John turns 4 next week! Eeek! So I finally got around to writing up his birth story.
Fair warning: I cover PPD and some traumatic aspects of birth towards the bottom. I suggest you don't read past the going home picture if you think that might be a trigger for you.
John was due 5 days following my college graduation. I walked the stage looking enormous. There were bets about whether he would be born on graduation day. Fun times.
Enormous. Told ya. |
Baby boy stayed in there though!
And stayed.
And stayed.
Eventually he overstayed his
welcome.
This was punctuated by a fun thing
called prodromal labor.
Also known as for realsie labor and
contractions that do NOTHING. So. Not. Cool.
That lasted for nearly 2 weeks.
I actually went in around 41 weeks
to L&D because the contractions SEEMED like they were doing something. They
were getting closer together, not stopping, all that jazz. When hooked up to
the monitor, the nurses could see promising looking contractions. Enough that
they admitted me.
But the thing about being admitted
to L&D means you will be watched like a hawk and not allowed food or
drink.
In labor. Over-due. And not allowed
to eat.
By 24 hours in I was mentally
breaking. Growing a human on no fuel will do that to ya.
They started a line of Pitocin. It
did make the contractions bigger, but progress I did not. Apparently I'm one of
those fun people who don't respond well to Pitocin.
Now I had awesome L&D nurses who
fought so hard to get the orders changed. But OBs don't like cases like mine.
All bodies are supposed to work the same, don't you know? Who did I think I was
having the audacity to NOT be progressing?
On Day 2 I was finally allowed to go
off the Pitocin and Matt ran out to Jack-in-the-Box. You have no idea how good
a cheeseburger and curly fries can taste until you are a starved super pregnant
woman. I think John did a little in utero happy dance.
I insisted on being discharged that
day. No more torture for me. I had had enough of feeling imprisoned, starved, and
not able to sleep.
Leaving L&D without a baby is
one of the most demoralizing things that can happen when you are that far
along. I just stared at the ground and cried as quietly as I could.
Then began the fun rounds of
Non-Stress Tests (NSTs) to check up on little John. I always looked like I was
contracting regularly (because I was), and every new nurse would try to say
encouraging things like how I was going to go into labor any hour now. I
basically wanted to throttle everyone.
At 42 weeks we had to call it and
the CNM midwife scheduled an induction.
Getting induced meant getting up
really early, calling the hospital to make sure they were ready for us to come
in, and doing hurry-up-and-wait in L&D.
We arrived about 7am but they didn't
get around to starting the induction until closer to noon.
We watched a lot of Law and Order.
We were in a room that
was a lot smaller, and a lot less nice, than our previous room. Our first nurse
was not great. She bumbled through getting the IV line in my hand, and we found
later that she had left a sharp on the ground (by which I mean we found the
sharp in question.)
In the room people are
mostly wearing socks or nothing. Yeah, not cool.
Misoprostol was finally administered
about noon. After the hour of having to lie on my back, I was finally able to
move around a little bit.
Because I was being
induced, I had to stay connected to the fetal monitor. I had the one with
cords. They had a number of cordless sets but they were all in use.
By people not getting
out of bed.
I continue to be less
than thrilled in the decisions of others.
I was able to get a
birth ball and spent a lot of time on that sucker. At some point I moved into
the shower, and Matt spent a lot of time keeping the stream of hot water moving
around my back.
I made a lot of progress
in the shower, and discovered staying in there was a great way to get the
medical team to leave me alone. At this point, I didn't want to see
a doctor until absolutely necessary.
They finally made me
leave the shower so they could check progress. The temperature change made me
really nauseous (the gathering intensity of the contractions might have had
something to do with it too).
I labored on the bed a
little bit. Suddenly, I got this overwhelming feeling that something was
changing really fast.
And my water broke.
Way to go intuition!
But there was clearly meconium
in the fluid, which meant little John might not be doing too great.
Back on careful
monitoring.
Laboring on the bed was
a lot harder, and it was in the wee hours of the morning now. I was exhausted
and kept falling asleep/passing out (honestly, not sure which) in between
contractions.
The monitor kept moving
so the nurses would have to fiddle with it until they got it in a good place
again.
I made poor Matt keep
saying "Soft, soft" over and over again. You want weird stuff in
labor I suppose.
After one big
contraction, urge to push started happening in full force. I was lying on my
side, and felt like John was moving really well in that position. But once
nurses figured out I was actually delivering, doctor got called and I had to go
on my back.
I did NOT want to go on
my back. It made me feel nauseous and terrible and something just felt really
not right about it. John apparently thought so too. His heartrate dropped
quickly, and I could easily have been an emergency C-section if I didn't
deliver so fast.
They had to hold me down
to keep me on my back.
He had the cord wrapped
around his neck, and was a little blue, but baby boy pinked right up on my
chest. He pooped all over me too. It was a hard road for him too I guess.
I lucked out and didn't
need what they so delicately call "reconstruction". I just got to
cuddle the baby and finally eat a ham sandwich.
Staying in the hospital
afterward re-affirmed that recovery in hospital is terrible.
No one lets you sleep!
Who seriously was like, "You know who really doesn't need a lot of
recovery and sleep? Women who have just finished one of the hardest marathons
of their lives!"
Every few hours they
WAKE YOU UP to take your blood pressure. Then they WAKE THE BABY UP to check on
them.
One night nurse freaked
me out by insisting John was really jaundiced and needed the doctor immediately.
You don't say these things 1) before if you know it is true and 2) to a woman
who hasn't slept properly in weeks.
This was one of those
"baby friendly hospitals" that does not do well nursery.
So no one else is
helping care for the baby, nor will they let you sleep, or let you move around
much at all. They only "help" we got from staying in the hospital was
not having to cook, but I'm not sure that's saying much. It's not bad to throw
a freezer meal in the oven or crockpot.
Finally going home! |
Needless to say, I was
so so happy to get out of that hospital.
My mom came and stayed
with us for our first week, and that was great! Actual help! Real food! Chores
getting done! Getting to sleep!
But I quickly learned
there would be zero post-partum support anywhere else.
When I was showing signs
of Post-Partum Depression (PPD) I did what they told me to. I called my
midwife. A few times. They finally just told me to go to the ER. Not what I was
expecting, but I continued to do as I was told.
In the ER it became
clear that things were not the kind of help I was trying to get.
I got suspicious when
there was a security officer positioned outside my room.
Eventually a doctor came
in and explained they were 5150ing me. In California, that means I was being
forced into a psychiatric hospital.
None of this was what I
was asking for. I was not ok with it. That meant forced separation from my
breastfeeding newborn.
They came in with the
gurney to take me to the ambulance for transport. But with a 5150 they have to
handcuff at least your ankle to the gurney, I felt like I was being arrested
for doing what I was supposed to do in asking for help.
The sounds of baby John
crying in the hospital room in Matt's arms as they wheeled me away just broke
my heart.
The hospital was clearly
not set up for PPD cases. As in, I was the only one they had ever seen.
Everyone else on my floor were largely in for eating disorders, the others were
schizophrenic or had other severe forms of depression.
They did not have
answers to a lot of important questions. Like did they have a breast pump? How
would I get milk to my newborn? When would I be allowed to see him?
I decided real fast that
I was going to do whatever it took to get out of there. Lie if I needed
to.
There just had to be a
better way.
At this point I had
spent the better part of 2 weeks in labor, been starved, dehydrated, sleep
deprived, abandoned by care providers, and now forcibly separated from my baby,
breast feeding was shot, and I was being held against my will.
No way was I doing that
again.
So that's the big long
story about why Therese was a homebirth. And it was sooooooo much better!
***Edited to add: Yes the story with what happened with recovery from PPD and such has more of an ending to it, but this post was already getting crazy long and I feel like it will be better completed in another post. Stay tuned!***
***Edited to add: Yes the story with what happened with recovery from PPD and such has more of an ending to it, but this post was already getting crazy long and I feel like it will be better completed in another post. Stay tuned!***
**Here it is!**
Oh my *expletives* !! That is just awful! I am so sorry you went through that. How anyone could have thought they were doing the "best" thing for you - or even just caring for you - is inconceivable. It makes me want to punch the health care system in the neck. I'm so glad you were able to do things differently with Therese. God bless you all today and next week for John's birthday and always!
ReplyDeleteI ask myself a lot of the same questions. I think a lot of my story happened because too many people were so busy checking off boxes, they never looked up and noticed the person in front of them.
DeleteI'm in suspense...how did you get home?!?! Did you ever get the help you needed? Postpartum depression is common; how could there not be a system in place?
ReplyDeleteMore coming soon, promise!
DeleteThere STILL isn't a good system for handling PPD cases. My hope is the more we talk about experiences with PPD, and the systemic failures to aid us, we might arrive at a system that can be of real help to women.