Month One

The last time I wrote "Month One" was when I was one month pregnant. This month, however, indicates the first thirty-some days of my son who was born not long ago. I can hardly believe he has hit this mini-milestone already. He has grown heavier, smiles more, almost giggles (but not quite)...he's becoming himself. I wanted to take credit for creating this life, but in reality, he's creating his own. I have very little to do with the character he is turning into.

Lately, I have been staring at him while he sleeps, sneaking peeks at him while he lays quietly on a pillow, smelling his freshly washed hair, stealing kisses from his soft cheeks. Babies are intoxicating. They make you forget the world around you, the troubles that surround you. They are the best cure-all for a bad day...when they're not screaming, that is.

When he screams and cries, I die a little inside. My heart aches in a way that is physically painful to me. I can't seem to hold back a few tears of insecurity. I feel incapable of caring for him, even for that short time of chaos. It throws me back into a sad state of being, one I have tried so hard to get over.

But after the crying, I realize the misinterpretation. I always assume it's because he hates me. It's not that at all, I rationalize to myself. It's a baby. Babies cry for no reason at all, sometimes. Burping, eating, pooping...sometimes nothing will sooth him. Live with that, mommy. You have to be ok with that. There is no choice in the matter.

I thought about this mini-milestone and what I should do to commemorate this occasion. Should I eat a cupcake? Blow out a candle? Instead, I wrote this letter to my one month old son...

Dear Darling Boy,

I love you more than life. You are my heart. I will never feel love for someone the way I feel love for you, sweet boy.

But when I think of your birth and your first month on this earth, I have to apologize for how sad I was. I should have celebrated more, appreciated you more. Instead, I cried a lot. I felt despair. I couldn't feel happy to have you. I felt as if I didn't deserve you, because you were perfect and you were amazing.

I'm different after one month of having you, though. I loved you from the first kick in my belly. I loved you from the moment I felt you push through me. I never loved you less, I always loved you more. But now that I've had you in my arms for a month, I know why I love you so much. You are a person who deserves the most love I can muster.

So I promise you, baby boy, that I will persevere through depression. I will be the best I can be. I will become the person you deserve to have as your mother.

I love you.

Your Mommy

The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

Aside from being tired every minute of the day, the baby has been doing quite well in most areas of life, including eating like a hoover vacuum cleaner. This kid can put it away like no newborn I've ever seen. It was so impressive, in fact, the nurse at the lactation center said we needed to feed him less. I guess gaining one pound in 5 days isn't in vogue anymore.

The best parts about being a parent of a newborn is the feeling of accomplishment when your baby burps, poops, pees, latches on properly...basically anything he does, you praise with that annoying baby voice that drives all non-parents insane. It's dumb parent pride, I guess. I love feeling like my husband and I have created something good.

It's also amazing to see my husband with the baby when they're cooing at each other like lovebirds. My favorite thing in the world right now is seeing him so enamored. He holds the baby in his arms and turns into a nurturing machine. The baby stares at him, they lock eyes, and you can feel the adoration. It's pure bliss.

Our son has been showing us up in the sleep department lately, taking in anywhere between 6 and 9 hours a night. He's also been keeping us entertained with his strong Pele kicks. Other things that impress us include his eye contact, as if he's doing the mind meld and trying to control our every move...it works like a charm, too.

The baby has been locking eyes since week one, albeit sometimes those eyes are crossed in an effort to focus. He seems very alert for a newborn, although I've heard these stories of parents with delusions of grandeur bragging about their baby like he belongs in mensa already. Apparently, I have turned into this type of parent already. I'm hopeless.

Breathing

It's 9:30 a.m. I'm sitting upstairs with the baby monitor by my side waiting to hear a peep, squeak, wail or all of the above. I woke up at 6:45 a.m. in anticipation of noise, and instead heard nothing but the occasional soft crackling of the monitor. The baby has been asleep since 11:45 p.m. last night.

The argument on the mommy internet sites rages on about when to wake the baby, or if you should wake the baby at all. My head is pounding with a consistent ache that has plagued me since yesterday. I say let the baby sleep until he wakes and let my head recover from a day of fussy behavior.

He was alert and cranky yesterday for hours. When my husband came home from work I immediately handed the parenting reigns over to him, pumped milk, and promptly lay down on the sofa and breathed steadily for five minutes. I thought I was going to explode.

But on a positive note, I haven't freaked out or hysterically cried in a few days. I don't want to jinx it, but I am starting to believe that the worst is over. Perhaps I've dodged the post-partum bullet. I'm hoping my hormones have settled into place and that I'm coming back to life again.

My feelings about the baby and being a mother have remained somewhat muted, if not detached at times. In one moment, I'm completely overwhelmed and unenthusiastic about this abrupt new life change. Then things change instantaneously and I'm in complete love with this little boy. I kiss his little fingers and toes with gusto. I eat his soft cheeks.

Breastfeeding goes along the same lines. I love touching his downy hair and slowly rubbing his cheeks with my fingers while he suckles. But then he'll chomp down and cause me real pain. It wakes me from a happy state of nurturing and violently shoves me into a creepy feeling of unsettled resentment. And although I do find some sense of accomplishment from seeing how much milk I can produce in one sitting, I equally dislike pumping with a machine. It feels like being milked like a cow.

But all in all I have more of a positive feeling about my new life. It's up and down, and never consistently good or bad. It's easier knowing I won't be returning to work soon. It's harder when I realize my husband will be returning full time October 1st.

Today he was required to go to a conference from 8:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. It's the first full day away for him and the first full day alone with the baby for me. When he kissed me goodbye in the morning, I cried. I'm still afraid of being alone with my son. That's hard to admit, and not something I'm terribly proud of.

Now I feel like I'm just waiting for everything to normalize. My pain has subsided, the hemorrhoids have shrunk to a manageable size, my belly is slowly shrinking to a mass of jelly rolls that makes me think I won't be wearing a bikini anytime soon.

But I still wait for that feeling that everything is as it's supposed to be. That is still beyond my reach.

Exhaustion

Baby turned 3 weeks. Now it's official. I'm exhausted.

It's not because of anything tangible. In fact, we've been spoiled by all the generous and good natured friends delivering us food in exchange for a turn holding the baby. I'm actually surprised at how many people have never held a newborn before. They all come in, looking for a turn holding him. And when they do, they gingerly cup his head and balance him with two hands like he's a breakable sculpture...every one who has come by has done this. It's pretty amusing.

And it's not the baby keeping me up at night that is making me so tired. In fact, he's been a good baby, sleeping all night and waking in the morning light, just like clockwork since day one.

He's also been doing a number of other things that are unbearably cute, such as sucking his fingers and finding his thumb, smiling and making newborn noises...(which aren't really that much to describe but are still adorable.) He is the first person who makes me melt by yawning at everything I say to him. He sticks out his tongue and my heart dissolves.

In the morning he tends to wake up in a good mood, sit around on a pillow for 30 to 45 minutes, just staring at things. Then, he eats, naps for two hours or so, wakes up, eats again, and then makes more noises and smiles some more.

The witching hour comes around 8 or 9 p.m. when the sun sets. Then he turns into the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde baby.

Oh, the screams. He eats, he screams. He poops, we change him, he screams. We swaddle him, he screams. We rock him. Screams. It's neverending and in the first two weeks I thought I would lose my mind. Nothing seemed to soothe him, not even a finger in him mouth, which usually pacifies him for a good 20-30 minutes.

He finally passes out after a 3-4 hour marathon, sometimes less, sometimes more. Around midnight, he is so over-tired he simply can't keep up the drama. He is knocked out for hours after that. We've managed to get him to sleep at 11:30 p.m., but that was the earliest he's ever gone down. It's usually midnight or 12:30.

Admittedly, my husband is far better at soothing him at night. He has the right temperament for it, and doesn't get upset easily, unlike me and my raging hormones. They're still finding their balance, apparently. And although my mood swings have calmed down considerably, there is the occasional "burst into tears" moment that I can't seem to contain.

The only thing I can reason when it comes to being exhausted is that I'm emotionally wrecked and still healing from the birth. The baby can be tiring, on occasion, especially when I just can't figure out what he needs from me. I tend to get frustrated and throw my hands up in the air more than I care to admit, but it's getting better, slowly but surely.

Also, the pain is pretty uncomfortable. I'm still trying to breast-feed, which has been no picnic. I won't give up, but I will complain about it. It hurts. A lot. I'm cracked and bleeding a lot, which leads to bloody breast milk. When I pumped the other day, it was pink, not white. And when the baby spit up clots of blood the other week, I freaked out. Then, we called the advice nurse and she explained it was most likely MY blood, and I freaked out some more.

Breast-feeding is a chore right now, but I'm anticipating a change soon. Hopefully, what everyone tells me is true...it will be better by the 1st or 2nd month. I'm holding out with a clenched jaw until then.

The pelvic pain has subsided somewhat, and the hemorrhoids have calmed down to a manageable state. But I'm still popping prescription Motrin and praying for my body to return to a normal state eventually.

Being in pain on top of being depressed, and then capping it off with caring for a newborn is what pushes me over the edge on bad days. If I was tackling one of those three things, it would be far easier for me to remain positive. But these three things all at once make me feel...well, exhausted.

Little Voice

I saw my doctor the other day and she discussed medication for the postpartum depression. I felt relieved and disillusioned at the same time. The relief was because I now had an option, a choice. The disillusionment was because I swore I would never take medication while pregnant, and now I was posed with this dilemma...taking medication while breast feeding.

She also recommended a weekly therapy group for postpartum mothers, which I'm still thinking about. I do not do well in group therapy, as I am very self-conscious and tend to shrink away from speaking out loud. But the thought that it is there for me is a comfort nonetheless.

Either way, there's no definitive cure for what I have fallen upon. Although things have seemed to calm down somewhat since last week, I am still in constant discomfort/pain and working through a recovery that I couldn't have guessed would be this prolonged. It's only been two weeks, everyone says. I just want it to end so I can start feeling normal again. Perhaps then, I hope against hope, I will be a better mother to my baby.

The baby is sleeping in his bassinet next to the sofa while I watch television, trying to drown out the little voice inside me that keeps saying the things I'm afraid to say out loud. "You'll never be able to do this. You should give up now. Leave while you can. The baby and your husband will be better off without you there to burden them."

It's a horrible little voice, with a very loud message. I am simply not good enough to be a mother to this infant.

I ignore it as much as possible, and that's the best I can do for now. Ignore. I ignore the screaming when the baby is upset. I ignore the hatred I have for my own incompetence. I ignore the fact that I am exhausted for no apparent reason other than a debilitating depression. I ignore the fact that I resent my own child when he won't stop crying.

I remember being in my third trimester, pregnant belly out to *here* and feeling excited, joyful, amazed by the ability to create life within me. I was happy.

Now, two weeks and some days later, all I can imagine is being trapped with this responsibility for the rest of my life, knowing in my heart I will never be as good as this child deserves. It breaks me in two and shoves me aside like nothing.

So all I can do at this point is wait for the bonding that everyone says will happen soon enough. I wait for the hormones to pass through me, leaving me a clear path away from this sadness. I hope for a better future with this baby. I want to appreciate him, to love the days we have together while he is smaller than I ever imagined he would be when I was dreaming of him in my pregnant state.

Pass Baby Blues...Go Directly to Post-Partum Depression

As I sit here typing, husband is trying to calm a screaming baby. I feel as if I have failed yet another night, unable to soothe my own son into sleep.

Seeing that I can't even soothe myself, I shouldn't be surprised. I have been suffering the after-effects of pregnancy, and my hormones have been raging like a waterfall of uncontrolled emotions.

It's been a week and a half and I've been in constant pain and discomfort from the delivery of our son. Although we delivered only a short while ago, it seems like months have passed. My moods have been swinging, my crying non-stop. I can't seem to get a grip on the reality of the situation for more than a few seconds at a time. I feel like I'm suffering from dementia, totally in a daze and making no sense. In an occasional lucid moment, I will talk to my husband about my depression, about my history with it, and how worried I am about my inability to cope.

My history with depression goes back over two decades. I am not unfamiliar to meds, psychologists, and panic. Toward the end of my pregnancy, all I could think about was the dreaded post-partum depression that was talked about on every pregnancy chat board. I knew I was susceptible to it, and probably more than most women. It scared me more than the impending labor and delivery.

And now that the baby has arrived, I am suffering inside, fearing the worst things possible and unable to get out from underneath the avalanche of paranoia.

I am a horrible mother. My baby hates me. I will do something terribly wrong and something bad will happen to the baby. I hate myself. The baby and my husband would be better off without me. I am not cut out for this. I want out. I can't handle a baby. When my husband returns to work full time I will freak out.

The thoughts keep coming. It's nonstop and relentless. I'm sleep deprived as well, which doesn't help.

The baby has become very fussy at night. He is the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde baby. During the day he is a prince. He wakes up, eats, looks around, doesn't make a sound except when he's changed.

But as soon as night arrives, he shifts gears and starts screaming. There is a look of terror on his face at times that makes my heart stop. I can't help but wonder if he knows I am a terrible mother.

He's awake and screaming from anywhere between 9 p.m. and 1 a.m. and it has quickly become unbearable. The awake part is fine. The screaming part is killing my last nerve. I pick him up and he screams. I put him down, he screams. I swaddle him, he fights me like he's fighting death. I can't soothe him. I can't make him calm. Nothing works.

I haven't yet come to terms with the idea that we may have a colicky baby, or a fussy baby, or even a high-needs baby on our hands. It makes me cringe thinking this may be our fate for the next three months, as all the baby books have warned.

Husband has had better luck and has become nearly impervious to his crying. But he can't keep this up forever, and he will be going back to work full time soon. This is what I am dreading...I will have to take over the night shift as well as the day shift. It will be pure Hell with no sleep at all.

In the meantime, I have become desperate for help and have contacted my doctors asking for them to intervene in some way with either medication or advice. I've emailed some night doulas in the hopes we might be able to afford extra help with the baby. I don't know what else to do, frankly. In my current state of disrepair, I have no consistency in my logic or moods. Everything is on an hour to hour basis.

I know this spiral all too well, and I'm sad for my baby, for my husband as well as for myself. It's not a good path to be going down.

Breast Feeding

We stayed in the hospital for five days and then I was released on August 31st to fend for myself. The hospital was a comfortable place for me, and I actually dreaded leaving. The nurses, lactation specialist, doctors, pediatricians, OBGYNs...they were all available to me at the push of a button. At home, however, there was no button. It was just me, my husband and the baby.

The first day back, we were doing well. Baby slept through the night, probably exhausted by the long journey he had made into the world. I was in quite a bit of pain, and popping the prescription motrin and stool softeners like candy.

The second day back was like a pitcher of ice water thrown into my face. The baby did well during the day, but as soon as it became late...around midnight...he started screaming. And he simply would not stop. Husband tried to let me sleep and heal, since I was still suffering from the after-effects of pushing a human out of my uterus. But around 2 a.m., he came down to wake me.

He apologized, but said I would have to breast feed the baby.

Breast feeding had become this sort of albatross on my back. My milk had not come in as of day six. The nurses and doctors and lactation specialist at the hospital had all said not to worry...that the colostrum would be plenty for him to eat until my milk came in. But apparently, after five days, the baby was tired of the colostrum and was ready for a real meal.

I kept saying to the nurses and doctors, "He seems to be really hungry."

They kept reiterating the importance of NOT using formula. Breast is best.

"Not even to supplement? I want to breast feed, but I have no milk. Can't I just supplement with formula until it does come in?"

The answer was always, "Don't worry about it. He isn't starving."

Well, on the second day home, we were down to our last nerve trying to calm this baby down. I cried when my husband asked me to breast feed him without my milk in yet. It was extremely painful to breast feed in the hospital. My nipples were sore and bleeding. In fact, the baby had such a good sucking technique, he had literally sucked skin out of the inside of my nipple, leaving a raw, bloody piece of skin hanging.

I said to the husband, "This is ridiculous. We HAVE to discuss formula! I can't breast feed him like this!!" I was in tears, husband was in tears. He finally decided to call the advice nurse while I tried to suckle the baby on my raw nipples.

The advice nurse said, "Sure, supplement two ounces of formula. There's no harm in that."

When my husband told me how uncontroversial the conversation had been, I wanted to go back to the hospital and slap everyone. How dare they not give me the option to formula supplement my baby? They refused to even discuss it.

My baby was hungry. That's the bottom line. I needed to feed him. Formula is not the devil.

Birth Story...Part Three

The residents kept saying PUSSSSHHH...

I kept PUSHHIINGGG...nothing.

The residents insisted that I PUSSSHHHHH...

So I would PUSHHHH, and nothing.

Waiting for the contractions to come was the worst part, by far. The pain of the contractions was so intense and immediate, I could barely consider the thought of pushing once they started that uphill climb to the peak.

Yet the nurses and residents kept insisting I push push push whenever I was at the height of the pain. It was quickly becoming obvious that I simply could NOT PUSH ANY MORE.

I felt as if I had been pushing for an hour, and even said so. "It's been an hour!!"

The consensus in the room was, no, it hasn't. You have been pushing for 15 minutes, maybe 20. You've been arguing for 30.

"I need help!!" I cried, oblivious to everyone around me, talking to no one in particular. "The epidural is NOT WORKING!!"

"The epidural isn't going to help during this part of labor." The nurse said, matter-of-factly. "You're going to have to push through the pain."

Ok, push through the pain. It'll be over soon. Everyone keeps saying so. "It'll be over in another push or two! You're an amazing pusher!"

So I kept pushing. Nothing. I finally got the nerve up and looked in the mirror they placed between my legs. I saw a little patch of unfamiliar hair coming out of a small opening. Every time I pushed, it would come out a little more, making the opening a little bigger...and then the contraction would end and it would slip back inside. Pushing was not working as well as everyone was leading me to believe.

I was getting pissed. The epidural was completely done. I was completely done. My pushing was ineffective, at best. The residents were getting frustrated. I was becoming desperate for some relief from the sharp, stabbing pain.

"PLEASE. I CAN NOT PUSH. MY BODY IS SHUTTING DOWN!!" I yelled. I looked at my husband, who was beaming and excited beyond belief. His eyes were shining with impending tears of joy. I felt as if I had let him down in some way by not popping this baby out sooner.

The resident looked up from between my legs and said in an annoyed voice, "Well, then you'll have to have a C-Section. Do you want that? A C-Section?" Her tone denoted a smart-assery that made things that much worse.

"YES. GIVE ME A C-SECTION." I hollered, dead serious. I wanted this DONE. I was over pushing. I was convinced everyone was lying to me. It was NOT just one more push, ever. In fact, if I heard "JUST ONE MORE PUSH!!" cheered to me one more time, I was going to rip out the IV, hop off the table and walk to the operating table on my own.

The resident looked shocked that her ploy had backfired. Little did she know that I was impervious to reverse psychology. I really did want a C-Section, if, in fact, that was what she was offering me.

"Well, it will be a different kind of pain!" She back-peddled as best she could, "You'll be recovering for months after a C-Section! You really don't want that, do you?"

"YES I DO." I repeated myself emphatically. And at that moment, I really did. Not my proudest moment, but YES I REALLY DID.

The nurses and residents conferred. The new anesthesiologist came in and gave me another shot into my catheter, hopefully to ease up on the pain so I could try pushing again, which I did...to no avail. Although the pain had lessened slightly, it came back with a vengeance twenty or so minutes later.

A second, blond resident came in and calmly spoke about another option. "We can do one thing before we try a C-Section. We can suction the baby out. Do you want to try that?"

I looked at my husband and weakly asked him what he thought. He said, "Whatever you want to do is fine with me." Although I knew this wasn't true...he would never have wanted me to go through with a C-Section.

The suction was attached, and the resident said, "You will have to push 200 times harder than you did before. Can you do it?"

I did. Two pushes later, he was out. He was quiet. They whisked him away and suctioned him from head to toe, sticking tubes down his throat, getting all the merconium out. Husband was thrilled and crying, checking on him, and then coming over to report to me what he was seeing.

Sadly, I don't remember most of what happened next. What I do remember is the incredible pain of having my uterus hand-scraped by the residents who delivered the baby. Apparently, they had pulled on the umbilical cord and it had promptly fallen off, causing them to act quickly to remove the placenta. If any part of the placenta was left inside, I was in danger of hemorrhaging.

If labor was painful, this was excruciating Hell on Earth. And it seemed to go on forever. Husband heard my screaming and came to my side, held my hand, and cried. He said later that he was frightened. He had never seen me in that much pain before.

The baby was almost done. Husband clipped the cord. They wrapped baby up in a blanket, put a hospital hat on him, and handed him to his dad.

All I remember then is being in the room with a swaddled baby. The rest, sadly, is a blur. I don't even remember holding him for the first time.

Birth Story...Part Two

Once we arrived at Labor and Delivery at the hospital, my first words to the first person who would listen were, "I want an epidural."

The response was surprising, but I suppose looking back on it now it shouldn't have been. The nurse said, "Oh we like you! People usually refuse the epidural until later, when they're freaking out."

I, on the other hand, was already freaking out. We passed by freaking out an hour ago, when they tried to re-route us to Walnut Creek during rush hour traffic. To be perfectly clear, I said it again, "I want an epidural."

The saline bags were hooked up to my IV and I was prepped to meet the person of my dreams...the epidural man. Our nurse, who happened to be a male, explained the procedure before the epidural man arrived. He said I would first get a local anesthesia to numb the area. It would feel like a wasp sting. Then, he would clean the area carefully and insert the needle into my back, and then the catheter. The medication would take approximately 20 minutes to work. Everything happened exactly that way. I bent my shoulders forward and down, like I was shrugging. I felt a wasp sting me in the lower back, and then I started tingling.

I love the epidural man.

It was an excellent epidural. I felt my legs, and could actually move them a bit, but the contraction pain that had me yelling out expletives earlier were literally gone. I couldn't feel anything beyond a little pressure. The only way I could tell I was contracting was by looking at the electric monitor. The line would start to go up, up, up...then it would peak and fall like clockwork every two minutes. Every now and then I would cheekily say, "Oh that was a BIG one!"

And they were big. All night long. Hub and I tried to sleep through the night, but it wasn't easy knowing you were about to pass a bowling ball through your pelvic cavity. I was anxious, nervous...it was peaking every uncertainty in my head.

Nothing calmed me down. I wanted food and water, but was only allowed sips from a cup and ice. A while back the nurse had inserted a catheter to collect urine, which had turned up dark and nearly amber in color. Knowing I was dehydrated, I desperately snuck sips of my hub's drink. Stolen juice never tasted so good.

The nurse arrived for the ump-teenth time to check on my cervix and my progress. He called the doc and asked her to take a look at the sheets between my legs. "Well, that's new." He said. The doc took a look, nodded, and left the room after some quiet conferencing and cryptic mumblings. After a while, the nurse spoke to me calmly about what was going to happen. It was the kind of calm voice that made me NOT calm. What was the matter?

He said, "Your water broke, but it's not clear. The baby has basically pooped, so here's what's going to happen. When you give birth, he will not be handed directly to you. He'll be whisked away to the pediatrician on duty, who will then suction out his lungs and everything else until the merconium is gone. The reason he does this is because if he doesn't and the baby takes a breath, he would be in danger of contracting pneumonia."

Ok. So, panic now? "There's no need to worry. It happens a lot." Ok, no panic. Just more anxiety. Pile it on the mound.

Having arrived at 6 p.m. at 3 cm dilated, I was now 5 cm dilated at 7 p.m. I closed my eyes for 30 minute winks of sleep at a time.

At 11 p.m., I woke up to two nurses and a doctor poking around my bed. They seemed rushed, quick to move, checking every monitor, every IV, everything. I was half awake and confused. What was happening now?!

The nurse said, "His heart rate has dropped." What?! What?!

The doctor said, "We're just checking on his heart rate. It dropped below normal levels and we would like to find out why. It's back to normal now, but we need to investigate."

The little man's heart rate had dropped from a steady 120-130 to 75. That was really low, according to me. But I stayed calm for the sake of hub, who had already endured my freak outs for the past 12 hours. And so it happened that baby boy was fine. It was just some schmutz with the electrical equipment.

August 27th, 2009 arrived. The big day.

At 7 a.m., I was 7 cm dilated and suddenly I was feeling cramping. What was that? Pain? Not possible. The epidural man and I had an arrangement. No pain at all below the waist. We had discussed it. It was a done deal.

However, I was in sudden, serious pain. It was getting worse by the minute, and I was starting to yell for the nurse. A beeping began to emit from the epidural box and the nurse came in to investigate.

"Oh, your epidural bag is empty. I'll call the doctor."

What? What? Empty what? I was now gripping the sides of my bed, hoping to alleviate some of the incredible pressure and cramping. The epidural man was no where to be seen. I felt as if I was being ripped in half by the contractions that I had once scoffed.

Epidural man did not show for nearly 45 minutes, and when he did, it wasn't immediate relief. The new bag was attached, and he even administered medication directly into my catheter tube. Nothing changed. I was still writhing.

30 minutes after the bag had been changed, still nothing. The nurse called in the new epidural man, since the old one had run away, probably in shame. (Many shift changes occur during a delivery, apparently.)

The new epidural man administered even more medication and a little fentanyl, which did not do much except make me woosy. Slowly, the medication started to take effect, but it was never really the same as the first time. I was disappointed, but took what I could get.

At 11 a.m. the doctor and the new nurse came in to ask, "You're at 10 cm dilated. Do you want to try pushing?"

Do I want to try pushing? No. Do I want this baby out? HELL YES. Let's try pushing.

Pushing was pure pain. I actually couldn't feel a contraction until I began pushing, and then suddenly, it was there...pounding, stabbing, gripping pain. I screamed a little, and then a lot, and then constantly.

Birth Story...Part One

August 26, 2009

Doctor's appointment. 11 a.m.

The doc checked me out and nothing had moved significantly. My cervix was at 1.5 dilated and I was 50% effaced. My mucus plug had started coming out in the form of a lovely brownish sticky goo over the last few days and we were feeling hopeful. But 1.5 is not the number we were hoping for. With all the Braxton Hicks I was feeling, I thought it would be closer to the starting gate. Just goes to show that nothing is what it seems in pregnancy. You could be 9 cm dilated and not even know it, from what those TLC shows say.

The doc decided to "get things moving" by sticking her finger into my cervix and running it around in there, separating the membranes, apparently. It was unpleasant, but I was desperate. If I'd known you could stick fingers in there in the first place, I probably would have done it myself long before the appointment ever took place.

We left, me feeling slightly violated and annoyed, Hub feeling excited and hopeful, as usual. He was in this state of euphoria constantly, but especially in the last month when everything seemed to be drawing to a close. He couldn't be seen without a slap-happy grin spread across his face at all times. I, on the other hand, was suffering from a variety of nasty symptoms ranging from carpal tunnel to mood swings akin to the worst PMS on the planet. I was waddling from corner to corner of the house, trying to keep busy, trying not to kill people in my way. The pregnancy had finally caught up with me. I had gone from 8 1/2 months of pre-natal bliss to absolute and concentrated hatred for the world. Being one day past my due date was like taunting an alligator with fresh kill. I was seriously in need of pain medication and muscle relaxants, and a lot of them, preferably together with a shot of vodka.

That afternoon, around 2:30, our friend came by. She is an acupuncturist and just happened to be in our neighborhood. Sensing impending doom upon talking to me on the phone, she offered a home visit at half price. "Let's do an induction and see if we can jump-start this labor for you." she said, as if it was a no-brainer. I jumped at the chance. Actually, at this point, I probably would have done anything short of murdering someone to get the labor started.

My friend came over with the needles and stuck me with just nine. Nine needles and a little walking and she was done. She told me to relax, not worry, things would happen very soon. I just grumbled something about being 10 months 6 days pregnant, gave her a big hug and started praying to whomever is up there to please deliver me a baby tonight.

30 minutes later, strong contractions began. I couldn't believe it. Acupuncture induction worked?! Well, that and my obgyn sticking her fingers to loosen my membranes...together, it worked!? I was in amazement...and in serious pain.

I started huffing and puffing just like I saw in every movie of the week, until I realized it wasn't helping at all with the pain. The contractions came and went, one every four to five minutes, each one lasting about 60 seconds. THIS WAS IT. I WAS IN LABOR. Whoo whoo whoo whoo...I took shallow breaths just to keep from passing out, since my first instinct was to hold my breath until the contraction passed.

The pain wasn't like a wave. It was like a stabbing. I felt like someone had grabbed a hold of my uterus and said, "Hey, lookie at this squeeze toy." and then squished my internal organs until they almost popped. It was intense, sharp, stabbing pain. A wave would have been a welcome sensation, but it definitely was not a gentle lapping motion of water kissing the shores. It was an episode of Law and Order where someone gets murdered in a bloody mess. That someone being ME.

Hub was excited and called the hospital. Their response to our excitement was this, "Sorry. We are full. You'll have to go to Walnut Creek."

My husband's jaw dropped. Then, it clenched. Then he spoke clearly into the phone, calmly, with a hint of anger. "HO NO. We are NOT going to Walnut Creek." He spoke very clearly into the phone.

The nurse on the other end of the line responded by repeating herself, "Sorry, but we are full. We have to reroute you to Walnut Creek."

Hub's face was deathly serious. He said in a less calm voice, "Listen, I know for a FACT you have room. You won't turn us away if we show up there. I am NOT going to drive my wife, who is in LABOR, over the bridge to Walnut Creek in RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC. It's 5 o'clock. There is no way I am doing that. So make room, because WE ARE COMING RIGHT NOW."

Click.

At this point, I was in tears and rambling on between contractions, which were literally taking my breath away. "IDON'TWANNAGOTOWALNUTCREEK!" I cried, "It will take us 2 hours to get there in rush hour traffic! PLEASE CALL THEM BACK!"

The second phone call was far more civil. An hour had passed since he had first called the hospital, and the contractions were stronger, more vicious. I was sweating, bent over in complete panic. Hub got on the phone with a different woman, and this time he said, "We will NOT be going to Walnut Creek. If you don't have room for us there, we'll find room at Cal Pacific Med Center and we will be sending YOU the humongous bill."

Apparently, that worked wonders. We were welcome with open arms. Money talks.

Once inside the car, I was looking for anything to get me through the next cramp from Hell. I grabbed the handle of the door and nearly ripped it off the hinges with my adrenaline powered She-Hulk strength. By the time we made it to the passenger zone of the hospital, I couldn't move from my seat. Every three or four minutes another one would hit me and then I would become incapacitated. Time would stop, I would freeze, hoping against hope that in suspended animation, the contractions would go away.

Luckily, a female orderly was dropping off a patient and wheeling an empty chair inside. In a semi-panicked state I shoved Hub toward her and hissed, "GET HER."

As she helped us into the chair, she offered some support and sympathy, which made me even more nervous, anxious, and annoyed. Why is everyone so freaking happy!? I AM IN PAIN HERE.