"I Feel Like This Is Happening To Someone Else."

"This can't be right," I kept thinking as they were arranging my body on the operating table.  "I think this is a mistake.  This sounds like someone else's story.  I feel like this is happening to someone else."  I simultaneously couldn't believe several things: that I was being prepped for major surgery, that we would see Fitz-Hume and Millbarge soon, and that so many improbable events had led up to this.

When we went in for a routine growth ultrasound, we were told that Fitz-Hume and Millbarge were both very small.  They had dropped from 'average' to 'acceptable' to 'much too small for gestational age' (think fifth percentile).  I mentally added IUGR to my list of "Sure, what the hell else can go wrong during this gestation?"  I was blissfully unaware that this list was about to get very long very fast.

While going over the results of the ultrasound and casually discussing induction plans with the doctor ("How's next week for you?  What about this weekend?") the nurse bustled in with a detailed follow up ultrasound report that changed the doctor's demeanor entirely.  "I believe they'll have a room ready for you in an hour."  The report indicated a possible problem with Fitz-Hume's placental blood supply.  I didn't entirely understand it, but it apparently wasn't urgent enough to warrant any sort of whisking away or immediate cutting, so we went out to grab a bite to eat while they prepared our room upstairs.  Nobody could believe that after almost 90 days on bed rest, I was about to be induced, but since my body specializes in the ridiculous, we weren't exactly speechless, either.

After dinner, we checked into The Big Fancy Perinatologist Place and started making plans for the staff to induce labor in a way that seemed acceptable for everybody involved.  Things were casual and laid back.  All parties were concerned, but not overly so.  We were asked if we were excited, if we knew the sexes, if we had names picked out.  Everything was going along swimmingly, and then a word popped up:

Preeclampsia.

Sure, why the hell not?  It was considered early or mild or 'lite' or 'fat free' or something like that, but it was still worrisome.

My blood pressure hit about 150/97, a number that sounded bad until it was followed by 155/101, 160/111, Holy Crap/WTF?, bla bla bla, plus my lab work came back indicating some sort of organ distress, and I got put on Mag Sulfate and Pitocin simultaneously.  "This seems...dumb," I remember saying.  "Don't those drugs pretty much counteract each other?  How can this possibly work?"  "Well, if we don't give you mag, you'll probably start having seizures pretty soon."  We inquired about other options, but none of them were good fits for the situation, so I consented to the mag.

We were collectively bundled into the care of an L&D nurse so pushy and dismissive that I began to openly ignore her and play computer solitaire between contractions.  She heartily returned my lack of regard.  Sam just shook his head and asked for the doctor every time she opened her mouth, a decision that turned out to be wise, as every piece of advice she dispensed was simultaneously stupid, inaccurate, and medically unsound.  I was beginning to wonder if Nurse GateKeeper had a sister, and then her shift ended and she was followed by a blur of pleasantly competent nurses who seemed to have everybody's best interest at heart.

Things I hated about Nurse GateKeeper's Clone, the short list:

1. She seemed passionate about the idea of keeping me immobilized in bed, even while all the doctors were encouraging me to (carefully) move around a bit to keep labor progressing.
2. I started to suspect that she earned a free toaster oven for every fifth epidural she talked somebody into after she woke me up to ask me if I was ready for an epidural not once or twice, but three goddamned times.  I'm no medical professional, but it seems to me that if your patient is sleeping through the motherfucking contractions, maybe suggesting an epidural is jumping the gun just a bit, yes?
3. Her choice of language was poor and aggressively unsupportive.  Instead of asking me how the contractions were going, or inquiring as to how I was feeling, she would ask "How is The Pain?  We'll want to do an epidural when The Pain is like this, and before The Pain is like that."  Way to set up labor as a hideously wretched process to be feared and medicated, yes?  I'm surprised she didn't offer me Twilight Sleep, for fuck's sake.

My blood pressure continued to rise, but labor seemed to be progressing at a reasonable pace and the mag wasn't totally kicking my ass, so things seemed tolerable.  All involved parties were optimistic about a successful and probably not-too-unpleasant delivery.  Things were going surprisingly well.

Sort of. 

Over the course of a day, my cervix dilated from three to five and then stalled out completely.  Walking didn't help.  Bouncing on the birthing ball was fun, but didn't help.  Increasing the Pitocin was not fun, and also didn't help.  My uterus, ever the irritable little twit, would immediately go from 'promising looking contractions' to 'one big long motherfucking unending contraction that put Fitz-Hume and Mllbarge into distress and had to be stopped'.  This happened several times.  I was not amused. 

After several bouts of this, I consented to have Millbarge's amniotic sac broken to see if this would generate productive contractions.  Not only did it fail to do so, it also moved the contractions from the 'not so bad' category into 'perhaps an epidural is not entirely unwarranted'.  I requested and received a walking epidural, which was actually quite lovely except for the part about throwing up violently and repeatedly.  The medication required to stop the constant hurling made me extremely drowsy, which made it impossible for me to take advantage of the 'walking' aspect of the walking epidural, as I went out cold for almost an hour.  During this time, my labor appeared to be progressing nicely without me, or at least the tocolytic monitor seemed to think it was, but repeated cervix checks indicated no change.

I woke up and threw up a few more times for good measure.

At this point my cervix had dilated a whopping two centimeters in almost 36 hours and wasn't giving any signs of dilating any further than five centimeters total in the near (or distant) future.  My contractions were frequent, but internal monitoring showed them to be completely ineffective. 

A doctor arrived to discuss the option of a c-section.  She was polite and respectful and answered all of our questions.  The most important questions were "What more can be done?" and "What haven't we tried yet?"  The all important answer to both of those questions was "Nothing."  Even so, she wasn't pushy about it.  "Take your time.  Think about what you want us to do.  I'll be back in a bit to see if you have any questions."  There was no impatient foot tapping or conspicuous checking of watches.  Nobody was in a hurry to make a golf game.

The Preeclampsia wasn't considered life threatening for anybody involved, but it also wasn't going anywhere and its presence was effectively cutting off almost all available routes of accelerating labor.  They couldn't stop the mag.  They couldn't increase the pitocin.  Every time I tried to get up or head in the direction of the exercise ball, my blood pressure shot up.  Neither Fitz-Hume nor Millbarge appeared to be in distress as long as my uterus continued to loll about pretending to be on a lovely tropical vacation, so we still had time but had run out of options. 

The going theory was that my uterus was just overstretched and either unable or unwilling to bring its A game to the table.  I had heard of this, mostly in connection with complications following delivery.  I didn't like it.  When the doctor left the room, I grabbed Sam by the collar and whispered "Sometimes women bleed a lot after.  If they have to do a hysterectomy to stop the bleeding, you tell them it's okay.  I won't be mad if you tell them it's okay."

And then I burst into tears.

I no longer had any fantasies about an empowering or granola-tastic birth at this point, but I had wanted to give Fitz-Hume and Millbarge a good squeeze on the way out, just to give their lungs one last boost and ensure that I was in the best possible shape to assist in their care post-partum.  It became very apparent that this was not going to happen.

Scenarios and risks were discussed, consent forms carefully gone over and signed, and I was gently (both physically and mentally) prepared for a c-section.  I have to admit, I always imagined the process to be much colder and more clinical, but everyone who came to see me was very considerate of my feelings, caring and upbeat.  I didn't feel rushed or pressured, instead I felt welcomed into competent and reassuring hands.

Even so, I felt very discouraged.  It had taken science to get me pregnant, science to keep me pregnant, and now it would take another enormous helping of science to get me un-pregnant.  I felt like an observer of this pregnancy, rather than a participant.  All I could think about was how I had repeatedly failed, how my body had to be bludgeoned into doing what everybody else's body seemed to do with ease, how incredibly unwomanly I felt. 

I did not feel great.

When they led me into the operating room, one of the Bee Gees was cheerfully squeaking out "More than a woman to meeee..." on the radio, which seemed both spot on and miles from the reality of how I felt.

The anesthesiologist and surrounding nurses began to go over how things were going to occur, what I would feel and hear, where everyone would be, and offered to answer any last minute questions I might have.  I didn't have any, having frozen in place both emotionally and physically.  One of the nurses who helped me onto the table said "It's okay to be scared, hon, but we're going to take good care of you.  We do this all the time."  I nodded.  "I know."  My legs were buckled in, my arms were strapped down and the epidural was converted from 'walking' to 'not so much'.  I was disturbed at the amount of pressure I could still feel.  I could also wiggle my toes for quite a while and kept doing that as vigorously as possible for as long as I could, just to helpfully point out that perhaps they should not start with the cutting just yet. 

I began to shake uncontrollably.  The anesthesiologist assured me that this was a normal reaction to the epidural.  I pictured the doctors trying to cut a vibrating target and tried really really hard to stop shaking.  For the record, this does not actually work.

Sam was brought in, looking quite dashing in a papery yellow gown and all the snazzy accessories.  The leader of our multiple pregnancy classes (also known as The OMGTwins! classes) had warned us that everybody tends to look the same in a paper mask, so I had bummed a thick black marker from a nurse while being shaved in my room and hastily scribbled Sam's most identifying facial features onto his mask to make him easier to locate, just in case.

I felt wretched.  My mouth was still dry from the mag, I couldn't stop shaking for love or money, and although I could see Sam out of the corner of my eye and hear the voice of the anesthesiologist (who helpfully doubled as an announcer throughout the procedure) just past my eyebrows, most of my field of vision was dominated by a big blue drape and most of what came out of my mouth was hoarse, incoherent, and largely unintelligible.

At one point I decided to display my iron resolve and plucky can-do attitude by humming a cheerful tune while being sliced and diced.  When I reminded Sam of that later, he said "Oh, is that what you were doing?  It just sounded like moaning to everyone else."

Millbarge came out first.  "It's a girl!"  She cried loudly enough that we could track her progress across the room while Sam and I stared at eachother and said profound things like "Holy crap," and "It's a baby,"  She was briefly mobbed by a pediatrician, a nurse and a respiratory therapist, then washed, waxed, fluffed, detailed and handed to Sam, who held her in my field of vision. 

I was skeptical.  "She's really pretty," I mumbled.  "I thought babies were supposed to be ugly.  Do you think she's ours?"  Sam said she probably was in spite of the prettiness, and in any event, we were keeping her.  I promised not to tell anybody that he cried like a big titty baby.

In the meantime, Fitz-Hume had been scooped out and whisked away.  "It's another girl!"  She did not cry, which alarmed me.  She was also mobbed, tidied up and handed to Sam.  He showed her to me, and I tenderly whispered "Please move her.  I am going to throw up."  It was a magical moment.

The anesthesiologist graciously held a little pink bowl for me to dry heave into and offered me a Whitman's Sampler of anti-emetics.  I felt like I was choking and kept thinking that I had to try harder to breathe so that Fitz-Hume and Millbarge would get enough oxygen.  It hadn't quite occurred to me that they were no longer plugged into the main generator, so to speak.

Fitz-Hume was quite a bit smaller and less robust than Millbarge, so she was taken on a detour to the nursery after her brief showing.

"We're going to give you something to help your uterus contract," the anesthesiologist said, and did so.  There were two injections into my shoulder.  I wasn't sure what they were, but the anesthesiologist sounded very calm and pleasant, so I wasn't too worried.  There seemed to be an awful lot of yanking and shoving going on below decks, but nobody was yelling or flinging instruments or dashing around like they do on television, so I continued to hum.  I think I slept.

Sam later told me that two surgeons appeared to be vigorously bouncing up and down on my uterus, as if they were enthusiastically giving my crotch some mutant form of CPR.  One of the nurses eventually told me that they'd done all sorts of massage and squeezing to try to force my uterus to contract after delivery, but my body wasn't having any of it, thank you very much.  In the end, they ended up putting a stitch around my uterus to stop the bleeding.  I had never heard of this, but naturally Dr. Google had.  Consider yourself warned: If you are squeamish or are overly fond of (or currently eating) cured ham, you may not want to click on the explanation of the uterine stitch.  Following the stitch, they 'administered something internally' for good measure.  Ever the delicate flower, when I was informed of this 'something internally' business in recovery, I immediately said "Like what, up my ass?"  After the repeated cervix checks and the urinary catheter, the Pestering My Unmentionables Trifecta was now complete.

Fitz-Hume was still in the nursery and doing well, although she was even smaller than the earlier ultrasound had indicated, the one that told the doctors to urgently pull the ripcord on this pregnancy.  She was about the size that a thirty two week old fetus should be and was all dark eyes and wrinkles when Sam went to check on her.

Millbarge was stable enough to stay with me.  She latched onto a breast larger than her own head for the first and last time in recovery and then stared at me for a very long time.  "I remember you," I whispered. "I think I saw you before, and I remember you.  Do you remember me?"

I thought that she might.

Comments

[Shelley]

I didn't go through the half of what you went through, but some things sound familiar. The feeling of unreality, punctuated by heaving pukes -- yes, I remember this. No one tells you about the hworfing. No one.

So glad they're here, and that you're hanging in there with us.

[Curlylockz]

Beautiful. And I cried like a big titty baby, too.

Sending much congratulations and many, many wishes of good things for you and your family,

[Slim]

I'll bet she did. And if not, you have a whole lot of time to get reacquainted (Millie, it's easier to remember things if you're rested, so get some sleep).

I am sniffling, too. Allergies! I'm sure it's allergies!

[Reese]

You are, after all, unforgettable. I love that last paragraph. Hope you are all doing a bit better this week. Praying for/thinking of you.

[jenn]

Beautiful. That post-recovery baby bonding is magical, isn't it? So much wisdom in those tiny, serious eyes.

Congratulations, again. (I know I've said this several times, but in your case I think it warrants repeating.) You're a rock star.

Thank you for sharing this with us. :)

[Nessa]

So glad the girls and you are ok. And I don't think I will ever look at ham again the same way. Ever. But you did warn. Can't wait to hear more about how you and the girls (and Sam too) are doing!

[AJ]

HEy , it DOES make a uterus look like a cured ham! COOL!
Thank You for sharing your life with us, I know many here are like me in that we sit in wait,for your next writing.

ONE THING IS MISSNG - well TWO.
NAMES!!!

WE ALL KNOW YOU DID NOT NAME THOSE TWO SWEET GIRLS Fitz-Hume and Millbarge!!!!

C'mon Lady , WHATS THE REAL NAMES!!!!?????

[Melollie]

I'm so glad that Cirque du Maternite had such a happy ending. Admit it, there were people on the trapeze, weren't there?

[swissmiss]

"Even so, I felt very discouraged. It had taken science to get me pregnant, science to keep me pregnant, and now it would take another enormous helping of science to get me un-pregnant. I felt like an observer of this pregnancy, rather than a participant. All I could think about was how I had repeatedly failed, how my body had to be bludgeoned into doing what everybody else's body seemed to do with ease, how incredibly unwomanly I felt."

Science kept you pregnant because YOU demanded it. You blew off or did an end-run around Nurse Gatekeeper, went toe-to-toe with Evil Insurance Co, demanded being seen by Fancy Perinatologist Place, told anybody who stood in your way to kiss off and were an amazing advocate for your babies. YOU kept yourself pregnant. You are a serious fucking mama bear and those girls are lucky to have you. You are a woman and a half.

[Rachel Inbar]

So sorry you had to go through a whole labor AND a c-section... But you did it :-) You should be so proud of yourself!

[Sandy]

One of the greatest birth story that I've ever read.

You're pretty incredible.

[wavybrains]

You didn't fail! You produced two healthy girls! I agree w/ swissmiss--you are woman and a half.

Any chance you might do 24 hour only pic & first name post 4 the faithful?

[kris]

I'm not crying. There's dust. Large amounts of dust in my eyes.

[erinberry]

I love the part in your story about the humming/moaning :)

[pixi]

Yours is not the story of an inferior conception/gestation/birth. Yours is the story of a woman who did everything she could to bring her children into the world. It's amazing and beautiful.

[Libby]

What Swissmiss said.

You are Mama Extraordinaire, truly.

[Alex]

Yes, what Smissmiss said. Truly, I did not go through half of what you did (hell, I just had 4 boring IVFs with no OHSS -- quite the opposite -- a little hypothyroidism, some GD, and, yes, the 36 hours of labor followed by a c-section (not a combination to recommend, for sure), and I did get the urinary catheter, but no mag for me and no hurling), and when I bumped into a friend-of-a-friend this morning and we swapped the "I have a one year old son" "I have a two year old daughter" bits, I thought to myself (entirely incorrectly, of course), "I bet you didn't go through half of what I did to get yours." And truthfully? That thought, unbecoming though it was, wasn't self-pity, it was pride. And really, I know better -- who am I to bemoan this other person her presumed easy route to motherhood -- one I don't even know that she had? But there it was, all the same...pride that in spite of all the difficulties my body caused me I had nonetheless made it to motherhood.

I hope you will someday feel the same way about your journey.

As for the 36 hours of labor followed by a c, yeah, it sucked. Sorry you had to go through that. I too got to 5 centimeters and quit, though I'm assured that doesn't happen. I cannot imagine dealing with that combination after months of bedrest and with the additional layers of unpleasantness you had to deal with -- and then needing to mother twins once it was over. You are a strong, brave woman and will be a wonderful mother to your daughters.

[ll]

crying from laughter... "up my ass"

great birth story... meaning great telling of birth story...

[May]

I'm with Swissmiss, too. And I LOVED the ham link. Yummy pork products.

Congratulations again, my dear. You're spectacular.

[Kath]

Dear Akeeyu, what a story. I think my blood pressure went up sympathetically just reading it...

And that ham analogy was spot on. Nice one.

You did good, kid. You fought hard and long, against formidable foes, and you won. You did it! I am so very happy for you.

[Astrid]

Akeeyu, you rock! There is no other way to describe it, you are amazing!

[andrea]

That last bit? Way to bring tears to our eyes.
Also, what swissmiss and pixi said.
This is such a wonderful birth story. You're an amazing woman to get through it all. I hope the girls are sleeping better for you. These early weeks really kick your arse, especially when recovering from a c-section (my twin girls via c-section are nine months now), but it does get better as time goes on. I'm looking forward to reading about F-H and M's journey out in the world with you.

[thalia]

yes, I'm with swissmiss, and everyone else. You got your body through an extraordinarily difficult conception and pregnancy. Science is involved at some level in all pregnancies, and science helped you just the right amount. Thank heavens.

[barefootsuzie]

Congratulations! ... on meeting your two beautiful daughters and on being such a strong woman. I loved your story so much I had to read it to my husband.

[Jenn]

"You are a serious fucking mama bear"

I couldn't have said it better.

[Rhonda]

*sniffles until the last part and then bursts into sentimental sobs*

Great birth story.

[Amanda]

I was chuckling along until that last bit, and now I've got big fat tears rolling down my cheeks.

It was lovely. Just lovely.

I'm thrilled for you.

[cat, galloping]

It may not have been what you'd hoped for, but it's still a beautiful story.

[Flicka]

I'm a mess now, having alternately laughed and cried my way through this post. How terrible and beautiful and heart-wrenching and wonderful. What a story, Akeeyu. I'm in awe.

[Melissa in TN]

The anesthesiologist was "the announcer" when my daughter was born, too. That C-section is the strangest feeling...finally, after all these months, you are about to meet your baby (or babies), you can't move because you are strapped down, you can't get the oxygen mask off and you are about to hurl.

Congratulations. I am so happy for you and your wonderful family.

[Lori]

What a post.

Thank you for sharing this. I live vicariously through posts like this.

Congratulations. I hope your family lives a charmed life from here on out.

[silene]

Thank you for sharing this - those girls could not have a better mother. Someday they will know how hard you fought for them, from the very beginning.

[Geohde]

Holy heck- glad it ended in the bestest way but it sounds like quite a ride for all concerned,

J

[Patty]

Ditto swissmiss!

That was a beautiful story. My c-section-for-twins birth felt hugely surreal. It brought back a lot of memories.

[Sheila]

Let the record show that you never do ANYTHING the easy way. I'm so glad you finally have the happy ending of two sweet and healthy girls, after all you and Sam have been through. The details of your pre-eclampsia and C-section reminded me of quite a few things I had sort-of-forgotten from when our trio were born. Not fun times at all.
I promise, it does get much better from this stage onward. Many happy family adventures lie ahead!
In the meantime, I wish all 4 of you some good sleep, some good meals and lots of hugs and cuddles.

[Hetty_Fauxvert]

I shook all the way through my C also. Glad to know I am in such excellent company! (For the record, my shakes quit instantly the moment one of my tiny sons was laid on my chest.) I am so, so happy for you all. Those girls are in good hands with you and Sam (even though I'm sure you're so tired you can hardly see straight at the moment). Gotta warn you that it takes some time to bounce back from a C after prolonged bed rest. I really didn't feel good for a couple of months, to be honest. Hope you beat me there! But just remember that it's normal to feel tired, wired and crappy right now. Sucky, but normal.

[Angela]

Ahh, I must say, gorgeous. Congratulations again.

[Katrina]

Wow! Yet another big titty baby here, bawling away. So glad you are all ok.

[jeanie]

Again, again, again - you are a marvellous storyteller of the black humour, my dear. No, you are the MOST marvellous teller of your yarn. Honestly, I am so so so happy that my (and yours and all of ours) dreams came true and you have two delightful living dolls in your family.

[stephanie]

You did a helluva job, Akeeyu. Congratulations.

[suzanne]

do me a favor: in eighteen years, when you have raised two strong, intelligent, confident, compassionate, integrous, beautiful daughters.....then you can tell me how unwomanly you feel. because, from where i'm sitting, you've done the most womanly thing i can imagine: FIGHT TOOTH AND NAIL FOR YOUR FAMILY.

your daughters are blessed to have you as a mother.

[Cecily]

If it's any comfort to you at all, I'm just a teeny bit jealous of your c-section experience, as I was totally out during mine; I didn't get to see Tori until eight hours later. :(

But it still sucks all around to have the whole thing, start to finish, be as completely unnatural as a, oh, I don't know, a test tube baby?

Sigh.

The cool thing, though, is that as time goes on, and as your kids are climbing the slide at the playground and ignoring your shrieks of "be careful!" it all fucking fades. It really, really does. :)

[Nic]

Crying and laughing at the same time, nicely done. Thanks for sharing your story, we were all eager for it. :)

[New Orleans Lady]

I'm a total stalker of your blog and have never posted before. I just wanted to state out loud that the names and photos of your babies are your business. I respect your privacy. You have been private since day one, and people should realize that and understand it. You are a super star and I LOVE seeing new posts from you!

[Heather Ann]

I thought it was a great birth story. You lived. The babies lived. Your uterus stayed in your body. Finally, what you have waited so long for. I think you need to see your birth experience and your pregnancy and what you went through to get pregnant as one monumental journey with enormous and what looked like insurmountable obstacles - a journey that you completed with dignity and strength. You are woman - hear you roar.

[Sheryl]

Awesome birth story... I love the ending the best!

[Julie C.]

That is one of the best birth stories I've ever read. Congratulations again, mostly on the twins, but also on the Trifecta!

[Tam]

I've gone all weepy. Once again, beautifully written...

If it makes you feel any better, I found that the disappointment and shock of the birth has faded with time. You spend nine months (more or less) thinking about birth as this grand culmination, but then, as you recover physically and find that you have a BABY (or two, in your case!) to care for, it really does diminish in importance - it was just the beginning. It's still upsetting if I think about what happened, but it seems less and less important all the time when I have a small boy who gurgles and beams constantly and is currently trying to roll under the coffee table and eat all the lint there...

In seven or eight months' time, when the stitches are healed, and Mil and Fitz are on the move and chewing on everything in sight and driving you delightfully bonkers, you'll know that you're a real mother irrespective of how they got here.

Size aside, I'd love to hear how they look? Hair? No hair? What colour? Eyelashes?

[Jennifer]

Unwomanly? Just because you needed a little help? For God's sake, woman, you just made four ears inside your own body. Not to mention how many other countless baby parts. You are a goddess. Ask some man to accomplish what you just did.
Besides, do you have two babies? Are you taking care of them? Then you are their mother. Doesn't matter how you got there (for all my sisters that adopted their children).

[Jolene]

I must say that I was all weepy like a big mushy titty baby myself, and then I clicked in IT. And I must say that my poor pregnant self nearly fainted/puked from the "ham" picture. HOLY HELL woman! Do the stitches dissolve or does the uterus get to keep the quilted look? By the way I hope that once the hormone dumping stops and you get back to your "normal" physical self that you realize just how un-fucking-believable you truly are. You sacrificed everything, health, privacy, emotions, and even your ass to make sure those 2 little girls made it into the world as healthy as possible. You stayed pregnant by sheer will (nay stubborness) and you are as was said earlier on hell of a Mama Bear. Your kids(all 3), husband, and us internets are lucky to know you.