Chapter… whatever

So, pregnancy was as smooth as sandpaper with nails sticking through it and encrusted in broken glass. By some miracle my boss was very understanding of my little life-altering surprise and allowed me to take on the lower-stress position of Bill Collector/Bounty Hunter/Call People and Bitch at Them. We shortened the title to Collections though honestly I prefer Goddess of Company Wealth.

Though the position was far different from any other I’d ever held, I actually wasn’t bad at it. The company was small but growing, and the Collections area needed a creative makeover. It was actually quite fun figuring out where all the problems were and finding creative solutions for them. I think I even surprised myself with some of the major changes I made in inter-company communications (I knew that degree would come in useful some day).

As my belly grew, so did my job responsibilities and, oh yeah, my blood pressure. High blood pressure is a bad thing when one is not pregnant. When pregnant, it’s like an evil mother-in-law taking up residence in the room right next to the master suite… on the headboard side of the wall. Though I did my best to take it easy, the numbers on my home blood pressure monitor climbed steadily. By 20 weeks my doctor wanted me to stop working. Of course I stopped working immediately. Immediately after the tenth of the next month. First he throws Prunes at me and then he acts like paychecks grow on trees. What was up with this doctor?

At 28 weeks of pregnancy I made the mistake of going in for a routine fetal non-stress test. The “bun” proved to be doing just fine, but the “oven” was getting a little too hot. The staff would not even let me go out to the parking lot to grab a pre-packed suitcase from the trunk of my car. I was given one of those lovely fanny emphasizing robes that ties in the back, and being 28 weeks pregnant I had to have help with those poorly-placed low-tech fastening devices.

Taking up temporary residence in the hospital was an experience. There’s nothing like sleeping on a plastic-covered mattress loosely covered with one thin sheet in the one ward of the hospital that is kept extra warm. Finding a comfortable position while pregnant is hard enough without attempting to stuff a plastic pillow between your knees for hip support. I was given the option of laying on my left side or getting repeatedly reprimanded for shifting to my right side when my left side became sore. By day two my old back injury was acting up, and by day four I called one of my best friends who happens to be a Chiropractor to come “visit” me. I felt so much better by the time she left that my blood pressure went down to 150 over 98 for an hour or two.

By Sunday, August 6^th my blood pressure was back up just a bit. My doctor seemed to think 168 over 112 was a bad thing. He asked me to call my husband and to be ready to go into surgery in the next hour. (And he thought my blood pressure was high before?)

I grabbed my cell phone and called my hubby’s number. No answer. I called his other phone. No answer. I called the first number again and almost started to freak. As I was about to try the number again I received a text message that simply said, “HOLD ON!” I was about to get wheeled in to have a baby, and he put me on HOLD behind an “important” phone call!

I did the only thing a woman who’s not allowed to get out of bed could do. I called some friends and told them to go kick my hubby’s ass. Well, I did mention I was about to have the baby, and they said they would drive right over to our house and get him if necessary. Luckily when they called his phone, he saw it wasn’t me and answered. Needless to say I got some good apologies after that cute stunt.

Though I’d had two needles in the spine before for my other two c-sections, the third time was not the charm. Though the area was supposedly numbed with Novocain, I could still feel it just fine. I love it when they say “you’re going to feel a little pressure…” Pressure my butt! That HURT! On top of that I could feel the needle going to the left of the centered target. By the time I was on the operating table I was numb from the torso down, but my blood pressure was higher than ever. In fact after the whole ordeal was done, Dr. Prune confided that he’d never seen blood pressure that high in someone with an epidural. He was actually worried I’d arrest during the surgery. I love hearing delightful tidbits like that.

I’d love to tell you every detail about the surgical experience that day, but I had been put on a Magnesium drip to prevent seizures. For those of you lucky enough to never have experienced high volumes of Magnesium infusing the bloodstream, it’s a unique experience that is somewhat comparable to being seasick while on a bad acid trip. I’ve never tried acid, but I’ve heard stories. I have now actually seen the walls breathe. I vaguely remember the anesthesiologist on my right saying “Put your arm down. Can you hear me? Please put your arm back down.” Huh? What arm? At the time I had no earthly idea what he was talking about, but I am guessing that one of the side effects of Magnesium is arm levitation.

The only clear memory I have is seeing my beautiful 2 lb. 7 oz. daughter being wheeled out in a small, plastic cart. She was pink and breathing on her own. She was absolutely beautiful. And that’s when the anesthesiologist gave me the good stuff.

I woke up (somewhat) in the recovery room. Generally at this point new mothers are wheeled to the Post-Partum ward, but they were too afraid to move me very far. In fact I was put in the room directly across the hall from the recovery room. I remember very little about the next two days. I know I was longing to see my tiny daughter, but neither she nor I could be moved. When my blood pressure was finally a little lower and the walls had stopped breathing, I was wheeled in a stretcher to the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit). Though Danika was tiny, she was doing better than we had dared to hope. I was even allowed to hold her for a minute before being taken to my new room in the Post-Partum ward.

Just as my blood pressure was coming under control, a doctor from the NICU came to my room and excitedly announced to me that she thought my daughter had Down Syndrome. Thanks lady! That was just the medication I needed to insure a swift and stress-free recovery from the wild ride from which I’d just disembarked.

Prune

At the time I found out I was pregnant for the third time, I didn't consider myself "old." According to the date on my birth certificate, I wasn’t as "young" as I once was, but at 2 weeks away from my 37th birthday, I didn't feel a day older than 21… and a half. I certainly didn't put a great deal of thought into my age, especially because I preferred to behave like you're average twenty-something.

When I went to my doctor for my first pre-natal visit, I was given a sizable goody-bag of magazines, pamphlets and coupons. Though I was eager to look through my bag, I was short on extra time until a month or so later. I got it into my head after a long Saturday of doing laundry that reading a magazine would be fun and relaxing, so I went spelunking in my bag of wonders and noticed a high-quality, thick magazine under a pile of other "stuff." I eagerly pulled it from the bag and looked at the cover to see if this was "Parents Magazine" or some lovely catalog of baby items. It was rather a shock to read "Plum; The Complete Pregnancy Guide for Women 35+."

Honestly, my first fleeting thought was "This can't be for me!" Yet as I mentioned, the thought was fleeting when the reality of my age set in. Holy Cow! I'm over 35! Excuse me? Am I such an anomaly that an entire magazine is dedicated to the amazement that is my pregnancy? Apparently so!

I threw down the magazine in disgust... and later picked it back up and put it in my bag to take to work. Hmmm, it is true. I am pregnant and I am over 35. I suppose somehow I just hadn't thought of those two particular elements of my life, together.

As I started mulling over this newly discovered idea, a number of thoughts came to my mind. I started to wonder about the goody-bags kept at my doctor's office. I envisioned one nurse telling another in the back room "Oh, be sure to give the 4:15 one of the bags for 'older' mothers." I wondered if they had two separate piles of goody bags, or if they just alter a bag every now and then for an "old" gal like myself. Do they need a big pile of Plums rotting in the back room, or do they just go through a few each month.

And "Plum?" We might as well call it "Prune" for those of us bearing children in our crow's-feet years! Or how about "Geriatric Gestation" or "Diapers and Depends?" Perhaps "What Took You So Long" or “Afterthought" would be great name candidates too. How about "When Your Baby's in College, You'll Be... Dead?" I can see articles in such a magazine entitled "A Wal-Mart Greeter Can Pay College Tuition!" and "How to Deal With Women Half Your Age At PTA Meetings."

It's true. In Texas especially, many women become mothers at 19 or 20. I'll be 42 when my youngest goes to Kindergarten. Will I be constantly mistaken for my child's grandmother? Will teachers young enough to BE my child annoy me?

Honestly, I am still clueless to this day. It had barely sunk in that I was pregnant at all, let alone that my "advanced age" somehow put me at risk. How could I be 37 already, anyway? Wasn't I celebrating my 18th birthday just a few years ago? I look at women in their late 30's and early 40's and I don't think of myself as being like them. In fact I see a lot of women younger than myself that just seem somehow older than me. Perhaps it was the years I spent performing in "Peter Pan" with a local college theater group that somehow gave me a skewed sense of age.

Whatever the case may be, I'm still not ready to age gracefully. Heck - I plan to go into it kicking and screaming the whole way! And when my children finally do graduate and move out of the house, I'm going to get that sports car I've always wanted, a horse and a new bikini. I'm going to travel as much as my job's salary will allow, and I'm going to spend every cent of my children’s inheritance. When I’m 110, perhaps I’ll settle down and when my husband dies, I’ll find a nice young man and be his sugar-momma!

So was I special because I was pregnant and over 35? Next time I go to the doctor's office, I'm going to tell him where he can stick his "Plum!"

Glue And Not Staples

Finally I had reached the 38 week mark in my pregnancy, and the date for the planned cesarean section. I don’t think there has ever been another woman in the world more excited to get a large needle put into her spinal cord and be numbed from the chest down! I was given an epidural as my history with spinals was rather colorful. That epidural was some good stuff!

For the first time in 16 weeks I felt no contractions, no sciatica and no cramping pain in my lower regions. I was thrilled to be strapped down on the table and opened up like a deer after the hunt. I didn’t even notice the pressure as the doctor leaned his entire weight on my upper abdomen to dislodge the transverse tyke within. I did notice that he had dragged me a number of inches southward as he attempted to yank my little K.C. from her cozy nest, but I couldn’t have cared less.

When the doctor finally pulled her out (bringing to mind a veterinarian wrenching a stuck calf from its mother’s womb) he announced that I had given birth to about five gallons of water and a five pound eight ounce baby girl with a full head of hair. What a surprise it was that she had so much fur on her head… not. She was tiny, but seemed healthy. I was shown her beautiful right foot before she was whisked away for evaluation to the neonatal intensive care unit due to her small size. I would have been terribly put out about not getting to visit with more of her had I not fallen asleep.

That’s right, asleep. After weeks of attempting to slumber through regular visits from the contraction fairy and not succeeding very well, I passed out, far more comfortable than I had been in months. I could just hear through the veil of my sweet repose the entire operating room staff giggling about the new mommy who passed a baby and then passed out. What can I say? I was relaxed knowing every detail of the delivery had been worked out with the doctor prior to this big day.

One detail I was most careful to mention to the good doctor was that I needed to be fastened back together with sutures and not staples. I have a number of rather odd allergies, and one of them happens to be metal. Surgical steel was among the metals that would set off an ugly little reaction, and as it was not in the doctor’s general practice to use 14 karat gold staples, no staples could be used.

The doctor was very careful to follow each of my requests down to the last element. He sutured me up neatly and finished his work with Dermabond. Dermabond is special glue used with tape-like strips to hold an incision together. And that is how I learned of my allergy to Dermabond.

Within a day of the surgery, I was feeling super. I was up and about and enjoying my new baby girl. It was on one of my regular trips to the bathroom that I noticed my hospital-issue new-mommy undergarment seemed to be sticking to my incision site. I called the nurse to come take a peek so I could be reassured that all was well. The nurse took her peek and ran from the room screaming. Well, I suppose in truth she was yelling orders to have my doctor summoned immediately. Yikes! I don’t think I would have been more concerned had I sneezed, sending my uterus through my incision and flying across the room to end with a wet “smack” against the opposing wall.

My doctor was there within minutes. He took his peek and called his colleague in for a look too.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an allergic reaction quite that… “
“Yeah, that’s bad!” They said to each other in hushed tones.
“So, um, this looks pretty… ah… uncomfortable.” They finally addressed me. “We’re going to start you on some intravenous benadryl to try to… um… calm it down a bit. We’ll get an appointment set up for you with a specialist tomorrow to figure out where to go from there.”

Gee. This was fun! For the next two days I sat with no less than thirty-six thousand tiny blisters covering my incision site, exposed for the entire world to see. My visit to the Dermatologist had to wait until after the weekend when he was back in the office. That visit was even more fun!

One by one, each of the twenty-eight Dermabond strips had to be soaked in acid and slowly peeled off my giant, raging hive. It felt rather like the unhurried, methodical stinging of bees. I have learned from experience that one of the best ways to get through something yucky and painful is to make dumb jokes abut it. At least then someone is laughing and having fun. I kept my husband and the nurse giggling throughout the entire hour and a half long peeling process. I can’t for the life of me remember what on earth I found so funny at the time, but it made the experience less traumatic, somehow. I was able to get some loose-fitting pants on, and I was then released from the hospital.

We brought our beautiful little baby girl home and got all settled in. My husband and I were happy to be back in familiar surroundings and have our little one to ourselves. It would be nice to finally use my own shower and eat my own food. It was great to dress and undress in the master bedroom in front of the full-length mirror and… “Holy CRAP!” As I stood back up after removing my pants, the most horrible site caught my eye in the mirror. Where my thin, white, smiley-face c-section scar from Jacob’s birth had once been, I had a giant set of what appeared to be bright red, swollen clown lips laughing back at me.

My tears quickly summoned my husband who, upon running into the room fearful that I was somehow in danger, burst out laughing. His statement of “It looks like Angelina Jolie’s lips!” did nothing at all to make me feel better. I was certain I would face a life deformed in the most ridiculous manner. Divorce would never again be an option (not that the concept is such a bad thing) as I certainly could not disrobe in front of some poor, unsuspecting man I had only been dating for a short while. “Hey, baby! Check this out!” Eeeewwwwww!

Over the next year my grotesque abdominal lips faded into that same thin, white smiley face it had been before. Now it’s quietly smiling about the joke it once played on me, and serves as a reminder each time I chance to catch my naked reflection in my mirror. Now I wear the bigger smile on my face. I smile because I know how blessed I am to have been allowed to have two beautiful children in my life. Smile!

The Sleep-Deprived Ranting of a Pregnant Lady

The following night was to be the height of the full moon, and for those of you who are unaware, more babies are born on a full moon than any other time. No wonder they tend to howl when they come out. Anyway, this particular night I was about thirty-five weeks along and my very own little internal bundle of joy decided to make herself more comfortable. Until this time she had been mostly transverse breech (o><) or sideways inside of me. I swear to the heavens she was sticking straight out that night. Her head was apparently against my spine and her feet were trying to come out of my belly-button. My hubby said my belly looked like it had (pardon the expression) a hard-on. The word "uncomfortable" can't even begin to describe the sensation. Of course paired with my BHO (belly hard-on) I was having contractions every five minutes. It didn't matter what I did or how I sat or if I lay on my side. I even tried laying on my back - at very least my little one would have the sensation of being head-down for once.

Finally I gave up and went to bed at 8:00 PM. The contractions subsided just a bit. Just enough to let me fall asleep... then WAKE ME UP... then fall asleep... then WAKE ME UP... then fall asleep...

By 12:00 AM it was I who was ready to trot outside and howl at the almost completely full moon. I'm sure my neighbors would have LOVED awakening to some huge, naked pregnant lady standing on her back deck screaming out over the moon-lit lake, "JUST LET MY DAMN WATER BREAK, ALREADY!" Yup. They'd like that.

Every hour or so I got up, peed about a teaspoon's worth, tried to stretch my menstrual-cramp-achy lower back, popped my neck, attempted to get at least one of my hips back in alignment, crept back to bed (as well as a pregnant-huge lady with whacked-out hips can creep) and laid there praying for my water to break. Of course all this activity was quite exciting to my little tyke who thought it would be fun to show me how talented she will someday be in every possible form of Martial Arts.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhh!

And left with nothing to do but ponder, I recalled two incidents that happened just the day before at work. Early in the day a lady came in with her 3 or 4-year-old child. She was so excited I was pregnant and started asking me all sorts of questions. I finally confided that my first pregnancy had been soooo easy, and this one had been pretty difficult, but I was hanging in there. She nodded quite knowingly and stated that her second pregnancy was "pure hell" and "so incredibly hard, I'd never believe it!" Of course this begged my inquiry, which I offered on cue. "I was SOOOO tired the last two weeks - it was HORRIBLE!" She shared with me.

"Um, let me finish your paperwork so I don't hold you up." I replied.

Any other time I think I would have found a polite way of hinting to her that a problem like that would seem like a gnat on this elephant's toenail (after 18 weeks of bad 24x7 morning-sickness, sciatica and the diagnosis of an Irritable Uterus at 22 weeks… not only was it deformed, but it was pissed off too!) but I was too darn tired to even bother with her ignorance. I sure hope she never tells someone who REALLY had problems, like bed-rest, medications, pre-eclampsia, diabetes and a preemie baby to show for it, how hard her pregnancy was! Perhaps someone will slap her someday. One can only hope.

At the end of the day a well-meaning customer, who was aware to a limited extent of my difficulties, came into the business. "Don't worry. I just know you'll make it all the way to the end!"

"That is not what I want to hear! I do not want to go three more weeks like this. I don't think I can handle this for another HOUR! If you had scarab beetles with burning acid saliva eating you slowly and painfully from the inside out, would you want me to tell you "Don't worry - I think you'll live for another three weeks or so?" I don't think so!”
My outburst was met with a hardy guffaw by my co-worker and the bemusement of my poor customer.

After that I heard there was to be a full lunar eclipse of the full moon on the following night (May 15th, 2003). The moon, earth and sun would be in perfect alignment. I could just picture my husband and myself showing up at Labor and Delivery at 11:40 PM (the height of the eclipse in North America) along with dozens of other pregnant couples. I believe I would have raised the most eyebrows when they asked me "When did your contractions start?" and I replied "Thirteen weeks ago."

Arf, Arf Aaaaawwwwwwwwwoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
(And they'll wonder why my baby was born with so much hair!)

Nesting

Why is it that somewhere in the 8^th month of pregnancy, human mothers are over-taken by a sudden and irresistible urge to clean everything in their paths? This “nesting” is not to be confused with spring cleaning. The activities encompassed by “nesting” may include such things as sanitizing the insides of cabinets, using a toothbrush to clean the grout behind the toilet, vacuuming or otherwise airing the box-springs and mattresses on all the beds and using a vacuum attachment to suck the dirt from behind the baseboards, to mention a few. Creative women will find many other cleaning activities to keep themselves busy over this nesting period that would confound the most obsessive-compulsive cleaner.

I can remember squeezing (wedging) myself between the shower and toilet to remove the scum that had built up in the crevasse between the back of the toilet tank and the wall. If my unborn child thought the accommodations were tight already, he had another thing coming until that scum was gone! I have often wondered if this cleaning spree created or otherwise affected his ability at age eight to put his ankles behind his head – a talent he loves to show off at the most unusual of times. Thank goodness I have recently been able to curb his habit of inquiring of people at the grocery store, “you wanna see me lick my nipple?”

The nesting phase can also be blamed for some of the unusual creations that appeared about my house. Though generally I can not be classified as the “domestic” type, I was guilty of sewing a quilt for my first baby. Well, it’s supposed to be a quilt. I’ve never been one for tedious measurements, or sewing straight lines. I still have the thing, too. I take it out whenever I need a good laugh.

It was at that same time that I also scrubbed the horses’ barn from top to bottom. Perhaps this was some odd form of “Mary Complex” for those of us who are concerned we might have to lay our child in a manger around tax time. Though the horses were amicable to the changes, I doubt they noticed the lack of cob webs or dust and they efficiently had the barn back to its original working condition within days.

Of course by then I had moved on to my truck. I vacuumed under the seats and cleaned the jack and lug wrench, too. I thought about having the bed-liner removed so I could wash underneath it, but gave that idea up when I realized I’d have to store the liner in the dirty basement. And that got me started on the basement! I swept the cinderblock walls and cement floor before hosing the whole thing down with bleach and scrubbing the underside of the steps.

Having bred dogs for a number of years, I noticed this behavior is not limited to the human species. Nesting does, however, take on a slightly different form for dogs. My Boston Terrier, Maggie, used to find dirty socks and old newspaper to line her whelping box. In contrast, I was washing the new crib sheets on a bi-weekly basis starting two months prior to my son’s birth. Though Maggie would sit and stay, I never was successful in teaching her to vacuum or dust during her nesting phase. On the other hand, like me, she was very good at cleaning her dish throughout her pregnancy.

Perhaps nesting with my second child will be different. As I sit here and write, I’m 19 weeks pregnant and already thinking about all the things that need to be done before the baby is born. Though we’ve already registered for the baby necessities, I still have to vacuum the back yard, steam-clean the trampoline, disinfect the cats, wash all the dog's clothes and purify one Texas lake. At least this house doesn’t have a basement!

Girda the Demonic Viking Lactation Coach

The first thing you need to understand before I dive into the post-birth quagmire with Girda, is that the Lord saw fit to bless my baby sister with MY breasts. It’s that whole sibling rivalry thing revisited, “Mom, she took my belt!” “Mom, she’s making faces at me!” Mom, she has boobies and won’t give me any!” Yes, my sister is a 36 EE, and I… I am a 32 A minus. In fact, to add insult to injury, my nipples don’t even stick out! What sort of sick sense of humor does it take to give a flat-chested woman “innies?”

Prior to knowing that I was doomed with a life-sentence of flat-chestedness, I was just as thrilled as any other 11-year-old to go out with my mother and purchase my first “Training Bra.” This contraption of straps and two tiny triangles of lacy fabric would become cell keeper to my rib cage for the next 5 years. In those 5 years I learned how to french-kiss, how to dance, and how to wiggle my training bra back in to place without being noticed. Finally at age 16, I came to the realization that my breasts had been in training for quite some time, and apparently they hadn’t learned a damned thing! The “Training Bra” was discarded along with other items of childhood fantasy like my tiara and the fake ruby slippers I had kept hidden in my closet for years. I was never to be a princess, and I was never to model for Victoria’s Secret. I quit wearing a bra altogether, and quite enjoyed this freedom through college and my early 20’s.

I find it funny that though flat as a board, I must still suffer through the embarrassment of the yearly breast exam performed by my gynecologist. Like I wouldn’t notice some lump that had attached itself to my ribs? On one occasion the doctor was inspecting me with a look of concentration on his face and stated, “I seem to have found a small lump on your left side.”
My simple reply was “Thank-goodness! Can you find my right one too?”

I was ecstatic when I finally became pregnant! First, I was going to have a baby! Second, I was suddenly an “A” cup! A real “A” cup! Like, I could actually wear a grown-up bra without the worry of finding it nestled up under my arm pits at the end of the day! I’d been waiting 25 years for this.

Of course there was also the down-side. Suddenly as I trotted down the stairs, there were these two lumps on my chest that seemed to have developed a life of their own. They were bouncing! And they were SORE! When I lay on my side at night, they were there… pinching themselves between my arm and body. It took some getting used to (though my husband adjusted pretty quickly). Unfortunately my poor little nipples seemed to be confused and upset by the changes. They hid deeper inside, only coming out in the extreme cold, but rushing back to their hiding places as soon as the goose-pimples had subsided. It got so bad that around the 7^th month of pregnancy, they even started to cry at night!

About this time, I started to read up on breast-feeding. It was made clear through the television and the pamphlets at the doctor’s office that only mothers possessed by Satan himself did not breast-feed their babies! From the looks of it, some states might even have pressed charges in if a mother was found purchasing formula for a minor! But what I read concerning breast-feeding started to frighten me…
“Hold the baby in the crook of your arm. Gently touch his lower lip with your finger until he starts to ‘root’ or look for your nipple. Bring your breast to your baby’s face and place your nipple in his mouth.”
Are we talking about a breast or a garden hose? “Bring your breast to your baby’s face…?” The only thing I was going to be bringing anywhere was my baby to the thing that looked like a halved orange stuck to my chest because I was pretty sure it wasn’t going anywhere! Hmmmm… was this going to be a problem?

So finally my baby was lying in my arms.
“The lactation coach will be here in about 5 minutes.” The day-nurse warned me. Well, looking back I say “warned.” I suppose at the time she “told” me that the nurse would be in.

And in came Girda!

The best way to visualize Girda is that large, Viking woman in the opera, but without the horns (or, at least, you couldn’t actually see them). Vit a very tick German accent she sait, “Tak ovv your tup, pleez.”
“Hi, my name is Leigh and this is my son Jacob.”
“Tak ovv your tup, pleez.”
“What’s your name?”
“Girrrrdahhh. Tak ovv your tup, pleez.”
As I began to wonder if the next sentence would be ‘Vee haff vays ov makink you tak ovv your tup!’ I quickly began opening my gown. Before I was even fully exposed, a large mutton-like hand had shot out and adhered itself to my tiny, sore, orange-half boobie.
“Hmmmm… dis iz nut verrrry goot. Do you haff nipplez?”
“Uh, yeah… they’re just innnn-aaaaaahhhhhh! Um, I guess you found them, huh?”
“Uummmm-hmmmm.”
“Am I going to have trouble because I’m small?”
She stood back with her arms crossed over her ample chest while she scrutinized the situation. “In uull my twenty-fife yerrs ov teaching dis, noboooty walk out ov hospital not brest feetink baby!
(Did the rest of them get rolled out in body-casts? This was not a good start!)
Girda broke my panic-stricken silence with “Let me haff your niplez again.”
Like I had a choice.
“Deez are not too goot for feedink baby.”
She held Jacob against me and appeared to be attempting to stuff my entire breast into his mouth. After torturing us both to her satisfaction for the next 30 minutes, she announced, “Teachink baby to nurzz frum you like teachink him to nurse frum wall. He can nut latch on to sometink he can nut finte. Zo now I tell ladees, in uull my twenty-fife yerrs ov teaching dis, der voss only one who did nut.”
And with that, she left.

While I was sitting there in shock, my husband came in with a bottle of formula.
“What, things didn’t go so well? I was just in the sitting room with Sgt. Neilson’s wife and she said she never even needed the coach.” he said innocently.
As soon as I found my voice, I replied “If you think it’s so damn easy, why don’t you give it a try?”

In the years since that time, I have discovered that babies do fine on formula, you won’t be arrested for not breast-feeding, and a little thing called the Miracle Bra. I have a wonderful, healthy son, a nice figure in clothes, and plenty of extra room in my bra to carry my wallet, keys and makeup. I can proudly state to anyone who asks,

“Yes! These are 100% natural… cotton.”

The Story of Jacob’s Birth Day

Knowing that Jake was breech, we decided on a planned C-section at 38 weeks gestation. I was given the choice of any day from March 13th – 17th. Well, that’s a no-brainer, huh? I’ll be the mom that never forgets her son's birthday and take St. Patrick’s Day, thank-you! Though I was nervous the night before, I had no trouble sleeping anywhere, any time in my third trimester. We woke up the next morning and went in to Irwin Army Hospital, Ft. Riley, KS at 6:00 AM.

I got into the little gown with my butt hanging out and stuck out my arm to have the IV put in. Because they can never get a vein in my hand, they stuck me 5 or 6 times in the arm before getting a good one. Because I’m legally blind, we had made special arrangements for me to wear my coke-bottle lens glasses throughout the procedure so I could see my baby and test to see if the OR lights were capable of starting a fire through the two magnifying glasses on my face.

Around 7:30 AM, my butterflies and I were wheeled into the OR for the spinal. I had taken childbirth classes at a local hospital, and the breathing techniques (controlled hyperventilation/panic) came in quite handy! I’m terrified of needles, so I was careful not to look at the one they were about to stick in my spine. (If I’d seen it, they might not have needed any anesthetic as I would have passed out.) I sat on the gurney and leaned forward against a nurse as the anesthesiologist gave me a shot of Novocain and then inserted the needle and tube for the spinal. Slow inhale 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… exhale… … 3… 4… (fight panic attack) 5… 6… (don’t wiggle) 7… (Yeah, right!) 8…

I warned the staff prior to the procedure that I have a history of resistance to anesthetics of every kind. I don’t think they believed me. I was lying on my back and I could feel my legs going numb. What a strange, tingly feeling! I was pretty well numbed (I thought) and couldn’t move my legs so they strapped me down spread eagle, stripe-ass naked on a wide gurney. They put a screen up in front of my face and my husband stood to my left. The surgeon prepared to make the first incision and…
“Um… I can feel your hand on me – is that normal?” I asked nervously.
The doctor responded, “You may feel some pressure or believe you’re feeling something, but our minds play tricks on us when we’ve been anesthetized.”
“Ok” I said, “but it feels like your fingers are just below my belly button, and your thumb is near my pubic hair-line.”
Silence…
“And now you’re making little circles with your finger…” I told him.
“Can we give her more?” The doctor asked the anesthesiologist.
The anesthesiologist replied, “It’s a Spinal, not an Epidural. Maybe it just needs another minute.”
“And how about now?” The doctor asked me a minute later.
“Feels like the palm of …” I started.
“We’re going to have to knock her out…”
“…Jesus… um, yeah… the palm of Jesus… has just taken all the feeling away” I gasped.
“Are you sure…” the doctor asked in a dubious voice.
“Can’t feel a thing!” I grinned innocently. Gulp!
Luckily the spinal worked well enough to cut out the sharp pain, though I could still feel every move they made. I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to meet my baby for the first time in the next few minutes! I think the nurse to my right who was monitoring my pulse was on to me, but simply whispered “Just let me know if it gets too bad.”
I was so excited that it wasn’t bad at all. I just used the breathing techniques I had learned, and I was fine.

After a few minutes, the doctor yelled, “We’ve got a science experiment in here! Get the camera and invite the gang to look at this one!”
“What’s…?”
“Don’t worry about it.” The doctor snapped in my direction.
(Yeah, right! The gang? Here I am strapped down like a beached whale, Nekid, with most of my innards lying on the outside of my body and you want to bring the Gang in? And what science experiment…?)
The doctor continued, “Now I’m going to make the incision… and break your water… towels! We’ve got a turtle-neck! Umbilical is wrapped three times around the neck!”
(Um, yeah – Panic Attack!)
And then I heard the most beautiful sound of my son crying and gasping for air. My euphoria was broken short by the doctor’s shout of “We’ve got a PREEMIE here! Get the cart STAT!”
“What…” (Am I on an emotional roller-coaster or something? I think I just wet myself… oh yeah, my catheterized bladder is in a spoon-clamp-thingy and sitting on my right hip.)
Suddenly the room was full of people rushing around with strange-looking equipment and yelling stuff to each other. Of course I was trying at this point to sit up to see where my baby was and find out what was going on. The OR team had to hold me down to prevent the rest of my innards from rolling out onto the table.
The pediatrician called out, “First APGAR is a 9... Second APGAR is a 10! It’s just a runt.”
“A runt???” (Did I have a baby or puppies?)
The nurse by my side whispered, “You just have a very little baby. We’re going to run some tests, but he seems to be fine. That pediatrician NEVER gives 10’s! That’s a really good sign.”
Finally, my 4lb 12oz squalling baby was brought over and placed on my chest. His crying stopped completely, and his little brown eyes opened up and looked directly into mine! I started crying, whispered “hi” to him and told him how much I loved him. My right hand had been released and I was able to hold him for just a minute.

He was taken from me to let his daddy hold him, and then whisked him off for tests. The doctor had started working to put me back together, and at this point I looked at the nurse and said, “Um, excuse me, but could you tell the doctor that that clamp on the left side is pinching a bit, and his hands are kind of cold?”

That was the last thing I remember before waking up about 2 hours later in recovery. Evidently they gave me enough of something to knock out a small elephant. I rather looked and felt like a small elephant too, but I slept well knowing my tiny little baby was just fine.

I later found out that the “science experiment” within me was a uterine anomaly where only half my uterus had developed. Cute, huh? The deformity is called a Unicornuate Uterus and it may explain in part my trouble conceiving that time and in the years to come. God forbid I could just be normal for once. Honestly, I knew even before they told me that my beautiful son was nothing less than the most wonderful miracle in my world.