I'm about half-way into my humongo cup of coffee and feeling somewhat coherent, so I figure now might be a good time to conjure up Milo's birth story before the sleep deprivation and postpartum memory-suppressing hormones rob me of the remaining details. {I love my french press. Just need to give it a shout-out. Moving on....}
I never wrote Ella's birth story out. It was such an incredible and life-changing experience that I *swore* I couldn't ever forget it. Then, reality hit like a ton of bricks (or should I say, "like a spinal tap") when I was lying on the cold O.R. table, feeling my whole body slipping away from my own control and I quickly began to realize there were, in fact, quite a few things I didn't remember {read: chose to repress} from when she was born. As I was feeling the warm numbness take over my legs and the heavy weight on my chest from being flat on my back, the room started to spin and I broke out into a sweat and started to feel very sick. I muttered something to the effect of, "Why is this happening...? I don't remember any of this with my daughter..." And my sweet anesthesiologist gently stroked my hair and said, "Of course you don't remember any of this, honey. That's why you're back here again." She laughed to herself like she had just delivered the best punch line and I decided I might one day be able to laugh at it when I finally got the feeling back in my diaphragm or maybe by Milo's first day of Kindergarten.
This story will be somewhat shorter than Ella's, and probably not nearly as exciting, since I didn't have the 20 hour labor prior to the c-section like I did almost 2 years ago. But here are the bare bones, as well as my very NON-medical interpretation of them.
1). "Your c-section is scheduled for 7:30 a.m. Please be here at 5:30 a.m."
Interpretation: "Because we want to pump you full of enough fluid to make your ankles look like sausages and make your chin disappear into your neck. And while we're doing this, we'll be asking you questions about every known virus and infection you've had since you were two and poking you repeatedly in the hand in an attempt to get a blood sample. This will actually only take about 45 minutes, but we thought it would be fun for you to get up at 4:30 and get here extra early because our beds are just THAT comfortable.
2). "Okay, we're ready to take you to the O.R."
Interpretation: But we won't be wheeling your bed in like last time or even taking you by wheelchair. No, no. That's too boring. Instead, we'll make you walk down the hall and flash your crack to everyone you pass and maybe even trip over your own IV bag. {We'll all laugh behind your back and tell you it happens to everyone else, too}. And if you weren't already shaking from nerves, you'll be shaking from the meat locker-like temperature of the operating room. Then, we'll strip you of even more security by asking your husband to wait outside while we insert a long needle into your back, BUT we'll give you a squishy pillow to hold onto in his place.
3). "You're gonna feel a tiny sting."
Interpretation: Really? Was *that* a bee that just stung me?? Because I stepped on a bee with my bare feet when I was three and I barely noticed it. So, dear nurse, although I realize it wouldn't be too prudent to tell your patients, "hey- you're about to feel like a snake is sinking it's teeth into your spinal column," I'd still like to say: Tiny sting, my @$$.
4). "Just lay back and relax."
Interpretation: Mmkay, sure, I'll do that. You go ahead and strap down my arms while I lie flat on my back and feel like I'm suffocating. And I'll have you know, when you just poked me with that sharp object to make sure I couldn't feel anything, I FELT IT. {Enter panic mode here}. But go ahead and cut me open and I'll just "lay back and relax." Oh, and did I mention that I have this insane fear of vomiting? I did? Okay, well, I'm about to tell you again, because the room is starting to spin and I'm feeling a little too warm and I think I might be sick. I NEED MORE ZOFRAN. Where is my husband? Why do I feel like I can't breathe? Don't hand me that basin to puke in. (And for God's sake, why do you give your patients a tiny pinto-bean sized plastic dish to throw up in? Who has that kind of aim??) GIVE ME MORE ZOFRAN. I realize that it's just another day, just another section for you all as you stand over my entrails and talk about the recent Superbowl, but seriously, can we get to the part with the screaming baby? K, thanks.
5). "Lots of pressure now..."
Interpretation: "You thought you couldn't breathe earlier, but just wait. Now we're actually going to push and pull and stretch things and your lungs are going to momentarily come up into your throat." {But oddly enough, I still found myself grateful l wasn't having to use those over-stretched muscles to actually push him out}.
6). 8:06 a.m. February 9th 2011.
Interpretation: What would normally be an average minute on an average day now becomes a defining moment that I'll remember the rest of my life- just the way I remember 7:49 p.m on June 13, 2009 as my Ella-bug's voice pierced the air and I finally crossed the threshold into motherhood. One minute earlier and my world was violently spinning and I couldn't catch my breath and then suddenly, everything around me stopped. He was on the outside. He was real. He was okay. Pink and mad and screaming his little lungs out for his perfect apgars. (Such a little over-achiever already). I felt myself breathe deep and relax- for the first time in a long 10 months. My son, my little My-Ry, born on my dad's birthday- arrived right on time. Not a second too early, not a second too late.
8:06 a.m. and I became a mommy again, crossing a new kind of threshold- one that promised I would be enough, have enough and love more than enough- two times over. My heart has never been so full.
