Letter to my little bear.

Dear Claire,

Today is your one month birthday, and I cannot believe it. The past month seems to have rushed by in a blur (part of that was medication, I realize), and I'm a little sad about it.

Maybe I should have been taking more pictures and capturing video of you, but most of the time, I didn't want to leave you to go get the camera or stop watching your funny faces long enough to turn on the camera, if I did have it nearby. You make the funniest faces in your sleep, morphing from the most tragic of sad expressions to happy, old man/toothless grins in a matter of seconds. I could watch it all day long. Oh wait...that's what I do. :)

You're very kinesthetic and rather strong (the pediatrician even said that!). You were rolling completely onto your side when you were 3 weeks old. Your legs are in motion constantly, and your hands are never ever still. You have quite a few signature hand movements, too. My very favorite one is when you interlace your fingers like you're praying. Ah, so cute! Your dad's favorite is when you do "t-rex hands"...you pull them up so close to your chest just like a t-rex. We'll reenact it for you one day. One of the funniest things you do is grasp your ear between your knuckles. Not sure why you do it, but we love it. Because you love to move your hands so much, you turn into Houdini Baby at night, busting out of your swaddle all the time. Silly girl. You also point your toes (ballerina-style), stretch out your legs (like you're doing pilates), put the soles of your feet together (like, sort of lotus position), and ooch your way into sleeping positions that you like better than whatever ones we've put you in.

You're still on the smallish side, so your clothes don't always fit you super well. On top of that, you love to wad your feet up inside your footed onesies, so the legs of the sleeper flop around. It's so funny. Your aunt, Bo, was so surprised at how tiny of a ball you can wad yourself into. She's now seen the footed sleeper phenomenon.

You also cannot keep any socks on those feet of yours. Bless your heart.

You like your paci, but you're not completely attached to it. When you do want it, you hold it in your mouth by pushing your fist or palm or the back of your hand against it. Then, you fall asleep that way, and we can't stop chuckling about it. At least I can't.

Things you love: lights and shiny things, furry things (like your furry bear coat or my furry blankets that are in the living room), and wearing hats. You've also started SMILING! Maybe it'll be your favorite...? You've smiled at me and Daddy and Nana. Intentionally- not just in your sleep (which you've been doing for a while).

You breathe really fast when you're excited (like when you know you're about to get food), and you "play possum" (as Daddy calls it) when you're nervous or scared (like at the doctor's office). One day, I'll have your dad show you what you looked like at your very first doctor's appointment. It's hilarious! I wasn't there, because I was still recovering from your birthday, but I love watching your Daddy act it out.

You sleep like a champ and are so quiet, letting Mom and Dad sleep as best we can. You're such a doll, and I thank God for that part of your personality.

We love your little "angry rhinoceros" sounds while you sleep, and we love the way you snuggle up into our necks during snuggle time. A little burrowing bear, you are. We love to pick you up and hate to put you down. We pray over your little life and ask God to protect you and guide you, and, as we pray in church each week, we pray that you "would never know a day apart from Him."

Oh, also: you're still so small that we change your diapers on the end of the coffee table. We live such a glamorous life. :)

Love you, little Bear.

Counting my blessings.

I spent a couple of weeks chronicling all of the difficulties of Claire's birth and my recovery, so I thought it only fitting to spend some time listing the blessings that came our way, as well. I am under no illusion that I remember everything or am capable of listing everything and everybody that came across our path, much as I would like. I tried to make a list while we were in the hospital, but I was pretty distracted and drugged (who knows how much I missed). But, I'll do my best!

1. Biggest blessing: Claire. Obviously. She has been such a joy, and we absolutely adore her. From the get-go, she has been one of those babies that only cries when she's hungry or dirty. She will quite literally lay awake, just looking around, in the middle of the night sometimes, and I only know this because I'll check her crib...to find her looking at me. Oh man. She's the best. And the cutest. And I'm sure she's the smartest, as well. 

2. My parents. They were able to bring us stuff to the hospital and take care of things at our apartment while we couldn't be there. Once we got home, they would take care of Claire when Brad and I needed to rest. It's not ideal to live so far away from family, but it sure is awesome to have family that is willing to travel whenever they're needed. Or even just when they're wanted. Thanks, Mama and Daddy!

3. Boston friends. I prayed about this situation before we even left Jackson. I knew we were going to have a baby before we moved (although we hadn't told anyone), and I panicked a little, thinking about how we had a great network of friends in Jackson...and were leaving that to move somewhere where we knew no one! I put in a lot of time talking to the Lord about how I really wanted to have friends for after the baby was born (I mean, having friends before that was desirable, too). Thankfully, He answered that prayer so well. We've had people bringing us food, offering babysitting services, and just checking in on us to see how we're doing. It's been amazing to me to see how many kind people have been brought into our life and how much richer they've made our life here.

4. Friends from everywhere else. While I was in the hospital, I would have times where I just felt so awful and didn't think my body could handle any more (mainly my head), and I would text my mom to ask her to have her friends praying for that specifically. Kat (you know, the best friend who is mentioned regularly) received more than a few texts asking her to pray. Bless her, I think she even got one before 7:00 am Central time. That's why she's my best friend. People I haven't seen in forever were checking in with my parents and Brad to see how I was doing. I got Facebook messages and cards and emails letting me know that I was being prayed for and thought of. It was so humbling and so encouraging. It would take me one trillion years to try and thank each person individually for kindnesses that were sent my way. 

5. My nurses. With the exception of one nurses' aide, we had the most wonderful nursing staff imaginable. I know that nurses often have such a thankless job, so I want to make sure I say loudly and clearly that mine were great. They were compassionate (albeit, most of them were very New England, so it was a different approach than a Southern nursing staff would take) and kind and attentive. I've mentioned Laura several times; she was an absolute gem on Birthday. There was Peggy, who held my hands and wiped my eyes while the Great Epidural Disaster took place. Kathy took care of me during the day on the day after Claire's birth, helping me to figure out pain management and taking care of tasks that I couldn't because I was hooked up to the mag and couldn't move. I won't elaborate. There was also Katie, who made the awkward middle-of-the-night move between floors as easy as she could. Marisa, who got my i.v. in without causing emotional scarring. And Jean. She was my favorite. She took care of me for three consecutive days and could not have been more wonderful. She was encouraging and motivating and, figuratively, held my hand through much of the difficulty I experienced. I am so grateful for each of them. Day shifts and night shifts. 

There were even little encouragements that don't fit in a numbered category, like the gal who brought my meals by; right after I'd had the blood patch and was feeling a taddy bit better, she brought my dinner by and took a moment to say, "I'm so glad to see you feeling better." How kind was that? Or little "happies" that don't mean much to anyone but me: Claire was called the best baby in the nursery by a couple of nurses, and everyone took a moment to tell us how much they loved her name. 

I hope I can remember even more as time goes on. I wish I'd been able to write myself more notes to jog my memory. I am thankful for the memories I do have- good and bad. This is the stuff life is made of, right? And, by the way, I doubt I'll ever be saying that "you don't remember any of that stuff after you hold your baby." However, I'm thankful for the story that we have and how I was able to see grace and compassion and kindness. One day, I'll tell Claire about it (or maybe let her read it?), and I'll remind her how many people loved on her and how gracious God was to us. 

She'll probably say, "Ew, Mom! I don't want to know all of those birth details!" 

Oh well. It'll be my prerogative, so she'll just have to bear with me. :)

A Baby Story, Part 14: Anti-climactic Ending

The fact that the blood patch hadn't worked was extremely frustrating and disheartening. I had had what I can only describe as a "bad feeling" (for no particular reason...just a gut feeling-ish) about the blood patch from the beginning, but I'd felt somewhat pressured by the medical community (or at least the part of the medical community that was caring for me) to have it done. And, I think I'd talked myself into believing it would immediately and completely erase my pain. When it didn't, that was a hard blow.

I was very discouraged but realized that there wasn't anything else I could do about it. I didn't realize how discouraged I was until I woke up talking about the blood patch one night. Because of all the pain medication I was on, I found myself waking up disoriented more often than not. So, the night after the blood patch, I woke myself and Brad up by crying and begging him not to make me get another blood patch. Poor Brad... He reassured me that he had no intention of doing so. I then fully woke up and felt a little silly.

Thankfully, after that, the last little bit of time left in the hospital was fairly uneventful. I continued to deal with my headache the same ways I had been: flat-on-back and lots of caffeine. Getting a taddy bit more sleep probably would have been nice, but middle-of-the-night feedings kept that from happening. #newparentsprobs? (I don't know if that's a thing...I don't tweet. Not cool enough.)

Because the anesthesiologist who performed the blood patch procedure had been so confident that it had been successful, the doctors in the pain clinic were flummoxed by the fact that it hadn't. Yet another anesthesiologist came to talk with me about what was going on. It was a disjointed and confusing conversation, but what it boiled down to was that it should have worked and nobody knew why it didn't. The only "answer" anyone had is that I have a "difficult anatomy." Isn't that such a comforting thought? He also recommended that I have another blood patch done. Ha. Yeah, right.

My parents came every day to visit and also made sure that our apartment was stocked and ready for us when we went home. Such a blessing. I was growing very weary of the hospital and just wanted to go home with my family. I had the option of going home on Saturday (rather than waiting out the full amount of time and going home on Sunday), but after the failed blood patch, I reluctantly agreed with Brad and my parents that I should take the extra day.

On Sunday, I was discharged shortly after lunch (I was prepared to have to wait for a really long time to be discharged), and Brad thoughtfully prepared the car for me by lowering the front seat back as far as it would go, to accommodate my persistent headache (which eventually dissipated about two days later and morphed into a dull ache...I'm actually still dealing with headaches, although they are sooo much less of a difficulty). Our apartment is only about a mile from the hospital, which is a blessing, so I didn't have far to travel, and when we got home, I was able to crash on the couch for the rest of the day.

Finally, I was back at home. With my baby.

It's rather an anti-climactic ending to a generally dramatic story, but I'm not complaining. In the time that has elapsed since the hospital, I've been able to reflect quite a bit on the wonderful blessings we experienced and some of the kind people we met. As I've spent the past two weeks recalling the difficulties, I'll definitely plan to post about some of those happy stories, too. I'm am equal opportunity blogger. :)

Many thanks to those of you who have read, commented, and encouraged me through messages, emails, and cards over the past few weeks. It has been a blessing to hear from friends and acquaintances; I'm so thankful for your kindness and compassion. Now, I plan to provide you with lots of happies to make up for the traumatic. Thank you, friends.

A Baby Story, Part 13: Big Ouch

A fairly short time later, two folks from the pain clinic (two very nice folks, I might add) came to my room and told me they would be taking me to the pain clinic- by rolling me down in my hospital bed, so I wouldn't have to walk or ride sitting up. I kept my eyes closed the whole way, so I have no idea how far away the pain clinic was. Brad was with me and might even have been holding my hand...I don't actually remember that part.

When we got there, the nurses were incredibly kind and compassionate. Someone even got a towel to put over my eyes so that the really bright lights wouldn't hurt my head any worse. Yet another anesthesiologist came by shortly to talk to us and explain the procedure yet again. Because of the severity of my headache that morning, I'd summoned enough courage to get myself into place for the blood patch; once we were down there and waiting on it, though, I started feeling nervous and anxious about more "work" on my spine.

When it came time for me to go have my procedure, I had to go through the difficult process of moving from my bed onto a gurney. They did break the news to me that, yet again, Brad would not be allowed to go into the room with me. It was probably good they didn't tell me until the last moment; I probably would have lost my nerve. The nursing student who was with me for the day (of course I had another nursing student) would be allowed but not Brad. At least I liked that day's student.

Things were a little complicated by my c-section; blood patches are usually performed while the patient is lying on his or her stomach, which was not possible with my incision and sutures. They put me on my side and I found myself rather disconcerted, again, by the discussion going on around me. This time, it was regarding how difficult a time they were going to have because of having me on my side. It just does not inspire confidence in a patient to hear the physician performing a procedure discussing how difficult he thought it would be. Goodness.

After general prep, the doctor explained that I would feel a "big pinch" and a "big sting," two phrases I had grown to loathe. When someone says those things, you are guaranteed pain. Which happened. I gritted my teeth and tried to focus on anything but my back. It hurt...hurt some more...kept hurting...then I heard him mutter that it hadn't worked and he would try again. Of course.

I closed my eyes when he started again. Someone ( a nurse, I guess) squeezed my hand in sympathy. I felt the "big pain" and the other "big pain" again, hoping that it would be over soon.

No such luck. It hadn't worked again. I started crying ever so slightly and trying desperately not to get caught doing so.

Ew coming up: He picked another spot on my spine and went for it once more. Thankfully, it took. He instructed the assistant who was positioned in front of me to start taking blood. She did. A lot. They have to take blood on the spot for the procedure, and the anesthesiologist began filling my wet tap puncture. He put in three rounds (25 cc's, if that means anything to anybody) before he felt it was complete. The frustrating element of this part was that he would insert blood until I told him that it was painful. So three times, I got to the point of intense pain before he stopped and reloaded with more blood. By the time he was finished, it wasn't a secret that I was crying.

The rolled me back to my hospital bed and helped me back onto it. The doctor explained things to Brad, while I was given instructions to stay on my back until dinner (as if I'd been doing anything else). Everyone wished me luck, and they took me back to my room.

I followed the flat-on-back instructions until evening, at which point I definitely felt better. I still had a headache, but I made it to the bathroom without crying and took a two-minute shower (my first in an ungodly number of days) before heading back to my bed to talk about how awesome it was not to be in excruciating pain.

It was such a nice reprieve...for about two hours.

A Baby Story, Part 12: What To Do?

Later that afternoon (the afternoon of the day that we were moved downstairs), I was visited by an anesthesiologist that I had not previously met. He had come to discuss the option of a blood patch to deal with my spinal headache. He was incredibly kind and compassionate. We spent quite a bit of time talking in detail about where and how I felt the pain in my head, how it differed from my migraines, what treatments had already been done (the hydrocortisone and lots of caffeine), and what I knew about wet taps and blood patches. 

He very patiently explained how the wet tap had happened (I already knew, but it was helpful to hear again) and how the blood patch works (click the link above to read what wikipedia has to say about blood patches and how they work). At this point, it had been 48 hours since the wet tap happened, and he suggested I wait the recommended 72 hours to see if I really needed/wanted a blood patch. He did that thing that they all do, where they give the disclaimer that, in most every case, a blood patch works, but occasionally, one won't. Included in the disclaimer was a little comment that, yes, it is possible for another wet tap to happen when receiving a blood patch.

After he left, I told Brad how wary I was of getting the blood patch. I'd already had 6 major sticks in the spine, and the disclaimer of the blood patch not working or even causing another wet tap was almost too much for me to deal with. I just didn't think I could do it. I know that it had a reputation for almost instantaneous relief, but it sounded like a gamble to me- one that would involve a good deal of pain, whether or not it worked.

Like the good husband he is, he told me he wouldn't push me either way, and if I didn't want to do it, that was fine with him. 

The rest of the day passed much like the day before: my parents came and spent the afternoon/evening with us, we spent time with our little Bear, we discussed the blood patch option (Mom had had one that was very successful and Dad knows things because, well, he's a doctor) and everyone distracted me from the headache, in general.

Nighttime came again, though, and with it a lot of difficulty. I woke up around 2:00 a.m. with a wretched surprise: I had a migraine behind my left eye. So, in addition to the debilitating pain from the spinal headache when I was anything but horizontal, I now had a pounding migraine even in my flat-on-back position. I paged the nurse with frantic requests for something to put me out of my misery. I think they maybe gave me something, but I definitely know it wasn't strong enough. They loaded me up with more caffeine, and I prayed to high heaven that the Lord would either do something about my head or just go ahead and take me. I was past the point of being able to handle the pain. 

Oh, and I started crying (thank you, hormones), which made the situation even better. And by "better," I mean much worse. Much much worse. 

The next morning was my Day of Reckoning. I had to use the bathroom pretty soon after waking up (an activity I put off as long as I could each time) and had Brad help me get to the bathroom (you can read through previous posts to refresh your memory about what an ordeal that was). 

It was absolutely the lowest point in my recent world of pain. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. And then I told Brad to get the nurse on the phone with Anesthesiology pronto. Or "stat," I guess...we were in a hospital. I would get the blood patch. My only condition was that they needed to know there was no way I could walk or even ride, sitting up, in a wheelchair to the pain clinic. Also, I wanted Brad with me.

A Short Break...

Just taking a short break today before the last few installments of The Baby Story, so that I can draw your attention to a little Lenten reflection. Our church asks different members of the congregation to provide reflections on passages of scripture throughout Lent, and Brad was asked to provide the reflection yesterday!

Tomorrow I'll return to regularly scheduled programming, but until then, head over to our church's blog and read Brad's reflection. I thought it was a pretty great little nugget of thought, biased though I may be.

Happy Thursday.

A Baby Story, Part 11: A Dark Day

I slept fitfully after the middle of the night move. My head still ached, and I was working on my caffeine intake. I tried desperately to sleep, but it was rather elusive. I was really glad that Brad was able to sleep; he'd been pretty worn out himself.

We'd attempted a trip to the bathroom once during the night, and it was horrible. Standing up was absolute agony on my head. I sobbed and sobbed. Brad, hero that he is, held my head in a vice-like grip as I shuffled to the bathroom with my i.v. stand. I cried the entire time I was in the bathroom (and was back to having to collect urine again; they seemed determined not to let me regain my dignity) and the whole way back to my bed, which felt like the length of a football field, rather than the few yards that it actually was. Brad helped me back to bed and got me lowered back into my flat-on-back position asap, letting me bawl my eyes out and hunting down a box of tissues for me. It was an excruciating 10 minutes of my life. Thankfully, returning to my flat position granted a great deal of relief.

7:00 am rolled around and with it two new nursing students: another gal and another guy. Remember, I really have no problem with students observing and practicing. I really don't. However, I am not crazy about being in those rather revealing hospital gowns and having male students in and out. Call me old school. They came in (after their instructor came and got my permission) and began taking vitals. Y'all. After my week in the hospital, I'm a pro at offering my bicep (for blood pressure cuff), index finger (for oxygen level monitor), and opening my mouth (for thermometer) all at the same time, without being asked. I dare ya to try and prove yourself more adept at those skills. Between the two students, they checked my vitals about twice. They also inspected my incision and poked around my stomach (not my favorite, as I'd just had surgery on my abdomen), all while talking each step over with one another. It's just so strange to listen to people talk about you right in front of you...and it had been a daily occurrence for me so far. I definitely wasn't going back to sleep after my thorough going-over.

The students had barely left the room before Meagan the Resident (from my first night of labor) came in to check on me. She asked about my headache, having read my chart, and encouraged me to get the blood patch. She also checked my incision and poked my stomach. I realized that I just needed to get used to that part. She was sympathetic to my plight and wished me luck.

She'd been gone for about 5 minutes- long enough for me to notice that the sun was coming up and realize I'd only slept about 3 hours. Next thing I knew, another somebody came in. She introduced herself as the nurse's aide on duty and then said a bunch of things that- between her strong Massachusetts accent and my overly tired brain- I didn't understand the first time through. Before I knew what was happening, she was using the automatic lift function on the bed to raise me to a full sitting position. I was too disoriented to tell her, "No! Stop! My head!" By the time I could get my mouth and brain on the same page, I was already fully upright and in agony again. 

I told her I had a spinal headache and needed to be lower, which she didn't seem to love; I'm guessing she had a plan, and I was not playing along nicely. She also told me she would be helping me go to the bathroom during the day. I mentioned that Brad had helped me during the night, and she told me, in no uncertain terms, that helping me to the bathroom was not his job and that he shouldn't be trying to do the nurses' job. She also scolded me for not consistently collecting urine specimens. I tried to tell her that I'd done so during the night for the night nurses, and they told me I could stop. She cut me off to tell me that the night nurses didn't understand the day nurses' procedures, and they had no business telling me I could stop. (I should interject that the night nurses also took away my specimen collection device, so I really couldn't collect anything else).

I didn't know what I should say. I felt as though everything I said was getting a scolding, and my brain wasn't working fast enough to process anything. So, I just sat there. 

She took my vitals- for the third time in 30 minutes, reminded me that I was not to go to the bathroom without calling her, and said breakfast would be arriving shortly.

As soon as she left, my hormones took over, and I just started crying. Couldn't stop. I tried to be quiet so Brad could stay asleep (he'd been asleep the whole time), but he woke up nonetheless. It took me a while to stutter out everything that had happened (nursing students, resident visit, nurses' aide) and how overwhelmed and tired I was feeling. And how my head was torturing me from the abrupt bed raising. And how I had just gotten scolded and wasn't awake enough to be a big girl and take care of the situation. AND, how I was going to have to hold the urge to go to the bathroom all day...until that nurse's aide went off duty, because I was NOT calling her to take me...

Brad was such a hero yet again. He apologized for sleeping (as if that's a crime...I wanted him to sleep) and promised to be the gatekeeper from then on out. 

That's exactly what he did. Fell in love with him just a little bit more. (You can gag at that line, if you need to. I get that it's a little over-the-top. But, it's my blog, so I can write the gag-worthy on occasion.)

Next up: visit from yet another anesthesiologist. Oh boy.

A Baby Story, Part 10: Can't Even Describe It

Following that first day, the condition of my head got increasingly worse. I discovered that I was no longer able to sit up in my bed (with or without the aid of the automatic lift function) without significant pain. My head pounded like it was being beaten with a huge hammer, making it almost impossible to focus my vision and causing pretty intense nausea. The anesthesiologists had ordered three rounds of hydrocortisone for my i.v. that day, hoping it would bring some relief. I couldn't find that relief, but I hoped it would be a delayed-reaction thing and would kick in soon.

My parents had been to the hospital to spend the day with us and Claire, which had been a great distraction and encouragement. That night, though, long after my parents left and as we were trying to sleep, I had no distractions, and I could think of nothing but how I never wanted to move my body again. This was unfortunate, because at 1:00 am (as in the middle of the night), the nurses got orders to transfer us to a different branch of Labor and Delivery the next floor down. They finally unhooked me from the mag and the catheter, which I'd been looking forward to all day (although, I had the difficult realization that being unhooked from the catheter meant I had to walk to the bathroom- a task I was no longer sure I could accomplish without throwing up because of my headache), and they brought in a wheelchair to wheel me downstairs. 

I tried to sit up slowly, using the automatic lift function on the bed, and I immediately wanted to cry. Not that I know what it would actually feel like to have someone run a drill through the top of my head but that's the best parallel I could come up with in the moment. My nurse saw the pain on my face and asked me how my head was (she'd been paying attention to my chart, thank goodness). I didn't want to be dramatic or cry in front of the nurse (goodness knows I'd already done a lot of that), so I tried to be cool and just said, "Well, it's...(grimace)...pretty bad. Could I...(mini groan)...take something before you move me?" 

She checked my medication screen on the computer and made an I'm-so-sorry-but-no face. "You're not due for more drugs for a few more hours...wait a second...are you ok if you lie flat?"

"It's better if I'm flat (whimper)."

"Ok (turns to Brad, who's sitting on the edge of his sleeping gurney). We're going to need that gurney."

She called in reinforcements, and with a group effort, they got me transferred from the bed to Brad's gurney. Just the short amount of time that I had to sit up a bit to move from one lying position to the next was enough to make me bite my lip to keep from crying. I better understood why spinal headaches are also called positional headaches: my position was crucial to keeping my pain in check.

Someone put a towel over my eyes so that the lights in the hallway wouldn't make the situation even worse. They were fantastic about doing whatever they could to keep me from excruciating pain. When we got downstairs, I felt super nervous again about changing nursing staff; the upstairs ladies had taken such good care of me. I begged the Lord for kindness downstairs as well.

My anxiety increased quite a bit when we got downstairs and they unhooked my legs from the keep-you-from-getting-blood-clots contraptions; the downstairs nurses joked with my upstairs nurse about how they'd get me up and moving so I wouldn't need those things anymore. I started mildly panicking about the fact that they seemed serious about getting me up and moving- I couldn't even sit up, for goodness sake. Thankfully, my upstairs nurse came to my rescue and told them that I had a spinal headache and would need to be dealt with carefully. One of the downstairs gals even went to fetch me some caffeine (another strong recommendation from Anesthesiology), even if it was Diet Coke. Ew. I'm a Coca-Cola purist, but in cases of necessity, I can come down off my soap(Coke)box.

We sort of slept that night; Brad actually slept better than he had thus far because he had an actual bed, rather than a gurney. Our new room was one of those that can be partitioned off for more than one patient at a time, so Brad had a bed. I tossed and turned all night and downed my Diet Coke at the speed of light. 

The next morning brought a renewed bout of rather extreme emotion on my part, thanks to two new nursing students and a nurse's aide who had most definitely not familiarized herself with my chart. Worst interpersonal interaction of the entire experience.

A Baby Story, Part 9: The Morning After

By the way, I forgot to mention some important stats with yesterday's post!
Time of birth: 10:16 pm (30 hours of labor and one c-section later...)
Weight: 6 pounds, 11 ounces (she was smaller than we anticipated)
Length: 20 inches

Laura remained our nurse throughout the night, which was a great comfort to me. She was with us through the baby's first feeding and getting me through my first few rounds of pain medication. I woke up a little after 7 am the next morning and was very sad at the thought that Laura's shift had ended at 7:00. I know she can't work indefinitely, but I was really sad and smidge worried about what kind of care I might end up with next.

I had no need to worry. My next nurse was Kathy, and she knew what she was up to. My doctor came by that morning to check on me (and let me know with a wink that she'd done an excellent job with my sutures; always good to know that your scar is going to be as tidy as possible). After she left, Kathy did a wonderful job of staying on top of my needs, including contacting Anesthesiology (at the encouragement of my OBGYN) about my horrible headache. I was discovering that I wasn't able to move well, because when I did, I felt as though the top of my head was being pounded with a sledge hammer.

Brad and I spent the day getting to know our little Claire. She was just too cute for words, and I kept thinking how crazy it was that we get to keep her. Like, take her home with us and keep her forever. We just kept looking at her over and over. We were rather cheesy, but apparently, that gene kicks in as soon as the baby is born. 

That afternoon, the attending anesthesiologist who had put in my epidural the day before, stopped by to talk to me about my wet tap. A very simplified explanation of a wet tap is that it's a puncture (when inserting an epidural) that causes fluid from the spine to leak. What the anesthesiologist guessed was happening as a result of my wet tap was a spinal or positional headache. My mom had had a spinal headache after I was born and had told me about it previously; she opted at the time to have a procedure called a blood patch, which instantaneously cured her headache. This was exactly the same recommendation that the anesthesiologist offered to me the day after my epidural. 

The way a blood patch works makes me a little queasy to think about, but simply stated, the anesthesiologists take some of the patient's blood (like, from the arm) and use it to block or patch up the puncture/wet tap. It stops the fluid from leaking and causing the headache.

Maybe this makes me a whiny little baby, but I was extremely wary of having yet another massive needle stuck in my back (or in my arm, for that matter; basically, I was a little gun-shy of needles in general). My track marks from the day before (3 from the epidural, 3 from the spinal...6 total) were aching and reminding me of how stressful it had been to be stuck repeatedly while hearing discussions of how it wasn't working. Part of my nerves stemmed from the fact that it was fairly obvious to me that the anesthesiologists didn't know why they were having so much trouble getting my procedures done. No one was rude, difficult, or offensive, but I did lose a lot of confidence throughout the various punctures.

I told her I'd think about it, and she said just to let my nurse know when I wanted her to contact the pain center about getting a blood patch. After she left, Brad and I did talk about it, and I told him about my hesitations/reservations/general fearfulness. He told me that he wouldn't pressure me into anything I didn't want to do, but he did think I should give it some thought.

Because I get migraines and have "normal" headaches on a regular basis, my basic idea was just to wait it out (I have a really high tolerance for head pain), continue taking the pain medication (for my surgery and my headache), and deal with the fact that I was back on the mag (for an additional 24 hours). Oi. I still wasn't feeling that great, what with having been in labor for so long, having surgery, and being put back on that wretched mag. Because of the extra 24 hours of mag, I was confined to my bed (meaning I was still hooked up to the catheter and was having my blood pressure taken every half hour or so) and was hooked up to these leg devices that periodically squeezed and released my legs, apparently to keep me from getting blood clots and dying. I always like to avoid death when possible.

My head was getting steadily more pressure-filled and painful, but at least I had my sweet baby to snuggle with and Brad at my beck and call. Unfortunately, the head situation was only beginning to get started.

A Baby Story, Part 8: While I Was Sleeping

The next thing I remember following the anesthesia (that actually did its job and completely knocked me out for my c-section) was hearing several voices calling my name and asking me if I could hear them. Obviously, I could, but what was more important was that I knew I needed to let them know how much everything hurt. Whether or not that was actually important is beside the point; in my head, it was of primary significance that they know my head and abdomen were splitting open (one figuratively and one literally). The first things I remember crossing my mind were:

1. My stomach hurts. so. badly.
2. My head aches. so. badly.
3. I bet they won't let me hold my daughter (assuming she is a daughter and didn't come out as a boy...I need to find out!) if I can't get my eyes open.
4. Where is Brad?

The days following Claire's birth were full of my questioning Brad and my parents about what happened during the hour + that I was unconscious. I found out that my doctor had gone out of the OR while I was being prepped to break the news to Brad that, because they were using general anesthesia, he wouldn't be able to come in after all. That made me so sad. I'm glad he had my parents to wait with, but I was very sad when thinking about him all decked out in his scrubs, waiting to come in to witness the birth of his daughter, and finding out that he had to wait outside. I think I cried about it (but let's be real: I've been crying about all kinds of things while post-partum. They tell you that will happen, but gee whiz. How frustrating.). 

I found out that Laura (she was seriously the greatest) took pictures of Brad while he was seeing Claire for the first time so that it would be documented.

My dad (who is a pediatrician, for those of you don't know him) was able to do a "ceremonial" baby going-over, like he does with his patients in the hospital. I got so tickled at Brad and his commentary on watching that process; he said that, if he hadn't known that Dad was a doctor who knew what he was doing, he (Brad) would have had to say something about the "manhandling" of his daughter. Amiee and I have always felt sorry for the babies as they get prodded and poked. I know Daddy is as gentle as he can be, but he is checking to make sure everything works correctly; I guess that's not innately a gentle process. Someone snapped a few pictures of Daddy checking Claire out, which I'm really grateful for.

A reenactment of checking out Claire Bear.

Mom stayed with me throughout all of this, waiting for me to come around from the medicine. Mom had had a c-section with me, so she was aware of a lot of the repercussions I would soon be dealing with. Apparently, I talked quite a bit about being in pain and asked about where Brad was. Seriously, so much aggravation could have been avoided if they'd just let him stay with me, right?

The next thing I really remember is craving the ice chips that someone started spooning into my mouth. I'd been so thirsty and hungry all day, I couldn't get enough of those ice chips. I also finally got to see my baby and hold her for a second, but I'm sad to say that I have no memory of it. Someone got a picture, although it wasn't any of my family; I had made it very clear that NO pictures were to be taken of me without my permission, and absolutely nothing was to be posted to social media without my approval (approval given while I was in full possession of my faculties). I've seen too many unflattering pictures of folks who had just had babies to trust myself not to look wretched. So, Mom and the guys followed the rules, but a nurse apparently thought that it was a shame not to snap a quick picture. 

Brad Face Timed with his family so that they could see our little Claire Bear. I missed that part, too. I think I was awake, but I wasn't very aware. Thankfully, Brad snapped a few pictures of their reactions.

I also remember having the thought that Claire was so pretty and did NOT look like the newborns who resemble gum that has been chewed up (i.e. pink and wrinkly). I realize it's a little weird that I had that thought... It seemed surreal that she was actually born and outside of me. I truly wish I could remember more, but I genuinely cannot even remember when I saw her face for the first time, other than thinking she was pretty. It's rather sad for me, actually. I had these images in my head of being fully cognizant when my baby was born, getting to hold her as soon as they released her, and getting that family photo of the three of us together. That's just not how it played out at all. 

The good news is that on top of being a pretty baby (which I realize is not THE most important thing, despite the frequency at which I mention it), she's the sweetest baby I've ever met. One of our friends described her as "peaceful," and I think that's such an apt description of her. I just love her to pieces.

Look how pretty she is.

 I love the little bow hat that the nursery made for her.

Other than those snippets, I don't remember much of the events that took place after Claire's birth. Oh, I got a popsicle. That was exciting. Honestly, the primary focus of my attentions (other than seeing Claire and finding Brad) was the headache that still raged. I had no idea that the worst part of my recovery would actually be that headache and not the fact that I'd just had surgery. The next few days ended up being more traumatic for me than the events leading up to Claire's birth...crazy as that sounds. :)

An "approved" shot of me...the kind where you can't see how tired and worn out I am.

So, the baby arrived, and there was much rejoicing (mostly done by those who were awake). The next several days were full of fun Claire moments...and a lot of interaction with anesthesiologists. 

A Baby Story, Part 7: Got Anesthesia? I Sort of Do...

Following my whirlwind c-section prep and surprising anesthesia consult, I found myself being wheeled from my room and down the hall. There were about 5 or 6 folks getting me from point A to point B (I'm telling ya, it was a slow night, and I was the most interesting thing going on). 

Around this point in the evening, I started a gosh awful headache, which I chalked up to stress and exhaustion. It didn't really feel like my usual exhaustion/stress headaches, but it seemed logical to me that I'd be stressed and tired. All I knew was that I felt like the top of my head was being separated from the rest of me, which was exacerbated as they moved me from my dimly-lit room into the extremely well-lit operating room. I get migraines, so I completely understand head pain. However, this was unlike any headache I'd ever experienced. Such a different kind of pain and in a very different location than my "normal" migraines (if you can call migraines normal).

Small Ew: On top of this, my catheter was killing me. How strange is it that my catheter discomfort was at the forefront of my mind, as I was heading toward major surgery?

Once we arrived in the OR, I didn't know how (on top of that dratted catheter) I was going to handle the headache; the lights of the OR were so bright, I couldn't open my eyes all the way and ended up just clutching my head, wishing I had some kind of vice to continue applying pressure to it. I kept thinking that I would ask Brad to hold my head during the surgery...once they finally let him in. He had to wait in the hallway until they got my spinal block/anesthesia set up.

Getting the spinal had me nervous; I knew I was going to have to go through the same routine as the epidural insertions, and I was not looking forward to it. And, of course, Brad wasn't in there with me. Again. 

I had to move from my hospital bed onto an operating table, and I had the hardest time because of my catheter. A couple of nurses were helping me move, and I had to ask them to slow down and pause a couple of times. One of them asked, "Oh, are you having a contraction?" I said, "No, it's my catheter." The other nurse said, "The catheter from your epidural?" And I had to say, "No...the...uh...other kind. It's hurting me." Thankfully, they seemed to understand and helped me move very slowly. They also passed along the message to anyone else who tried to hurry me along. Helpful...and a taddy bit humiliating.

Once I finally got moved over to the other table, I had to get into the same sitting/bending/bowed-back position as they had me in for the epidural(s) several hours earlier. My head was pounding and aching, so while they had me bending over the table beside the edge of operating table, I held my head in my hands to keep the aching at bay. Unfortunately, the anesthesiologist (the one I had just spoken to in my room) needed me to drop my arms and "relax" (yeah, right) to get things set up. Laura came to my rescue; she came and stood in front of me (like Peggy had earlier when she held my hands during my epidural) and told me to rest my head in her hands (she knew I had a headache). What an angel- she literally held my head in her hands. It was such a blessing in the midst of a very chaotic and unnerving process. 

I had a lot of the same warnings for a "big pinch" and a "big sting" that I'd had earlier in the day. Someone explained to me that the spinals are a little different, in the sense that they penetrate a different depth. Or something. Follow the wiki link a few paragraphs up, if you really want to know. :) I discovered quickly that, whatever the difference, it still hurt. And, much like my epidural attempts, the spinals didn't go that well, either. The first one was extremely reminiscent of earlier in the day; I heard the doctors muttering to one another and was then told that the first attempt didn't work. I could stretch my back and relax for a moment before they made another attempt. 

Wow. That was way too familiar.

We went at it again; Laura held my head, I tried to keep from crying so that I could hold still, and the anesthesiologists tried again.

There wasn't as much talking about what was going on, but I also didn't hear anyone saying happy things like, "Got it" or "There we go." Next thing I knew, I was being told I could stretch again. Far too familiar. 

Another anesthesiologist came over to do the third attempt. I'll spare you a lengthy retelling and just let you know that the third spinal finally went in.

I had to move to yet another table, but this time, at least everyone was well-versed in my catheter pain and achy head. I had lots of support and help, which made me love the staff. 

They strapped me down to the operating table (let's take a moment and reflect on how being strapped down does not provide comfort and calm) and gave me about 5 minutes before one of the anesthesiologists explained that he was going to test my reflexes to see how the medication was spreading.

I felt every poke. I was able to push my legs against the resistance. And, I could completely bend my legs at the knees. They decided to give me a few more minutes to let the medicine take effect. I caught a glimpse of my doctor's face, and she looked rather annoyed with the pain management folks. 

After the hiatus, the anesthesiologist returned for another reflex test. Guess who could STILL feel everything and move extremities. If you guessed me, you win! I tried not to panic, but it's rather frightening to realize that you're about to have surgery performed on you and everything is still feel-able.

The doctors muttered with one another for a minute or two and then explained that they were going to have to put me under general anesthesia. 

I'd had a feeling. Good news: I wouldn't feel the catheter or my head anymore.

After that decision was made, the scurrying and flurrying started up again. Someone had me breathing through an oxygen mask while one of the doctors pumped medicine into my i.v. It buuuuuuurned. And stung. And hurt. That's probably why they strapped me down. They knew what they were doing. 

They last few thoughts I remember having before going under were:
1. I hope she is actually a she and not secretly a boy that I'm not prepared for.
2. Brad isn't here again. 

Then, I drifted off into oblivion. Whew. What a relief.

A Baby Story, Part 6: Where Has The Laboring Gotten Me?

Firstly, today is International Women's Day: one of my favorite holidays that I celebrated in Ukraine. So, to all women, I congratulate you on your womanhood and wish you a lovely day!

I ended yesterday's post by recounting how my doctor gave me an hour to rest with no pitocin and with minimal interruptions from the staff. Although I didn't fall asleep, I was able to calm down in mind and spirit. I spent a lot of time praying. My prayers weren't necessarily coherent or logical; they were more of the "help-Lord-don't-think-I-can-please-keep-my-baby-safe" variety, but thankfully, He's willing to listen to our hearts, whether or not we're eloquent.

At the end of the hour, a new nurse came in. I thought I recognized her, but I couldn't figure out how or why. Thankfully, she cleared it up for us: we had been in a few days earlier for a few hours and had briefly met her. She told us her name was Laura, and she had been hoping she'd be working when we came in to have our baby. It completely warmed my heart and continued keeping my spirits calm.

Laura restarted the pitocin and talked with Brad and me off and on. One thing I appreciated, though, was that she didn't continually come in and out in a way that kept interrupting our ability to chill and wait out more labor. That part of being in the hospital was one of the most difficult to adjust to: the constant in-and-out of the health care workers, no matter how nice they may be.

My contractions restarted, and I could still feel them. I used my little epidural pump over and over. It didn't really help, but I tried to placebo myself. Laura kept tabs on how much pain I was feeling how often so that my health care team could stay on top of the situation. I tried really hard not to think about how I was going to manage the pain effectively during the delivery. I could feel the contractions getting stronger and was trying to act like a big girl (I definitely don't think that I was fulfilling that goal very well).

We continued the contraction monitoring (group activity) and breathing through the contractions (solo activity) for two and a half more hours until my doctor came back in. I just knew she was going to tell me it was time to get this show on the road. I mean, I'd been in labor for 30 hours at this point. How much more could I possibly have left?

I bet you can see where this story is headed. My doctor checked me again and just looked at me. I could read it in her face.

Me: Do you want to do a c-section?

Dr.: (nods very sympathetically). Erin, you're still only at 4 cm. Maybe 4 centimeters. You've been in labor for more than 24 hours, and this is as far as we've gotten. I think it would be best to go ahead with a c-section. I know that a c-section was never in your plan, but I think we need to do it, and I think we should do it now.

Me: (deep breath) Ok. If you think that's best, I trust your judgment. 

I had sort of mentally prepared for the fact that a c-section could happen, although I didn't think it terribly likely. So far in the process, I had been induced (not part of the plan) and told I needed a c-section (definitely not part of the plan). I guess I resigned myself to the fact that I had no control over the situation, and I needed to do what was best for Claire (and, though it sounds selfish, for me, as well). 

As soon as that brief conversation concluded, things kicked into high gear. People came out of the woodwork (found out that it was a slow night in Labor and Delivery so everyone wanted in on the action. Plus, Brad and I had interacted with a lot of the staff at this point. Maybe they felt that they knew us...?).

Nurses came in to prep me and hook/unhook me from stuff. Lights were flipped on and various things were moved around the room. They gave Brad a stack of scrubs and head/shoe coverings so that he could go into surgery with me. Finally. I needed him around, and apparently, hospital folks liked to separate us. Not ok, hospital. Not ok. Thanks for finally cooperating.

As these things were happening and my head was whirling with the speed and flurry of everything that was happening, another doctor came in and introduced himself to me. Another anesthesiologist. He explained that he was going to check me to see how effective the epidural had been. I tried to tell him that I knew it wasn't effective, but he still wanted to poke me with a small, sharp object.

He told me that he was going to start by poking me around my ribs where the epidural was never intended to numb. Then, he was going to continue poking around the parts of me that were supposed to be numb and wanted me to tell him if the subsequent pokes were the same in intensity as the one at my rib, if the pokes were duller, or if I felt nothing at all. My first few answers? I actually said that the pokes felt sharper. Brad pointed out that "sharper" wasn't one of my answer choices.

Oops. 

Not my fault that he didn't provide me with enough choices with which to answer. Also not my fault that it was baffling to him that my epidural (plus two boluses, plus multiple additional hits from my little pump) didn't work. I did, however, fully expect him to figure out a way to make something work so that I would be completely unaware of the major surgery happening to me in the next few minutes. I knew there was no way that they had ever encountered a patient that they couldn't numb up sufficiently for a c-section. 

I had lots of faith in their ability to shoot me up with enough medication to make the c-section happen. Technically, they did...just not the way I expected. Really, though, I should have expected the unexpected at this point, right?

A Baby Story, Part 5: I'm Sorry...That Does Not Compute

*Something weird happened with blogger today where it re-published Part 1 of my story today...as in March 7 (although it was originally posted days ago). Not sure why. Sorry, y'all.*

Just a reminder of my disclaimer: I have NO intention of delving into the realm of the gory, gross, or oversharing aspects about the birth of our daughter. Some elements of the story will have into go into a taddy bit more detail than I'd usually share, just because the story necessitates it. If there's going to be a bit more "ew" than usual, I'll definitely provide a warning.

If you're not caught up on the traumatic story ground rules, the unexpected change of plans, the Mag from Hades, and the time a doctor gave me track marks, you should definitely do that now.

I'll wait.

Ready? Yesterday's post ended with the anesthesiologists (finally) getting my epidural inserted and started (after 3 attempts/3 separate spinal punctures). Brad was allowed to come back in, and I caught him up on what he had missed, including the distressing dialogue overheard. He was appropriately sympathetic for the back pain and frustrated at the frightening words. And, blissfully, after about 15 minutes, The meds kicked in, and I stopped feeling the contractions and was only dealing with the mag, which didn't even seem so bad anymore, now that the minute-apart contractions were under control. I was almost feeling good and definitely understood why women rave about epidurals.

It was lovely.

Ew coming up...here's your chance to skip...you've been warned.
After about an hour after getting my drugs, my doctor came in to check things. She found that I had progressed to a...3. Wait, that's not progression. That's exactly where I'd been 14 hours earlier. I hadn't progressed at all. I'd been in active labor the whole time but gotten nowhere. She decided to break my water with that SCA-HARY gigantor knitting needle-looking thing. Thank goodness I was all numbed up (although she said it wouldn't have felt any different than an exam anyway. Whatever; that sucker was ridiculous.) It completely freaked me out when she broke my water. It. Would. Not. Stop. The nurses changed the bed pad twice within minutes. My OBGYN said, "Wow, Erin...that's a lot of water. There's got to be a gallon already, and it's not even close to done." This from a woman who does this for a living.

I looked at Brad with my freaked-out eyes, and he said, "Hey, you're that much closer to your pre-pregnancy weight."

Good man. Too bad he's mine and off the market, ladies. ;)

I probably didn't mention this about the mag earlier, but I wasn't allowed out of bed while hooked up to it; meaning they made me use a bedpan. which meant I worked hard to mind-over-matter it, as bedpans are NOT my thing. When she broke my water, she had a nurse put in a catheter. Thankfully, I couldn't feel her put it in. Unfortunately, I did find it really uncomfortable for the rest of the night. After that, my doctor left me for a couple of hours to keep working toward readiness. I was actually able to fall asleep for a while, which was awesome.

Awesome until I started dreaming about contractions. I woke up and thought maybe I was feeling one. But, that couldn't be right; I had an epidural. I asked the nurse to check the contraction chart thing, and we looked at it for a few minutes. Sure enough, I was feeling every single one. I gave myself a few hits of the extra epidural medication, hoping to calm it down (they hook you up to this little pump and trigger so that you can get more, if you need it. Which I did.)

After about 20 minutes, I was feeling everything, and they sent for the resident anesthesiologist from earlier (who was a very very nice doctor. Truly.) He checked me all over to see what I could and could not feel (poking me with small, sharp objects and checking my reflexes). There was about a 3inch radius on my stomach where I couldn't feel anything. I definitely felt everything else. He ended up administering two boluses of medicine, which everyone promised would do the trick.

They did. For about 20 minutes. At this point, I started panicking. If they couldn't get the drugs to work, was I going to have to deliver naturally with no preparation for the process?

My doctor came in again around 6:00pm (26 hours into labor, for those keeping track). She checked me again, and I felt all the discomfort of both the exam and the catheter. I also had a ton more fluid. I started crying a bit, because 1) I was exhausted and 2) I was still thinking about how my pain management option was dissolving before my eyes, and I was still expected to give birth, despite my lack of a pain management plan that I approved of.

Guess what she found during her exam. I had gotten *almost* to 4 cm. HOW had I gotten basically nowhere? I simultaneously started full-out sobbing in fear and uncontrollably shaking. Shaking like someone suffering from hypothermia, but I wasn't remotely cold.

My doctor asked me to try to explain what exactly was causing the panic. I sobbed and stuttered through trying to explain my fear about the failure of the epidural. I guess no one had caught her up, because her reaction was an "Oh, we can fix that. We'll get them to bring in a couple boluses." My nurse explained that we already tried. My doctor's confused "Oh..." did nothing to help my state of being.

I was still shaking and crying and fretting, so she patted my leg and said that she wanted to stop the Pitocin and labor monitoring for an hour. She wanted me to take a nap and give myself an hour break from the stress and discomfort. She wanted the nurses to leave me alone and just wanted me to rest, even though it meant my contractions would slow down.

I was immediately calmer. Still shaking but so much more tranquil. I could have hugged her (if I hadn't been bed-bound by the mag).

So I rested. I didn't sleep, but I listened to worship music, prayed, and calmed down. Brad took a gurney nap, and I thought about Claire Bear. I kept trying to imagine what she'd look like- specifically if she'd look like a lot of newborns who are all red and wrinkly and covered in slimy stuff that makes me frightened. I rather hoped she wouldn't, but I was determined to love her anyway. :)

I particularly listened to the song, "Jesus I Am Resting, Resting." On repeat on my iPod. Very appropriate, no?

I have an album of Jesus music done by Grace Community Church. I absolutely love it and turn to it especially in times of stress and difficulty. Theirs is an "updated" version of this hymn, and it was extremely comforting to me. I listened and rested and played a few songs on repeat.

 Until 7:00 pm and step 2 of "Operation: Let's Try This Again" rolled around.

A Baby Story: Part 1

I know it's been a while since I've posted a blog or anything "real". Basically since my little Claire Bear was born. I waffled about whether to write about any of what's been going on at all, but since I blog partially for readers and primarily as a way to document my life for myself and my family, I decided to do it. It's a long and personally traumatic story, so I decided to do it in several installments, starting with this one that handles my ground rules.

Firstly, I'm not writing to get sympathy; documentation is the goal.

Secondly, I'm not writing for solidarity. I'm still processing a lot of fear, pain, and probably some bitterness, so hearing others' birth horror stories is definitely not something I'm looking for or think is a good idea. Maybe I can handle it better one day. Right now, though, I'm writing for my memory and to help explain where I've been and why no one has heard from me personally.

Thirdly, I know things could have been so much worse. I'm under no delusions about that, but it's not helpful, currently, for others to offer me "perspective." I'm not in a place to handle that. Please hold off on that for now. I'm not equipped to deal with it.

Fourthly, I know my daughter is so worth it. Trust me. I wouldn't have gone through half of what I did if not for her. Please don't think that has escaped me. I absolutely adore her and can't believe I get to keep her.

I didn't realize until a few nights ago that I hadn't even told much of my story to some of my best friends. I texted a picture of my baby to a friend, and it dawned on me that she's one of my best friends and didn't not know the first thing about what had been going on. Sorry for the secretivity; it just happened.

All this to say, I'll explain things; please don't think I'm one-upping or don't realize how much worse things could be. I'm just going to tell my story. Next up: getting started. :)

A Baby Story, Part 4: And Then All My Dreams And Illusions Were Shattered...

...and I got track marks like an addict. 

(By the way, if you aren't caught up, you might want to go back and read this, this, and this.)

This is where the story gets weird and really starts the downward spiral. Warning to women of childbearing age who have not yet done so: you can skip this one, and if you don't, PLEASE keep in mind that I'm a really rare exception for all that is about to go down. The next few posts/sequence of events does not happen very often at all (the individual parts of the next few days happen with a little more regularity, but they basically never all happen to the same person. How special am I?) Do not panic. But, consider yourself warned.

At the end of my last post, it was close to midday on Tuesday (although I had no hope of lunch...seriously?? How awful. You know, awful in addition to the whole molten lava situation.) I was still on the mag, but thankfully, it had calmed down enough that I wasn't wishing for death every moment. I was still incredibly hot and sick feeling, and the towels kept coming with some regularity. Brad got permission to feed me ice chips a little more often than usual; I'm not sure how I would have made it otherwise. What with the the flames coming up my throat. I'm positive everyone could see them. :)

My doctor had told me that I could have my epidural any time I wanted it (even though they usually have a certain number of centimeters that they want you dilated before starting the epidural). I wasn't in particularly dreadful pain, but I was pretty tired and exhausted from contracting and the mag and not sleeping; I went ahead and asked them to order my epidural so that I'd get on the schedule and wouldn't end up waiting for a super long time, you know, until I was in too much pain. I really don't like pain. 

I didn't end up waiting too long for the anesthesiologist (and a resident; I'm a magnet for those in training) to show up. Maybe 30 minutes? By the time they arrived, I still wasn't feeling too dreadful from the contractions (if you must know my pain level from that stupid hospital pain scale, I'd put it at a 6...or a 7? Who even knows how to determine that?), but I was feeling super sick from the mag. Sidenote: I found out later from one of my nurses that she has been in chemo therapy for the past several months, and mag is part of her treatment. She was the only person who could genuinely say, "I know how you feel, and I know it makes you want to die" and I believed her. Unfortunately, while she was telling me these sweet words of solidarity, I had to stop her and grab a bucket to vomit into. It was classy. At least she understood, right?

The anesthesiologists showed up, and shooed Brad out of the room. I knew they weren't going to let him stay with me (sterile environment), but it made me terribly emotional, since I was feeling so badly. Very unreasonably and very uncontrollably, I started crying and didn't stop for the full half hour it took. I'm not naturally a cry-er, so it annoyed me to no end  that I was so emotional about not having Brad to hold my hand and that I was crying over being sick.

I got into the side-of-the-bed-arched-back position that they need and tried to bow my back out as far as they wanted me to (although, I'm not sure it's possible to do it as far as they want you to when you're 9 months pregnant...but they sure are insistent). My nurse, Peggy, sat on the other side of the table and held my hands while the blood pressure cuff crushed my arm every three minutes, making it impossible to stop crying. By the way, do they do that for all epidurals? Or just for people with preeclampsia who are already prone to high blood pressure? 

The anesthesiologist and resident explained the procedure to me and taped off my back, saying that I would feel a "big pinch" and a "big sting." I've learned that the people who say things like that don't seem to have experienced said "big pinch" and "big sting" for themselves. It hurt a lot, but I just squeezed Peggy's hands and tried not shake while sobbing about missing Brad and feeling nauseous.

I knew the procedure would take a few minutes, so I wasn't expecting it to be over quickly or anything. I wasn't expecting, though, to hear running commentary from the attending anesthesiologist and the resident. I heard phrases like this:

Attending: (annoyed voice) Um, yeah, you just went through the vein.

Resident: Oh.

(a few minutes later, more annoyed) Attending: And that's bone you just hit. You also just touched that sterile needle while not sterile. You can't do that.

Me: (thinking) What?? Why would you say that out loud while I'm a foot away and obviously upset? Did you think that would calm me down? Breathe in, breathe out.

All the while, the nursing students are standing nearby, enjoying their opportunity to observe "cool" medical stuff. They got to stay in there, but the doctors sent my husband away. I needed him. Could definitely do without the students. 

Attending: Ok, Erin, we weren't able to get it that time, so we're going to take it out. You can relax your back and stretch for a moment.

I took several deep breaths, wiped my eyes and nose, apologized for crying so much, and stretched. 

They returned for the kill and started again with the "big pinch" and "big sting" (I probably would have thought it hurt a lot more if I hadn't had the mag already. Silver lining?) It hurt again, and I squeezed Peggy's hands. This time, I heard:

Attending (who was actually doing the procedure herself this time): Hm. I just got a wet tap. We'll have to start over.

I had no idea what a wet tap was (don't worry: I found out. I'll fill you in.), but her voice sounded ominous, and she told me I could rest again because it didn't work. Again.

My nerves were starting to get a little frazzled. It had been about 20 minutes of getting nowhere, and my arm was continuously throbbing from the constant checking. Still trying to be a big girl; I'd rather endure 30 minutes of discomfort than try natural delivery. I'm definitely that girl. Try not to judge. 

We got to it again, and they finally got the needle in. I felt it, as well as them threading the back catheter, but I was just so thankful that they'd been successful. They finally released me from my mandatory statue-like pose, and I started feeling numb relief...finally. They waited around for a few minutes to check and make sure it was working, and eventually, I was left to try to get comfortable and enjoy the lack of feeling. 

Ahhh. Victory. But the spinal puncture count is up to three. Let's all keep count.

You know, for now. Because lasting relief would be way too convenient. Obviously.