Eight Months

Today Patrick turns eight months old. I was trying to figure out how to celebrate this milestone on the blog when Matt remarked to me the other day that Patrick has now been out of my belly longer than he was in it. The day when that happened passed several weeks ago without notice. I thought as a good way to celebrate both his eighth month and that he's been alive longer outside of me than in, I would take the time to write down his birth story. I've been meaning to for some time and just hadn't found the time to be right yet. Now it is.
The pregnancy itself was rough. I had horrible "morning" sickness that lasted all day every day. It forced me to quit teaching a month before school ended. I also had several bleeding episodes when I thought I'd lost Patrick. Several weeks after the one that sent me to the emergency room, I was finally diagnosed with a sub-corionic hematoma. I was put on a semi-bedrest that was silly compared to the one I had been on for months that somewhat controlled the nausea. Finally around the fourth of July last year, the nausea started to let up and the bleeding had mostly stopped, so I started living an almost normal life again. I still wonder if that nausea-induced bedrest may have kept the bleeding to a minimum and saved Patrick's life.

I had relatively few problems from then until the week of Patrick's birth. I'd had a lot of Braxton-Hicks contractions that Monday and some back pain on Wednesday, but neither was serious or continued long enough to suspect a problem. When the back pain returned on Thursday night, I thought it would once again go away after a little while like it had on Wednesday. I also thought the pains were typical third-trimester pains.

After several hours of back pains that started to emanate to the front too, I began to wonder if something was wrong. I checked in my faithful What to Expect When You're Expecting book, looking at pre-term labor, early signs of labor, and kidney infections to determine if one of those would explain the pains I was having. None of them did, so I continued to suffer.

I remember trying all sorts of things to help ease the pains: a hot shower, pacing across our apartment, even Tylenol (I laugh at myself now for taking Tylenol for contractions). Toward morning as the pains got worse and closer together, I found myself leaning over our bathroom counter and swaying back and forth, a position I'd only seen pregnant women in labor take. I remember thinking how funny it was then and still not suspecting I was in labor.

Matt and I were supposed to get up early to go close on our house, and we were both relieved when morning came and we found out the house wasn't ready to be closed on yet. (By the way, we did close on it the week later.) We called my parents to tell them not to come to Houston to help us move over the weekend. It turned out to be a good thing they were already packed and ready to leave Dallas, though.

Finally around 11:00 in the morning, Matt convinced me I should probably call the doctor about the pain. The office closed in an hour as it was a Friday, so it was a good thing I called when I did. They told me if I had six of those pains in an hour to head to the hospital. When I'd had four in twenty minutes, we started preparing ourselves to leave. I still thought it was silly to go, though; I fully expected to be told I had a kidney infection, given a prescription for antibiotics, and sent home. Because of that, we packed no clothes or anything for an overnight stay, just the bare essentials to be gone a few hours.

My mom called me on the hour-long drive to the hospital (we'd moved and not changed doctors, so the doctor and the hospital where she delivered was still where we used to live). As we were talking, I had another pain. She told me later that from how I sounded, she could tell I was having contractions. I'm quite glad she didn't tell me that then. I was scared enough as it was.

We got to the hospital about 12:30 or 1:00 and parked. I walked in on my own, stopping every so often with a pain. It took us some time to find the right place in the hospital, since we hadn't gotten a chance to tour the hospital and maternity ward with a class. I was one day short of 32 weeks, much earlier than I anticipated needing to take a class.

I got situated in the admittance room of the ante-partum ward and got hooked up to the monitors and IV. Sure enough, I was having contractions, as the monitor was quick to show us. I still find it odd how quickly I accepted that fact without any fear; I wonder if I'd known in the back of my mind what they were all along. The nurse asked the barrage of questions while I suffered through several more contractions and then went to check me. She didn't even get the speculum all the way in before dropping it in panic and racing for the phone. She managed to quickly inform us on her way there that all she saw was my bag of water and she was calling for the doctor. I knew that meant I was in labor and they would not be stopping it; I would be a mother within a few hours most likely. Still I wasn't scared. I think I was numb by this point (and I hadn't even had the epidural yet!).

The nurse came back with another nurse a few minutes later. My doctor was otherwise occupied and wouldn't be able to come in to deliver Patrick, but she was sending another doctor in the practice in her place (I found out later it was also her own personal ob/gyn). The nurses immediately got me flat on my back in the bed and wheeled me to a labor and delivery room. I was very carefully moved to the bed there and situated in that bed with my head down. The thought was that gravity would possibly help keep the baby inside until the doctor could get there. It was lots of fun trying to sign all that admittance paperwork while on my head. It didn't help matters that the nurses were doing all sorts of tests to me, like a sonogram and other things I can't remember, and I was also still suffering with contractions every few minutes.

This is where everything gets blurry. I can only remember a few snapshots of the next hour or so, and I don't really remember what order they come in. I know the doctor got there, checked me, and broke my water. I remember telling Matt not to watch but that it wouldn't hurt me. I remember the gush as it came out of me--gross! I was already 9 1/2 centimeters dilated after my water was broken. I know the anesthesiologist came some time later and asked Matt to leave the room while he gave me the epidural. Matt doesn't like needles, so I was glad the doctor asked him to leave. I was fine because I didn't have to see that nasty needle. I remember the nurse inserting the catheter, and I was nervous it would hurt even though I already had the epidural. I'm pretty sure I peed on her before she could get it all the way in. Also during this time, Matt started calling family. His parents and mine left right away. They weren't given enough notice to make it in time for the birth, but both were there that evening. (By the way, have I mentioned it was Matt's dad's birthday? Patrick was the best present he got last year, he claims.)

It wasn't long after that that I needed to push. I could feel it despite the epidural. It only took a few pushes. Between pushes, though, I was calm enough to joke and laugh with the nurses and Matt. I'm still amazed at myself that despite all the circumstances I could still joke and laugh. A few pushes later at 4:17 pm, Patrick came out. According to Matt, he slid out so fast that the doctor barely caught him. She was also not used to such a little guy, so his light weight caught her off guard and she almost dropped him.

Patrick immediately started screaming. The doctor held him up so I could see him briefly and then handed him over to the nurses and pediatric team for him to be checked out. Not once during this whole time had I doubted the health of Patrick. I knew what to expect for him after he was born, with the whole NICU experience, but I knew somehow that even if he went to the NICU, he would be healthy. My suspicions were confirmed when he was handed to me just minutes after he was born to hold him for a moment before being whisked off to NICU. The nurse who put him in my arms told me his apgar scores were 8 and 9 1/2. The way she said it made her sound impressed. I was simply proud of him for doing so well.

I remember looking down at him numbly for the few moments he was in my arms, thinking he didn't look that small really. I noticed his beautiful face with perfect features and realized he was mine, my own son. That thought didn't really sink in for some time, though. I remember feeling somewhat detached about the whole situation the entire time I held him. Then he was torn from my arms and taken to NICU where I didn't see him again until the next morning.

I'll continue with the story of the happenings after his birth tomorrow. Obviously when you have a baby in the NICU, the story doesn't end there. I may be kind and shorten the next few weeks for you, though. Then again, maybe not...