Flora, six months ago: Well, it doesn’t really matter if the baby’s a boy, because Valerie will probably have a girl, and we can trade her.
Flora, today, to Ender: I have some good news, Ender. We’re going to keep you, even though you’re a boy, because you’re just so cute!
We celebrated Ender’s arrival by coming down with H1N1 (we think). Do you remember that? The pandemic that wasn’t? Austen wasn’t quite himself by the time Dziadzia came to stay with him and Flora and Sean and I left for the hospital; by the time Sean went to see the children that night, they were both wheezing, coughing and sniffling. In the night, Austen struggled for breath in Babi’s arms. By the time Ender was ready to come home, both Austen and Flora were too sick to come home. They spent two days sick at Babi and Dziadzia’s—until they infected Babi and Dziadzia and made them too sick to take care of the kids. By then, Sean was was wheezing too, so we brought the kids home—under orders to frequently wash their hands and not breathe on Ender. (We somehow managed to infect Adam and Aga too.) (Babi & Dziadzia = the grandparents; parents of Jane. Now you know.)
It sounds awful: it was actually wonderful. They were wiped and tired. So for about two weeks, we all mostly sat in the big bed, watching movies, reading books, nursing Ender, and napping together. It was a wonderful bonding experience, and a nice, gentle introduction into being a family of five. Neighbours and friends brought us dinners—as did Babi when she recovered. I’ve always hated the rush of people wanting to come see the new baby, wanting to hold the new baby, and my dream post-partum month would see me in bed with the baby, skin-on-skin, sleeping and feeding, and not doing much more than that. And that’s what we got—we put the house under quarantine, declined visitors, and enjoyed a real babymoon. All thanks to the swine flu. Thanks, pigs!
Our Doberman Anya added some unexpected drama to those first weeks, by, for the first time in her 11 year life, running away. The front door was left open… and she—nose put out of joint by the new baby? Or for some other, secret dog reason—wandered outside, down the alley, and onto the hill. She meandered up and down. By the time we realized she was gone and scrambled forces to look for her—the entire family and half the co-op combed the hill and the neighbourhood shouting for Anya—some kind people had taken her home for the night. We got her back the next day, none the worse for her adventure—perhaps even slightly better off, for her rescuers had given her wet dog food and a rawhide chew bone.
Austen to Ender: “Are you ready for the morning nippling process? You should have seen the yummy breakfast mama had—the milk will be extra delicious!”
This is the long version of Ender’s arrival, the last 12 or so hours, written for and published in Birthing magazine.
As dawn breaks over Calgary’s first winter snowstorm in October 2009, I’m 14 days post-estimated-due-date and on the parking lot usually known as Crowchild Trail, en route to the Rockyview Hospital for an induction.
“It’s a good thing you’re not really in labour,” Sean, my partner, says. “Or else we really would be having this baby in the van.”
Ha ha ha. I try not to get angry at my uterus, cervix, DNA code—whichever part of me it is that is not working the way I think it ought to. I try to be philosophical. They come as they must, and all that matters is that they come, healthy, safe. I almost believe it.
By 9 a.m., I’m in a snazzy butt-less hospital gown. I keep my Wicked Witch of the East socks on; they make me happy. The IV’s on—five weeks of prodromal labour and two cervical rimmings haven’t dilated the cervix enough to break my water, so the Oxytocin is flowing.
And nothing is happening. Nurse Kim, with whom I immediately fall in love, jacks up the dose every 30 minutes. By 11 a.m., there are contractions—sort of. I have a nap.
Noon comes. Then 1 p.m. … and exciting news: not quite 3 cm, but dilated enough for the doctor to break my water. Gush. Beautiful, clear liquid flows out of me and I relax, completely, and collapse on the bed. I had no idea how terrified I was I’d see meconium until that moment. It’s all good. Everything will be fine. The fetal monitor stops bugging me; I don’t feel the IV.
Nurse Kim turns down the flow on it a bit because, she says, it’s quite high, and now that my water’s broken, things could really pick up.
Except they don’t. The contractions just about disappear. We crank it up again. And again.
In the end, it’s Robin Williams who does it. In the hospital birthing room, we find a VHS of Birdcage and while we watch it, I laugh so hard I pee myself—well, it might just be more amniotic fluid leaking out. And the contractions build. And build. Soon I have to really breathe. Then close my eyes and breathe. Yes!
“How are things?” Nurse Kim asks at 4 p.m. “Good!” I announce. “That last one really, really hurt.” “That’s not the response I usually get,” she laughs. “But good to hear.”
So here’s my un-plan plan. Oxytocin-induced contractions, I amply remember from my induced miracle one, are not like natural contractions. The best way I can think of to describe the difference is that, if you think of contractions in terms of waves with peaks, induced contractions tend to have multiple “heads”—and you don’t come down off them as fully as you do off the “natural” thing. So a “natural” birth on Oxytocin—in other words, a non-medicated birth—I just don’t think I can do it. Not for three days (length of active labour with miracle one), not for two days (miracle two), and not for 24 hours. I’m going to stay epidural-free for as long as I can—7 p.m. is the mental goal line—and then, I’ll ask for the meds.
The contractions are building. After five weeks of prodromal labour, characterized by contractions that went nowhere, I’m thrilled. 5 p.m. comes. 6 p.m. The doctor checks the dilation.
“I’ll call it 4,” she says.
“What?” one bloody centimeter in the last five hours? One lousy centimeter? Gah! A contraction takes my mind off the outrage. The doctor asks me, between contractions, if I’d mind if a resident came in to observe the birth. I nod. Whatever. What birth? This baby is never coming!
I focus on my body, on my belly, on the little person inside. I feel his heartbeat. He’s working hard too. We’ll do this. However long it takes.
Nurse Kim’s shift ends at 7 p.m. She’s reluctant to go: “I want to be here for the arrival!” she says. We check the dilation again. “Should I say five to make you feel better?” says Kim.
I’m pretty sure I use some bad words. “No,” I say. “Fine. That’s fine.” But it’s not and I give up. I’ll take an epidural the next time an anesthetist’s around, I say.
Nurse Kim hands me off to Nurse Sue. She has warm hands. She says the anaesthetist is on the ward, could be here in a few minutes. “Should we get the bed ready?” I’ve been on it in a squatting position, holding onto bars. The bars have to come down, the bed to go up… I have to sit on the side, she explains, slumped over a pillow… her voice fades in and out.
I look at the clock. It’s 7:20. I’m not even five centimetres. And tired. And having another ridiculously medicated birth that will go on forever…
“OK,” I say. “But I have to go to the bathroom first.” The room seems very, very full and very loud.
I void everything, and think about puking, decide not to. Sean pokes his head in. “Everything ok?” I nod. “Ready to come out?” Not really. I don’t really want the spinal. I don’t want to have to be told when to push. I don’t want to not feel my legs. … I don’t really want to be in the room full of people again.
Sean pokes his head in again. Worried. He shepherds me and my IV back to the bed. Nurse Sue helps get me into the “position”—which I promptly get out of, as a the mother of all contractions rocks my world. I scream.
Baby number three, and this is my first birthing scream. It feels so good. And it hurts. Oh, it hurts. 30 seconds, 60 seconds, 90 seconds. I scream again. I have become, in the last five or so hours, an expert in time keeping. This is 30 seconds and this is 60. This is the pause – 30 seconds, sometimes 45, occasionally a long, blissful 60. And here we go again, 30 seconds… no, here’s the mother of all contractions again and I only had five seconds of down time. What is this? 30… 60… 90… 120…
“Why won’t this contraction end!” I scream. There is nothing left on the bed to hold on to. My legs are wrapped around Sean, my back is arched against my mother, and I’m screaming with my whole self, except for one teeny tiny part of me which is thinking that I should remember this post-partum, should miracle number three be a colicky or fussy baby: when you’re in certain types of pain, all you can do is scream.
“Jane, is the baby coming?” Nurse Sue cries out.
It seems to me an incredibly stupid thing to say.
“How should I know?” I snap. I disengage one leg from around Sean’s waist and stick it up into the air.
“Um… I think that’s the head,” Sean says weakly.
Honestly, I don’t connect the dots. I’m still doing math. 150, 180… I am so overdue for a break… 210…
“Push the red button,” Nurse Sue tells Sean. There’s a scramble. “What button?” “There.” “This one?” Sean yanks it out of the wall. There’s noise of feet, and the full room feels fuller. (Later, I find out pushing the button summons the doctor. Yanking it out of the wall screams emergency and sends all available staff running.)
I scream again.
“Don’t scream—push!” someone hollers. My mother, whose arm I’m in the process of breaking, snaps back, “It’s her labour and she can scream if she wants to!” She’s up in arms. It’s sweet. But I think… pushing’s a good idea. Yeah, I should do that. Definitely a good idea.
I push. Once.
And he arrives. Just like that, me on my side, one leg wrapped around Sean, one leg up in air, he slides into Nurse Sue’s arms.
“And he’s here. Your baby’s here,” she says, and I collapse, the pain is gone—the memory of it is gone. He’s here, he’s here.
Nurse Sue puts him on my chest and he’s purple and slimy and the most shockingly beautiful thing in the world. I look at him and he looks at me, and we drink each other, and at some point the doctor runs in and there’s a technical discussion going on at the foot of the bed about time of birth (“7:39 p.m.”), when I started to push (“Well, I’d say… 7:38 p.m.”), and all those fascinating details needed for the paperwork (incidentally, the doctor—and not Nurse Sue—got credit for the delivery, but now you know how it really was). I hear it through a filter whose name is Ender.
Our miracles come into our lives any way they need to come. My little miracle wriggles on my chest. He is healthy and perfect in everyway. He starts rooting for the nipple. The arrival is over; the real adventure begins.
…of Ender’s (otherwise atrociously long) arrival
Me: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Why … Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! won’t Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! this Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! contraction Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! end? HELP ME!
Nurse Sue: Jane, is the baby coming?
Me: How… Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! the fuck Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! should I know?
Sean: That’s the head!
Nurse Sue: Push the red button?
Sean: What red button?
Me: Aaaaaaah!
Someone else (who ran into the room post-red button pushing): Stop screaming and use that energy to push that baby out!
My mom to the above: Shut up! She’s doing great!
Me: aaah… mmmmmmmm
Sean: Oh my god he’s out.
Me: [collapse and utter joy, incoherent babbling]
Doctor (entering room): What’s… oh my god, there’s the baby. When did she start pushing?
Nurse Sue: Well, the baby was born at 7:38, so I’d say 7:37.
39 weeks and six days of gestation—our third baby is almost here—and I’m on my hands and knees in the bathroom at 2 a.m., retching. The nausea comes on suddenly in the night, apparently unprompted by anything other than my body deciding to experience a few more pregnancy symptoms before it’s all over. It hasn’t been the easiest of pregnancies this time around—if I’m brutally honest, there have been considerable stretches of it when my answer to the question, “How are you feeling?” was an unequivocal “Never felt worse in my life, dear god, how much more of this can I endure?”—but it’s been relatively nausea free. I’m making up for it this week.
Sean, once again, feels helpless and frustrated. “Is there anything you need, love?” he asks from the bedroom. Between retches, I vocalize “No.” “Do you think the baby’s sitting on your stomach again?” he asks, sleepy but concerned. That’s our theory behind my intermittent night puking of the last week. Or has it been two? In response, I retch again—shut the door and turn on the fan to drown the noise.
It’s tough on Sean. He’d like to push a button on me to “fix it”—a back rub, a foot massage, a magic drink? I think this is why tough pregnancies are so tough on male partners—and in many cases marriages. They can’t fix it, they don’t know what to do, and they go from feeling helpless to useless to … worse.
It’s tough on me, too, of course… but different. Isn’t it? This last stretch—so exhausting, so frustrating, so painful, and we haven’t even hit the “hard” part of active labour yet—is tough, tough, tough and turning me into a big fat whiner… who swears she will never, ever EVER yearn for a baby in tummy again, she’s done, go ahead and get that vasectomy tomorrow if you wish, sweetheart, because I am not going through this again for anything, not ever… but I know that when that baby pops out, amnesia will start to set in. Perhaps not right away—perhaps it will take a few weeks or few months—but that “never, ever, oh god, how is it that I’ve been able to endure this?” feeling will give way first, to wonder and gratitude at the little miracle in my arms, then conviction that this of-me-now-out-of-me creature at my breast is worth EVERYTHING and ANYTHING, and finally, possibly, as he grows bigger and bigger and bigger, the longing to experience the miracle again, accompanied by complete denial of how difficult the last pregnancy was.
I finish retching, clean up, ponder the odds of being able to keep down whatever remains in my stomach if I lie flat, and go peek at my two out-of-me babies. One seven years and four months old today, the other four years and nine months. Almost seven and a half and five—I can’t believe it. My Flora sleeps on her side, both her hands tucked under her cheek, her mouth slightly open. Cinder’s upside down, legs on his pillow, head beside our—his—beloved puppy, 10-year-old Anya. He’s all legs and arms. He’s huge. He fills up the whole bed. My baby, who not that long ago—those seven years passed in a flash—swam within my womb. My first miracle.
As he falls asleep at night, I still whisper in his ear, “You are my first miracle. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me—you’ve changed my life.” (When Sean comes into the bedroom at those moments, the loveliest, most love-filled thing I can say to him is, “Thank you for my babies.” Does he understand what I mean by that, how much I love him for being their daddy, for helping me make them? I don’t know. I don’t know if any man, or any non-mother, can.)
My second miracle stretches. At bedtime and bath time today, we were playing baby Flora. She was baby Flora, swimming in the uterus—in the tub—until “pop! Out I come like an asteroid! I’m born!” I was, alternately, mama and Cinder—“Can you play two characters in the game, Mama? Just tell me which one you are, ok? Are you Cinder now? Are you saving me from rolling off the couch like Cinder did the time I was just born?” She’s so excited about the imminent arrival of a baby sibling. “I’m going to be a big sister, just like Cinder is a big sister. I mean big brother. And Cinder will be a double big brother. And the three of us will be triplets!”
My triple miracle. The nausea recedes farther. The uterus contracts, not too intensely, but not what you’d call pleasantly. It practices for the main event. I take a deep breath and rub it. “Come out, come out,” I tell miracle three. “We’re all waiting for you. I’m not sure if you can conceive how much love is waiting out here for you. A mama, a daddy, a brother, a sister… so much love.”
One of my out-of-me double miracles lets out a meowling noise, tosses and turns. I tiptoe out of the room. Turn off the light. Must make myself sleep and rest despite the turmoil in my body: must be able to take care of all my miracles tomorrow. We have books to read, games to play, pets to take care of, food to make, walks to take, messes to create and perhaps even clean up… a baby to welcome.
The hormones surge, and a level of delirium sets in. I write for a while, until exhaustion defeats both the nausea and the contracting uterus. To sleep. I hear the breaths of my children, my husband. My dog (she’s the loudest). Miracle three kicks and stretches. To sleep. To dream. To live.
30 September 2009
3:15 a.m.
Nothing By The Book 