind that: you get pregnant,
you waddle around for nine months, then, you go to the hospital and
leave with your perfect new baby. Since then, I’ve realized this isn’t
always the outcome. There are losses, tragedies, and a pregnancy doesn’t
always guarantee taking home a healthy baby. Since then, I have known
many friends who have suffered devastating losses – things my heart
cannot begin to comprehend. Since then, we have suffered losses of our
own.
Looking down at Peyton, I felt my first twinge of fear. She
was outside my belly now – out in the world, and the world suddenly
seemed full of hidden dangers. It was our job to make sure this tiny
person was taken care of, and as the nurse wheeled me down to the
recovery room, I felt significantly unprepared. Maybe that’s why I
couldn’t bear to let her out of my arms. They rolled the little plastic
bassinet next to my adjustable hospital bed, but I insisted on holding
Peyton. I held her all night long, cradling her close as we both slept… I
only let her go when the nurses came in to check her, and I let go
reluctantly.
It’s so hard to believe it’s been eight years since
this day. It’s enough to make me swell with joy and pride at the lovely
little lady Peyton has become… and weep all over myself at how quickly
it’s all happening. They all say it: “It goes so fast,” and it does… it
really, really does. Bottom line is that I feel blessed beyond belief to
have such a wonderful little girl to bring up. And, she was right… from
the moment her eyes caught mine, I was hers.
