Above: Emilia shortly after birth under her oxygen hood (see below for one-year comparison photo)
Tomorrow is Emilia’s first birthday, which makes me feel the need to finally record my memory of her birth. I’ll try to include only the parts that make me look like a hero and Agustín look like a putz, just to fit the stereotypes. But honestly, my husband was as helpful as he could have been without actually giving birth himself.
One year ago this evening, after experiencing two days of increasingly frequent contractions, I said to Agustín around 7:00pm, “I think it’s time to go to the hospital now.” To which he responded, “Oh, now? I still have to shower.” (He’d been working around the house all day while I alternately worked desperately on finishing a final paper and lying in pain on the couch watching the only channel that Agustín had been able to program on our new TV—one football game after another.) On the way to the hospital, my contractions were exactly five minutes apart (which is when we were told to go to the hospital). Upon arrival I was dilated to six and got the epidural I requested an hour or so after check-in. All was good with the world for many hours as Agustín and I attempted to get some sleep in between frequent visits from the nurses to check my progress. In the early morning hours I was told to start pushing, which I did with such vehemence that Agustín told me later he was scared and surprised at just how intense it was (how did he think I’d push—daintily?). At first it seemed like all was going well, but after about a half hour of pushing the nurse realized the baby had turned sideways, so they made me lay on my side for an hour to try to turn the baby. By this time the epidural was wearing off, I was tired from the pushing and the fact I hadn’t been able to eat much before coming to the hospital, and the world was just a little less wonderful.
Luckily, this painful lying in wait turned the baby and we were back to pushing—hours of pushing. For some reason she wasn’t coming out as quickly as we’d initially expected. Meanwhile, my epidural was continuing to wear off and exhaustion was setting in; I swear I blacked out a little at the end of each push (I just remember briefly thinking, ‘Where am I?’ at the end of each contraction). After more than two additional hours of pushing, I finally convinced nurse #3 (funny, when the first one had to go home she was convinced I’d be delivering any minute) to get a doctor to assess whether they could use a vacuum on me (the modern-day equivalent of forceps). By this time they’d realized I had a temperature of 101 degrees, which supposedly meant I had gotten an infection in my uterus during the labor, so they forewarned me that the baby risked having an infection as well, and so they were going to take her away for monitoring right away. I think I was too exhausted to be very concerned, but they acted like it wasn’t a very big deal.
Finally a doctor (I think it was the third one I saw) came and decided it was indeed time for the vacuum. I thought that meant just another push or two, but I actually had many more contractions while they set things up, then even with the vacuum I had to push a half dozen or so more times. But she came out! Monday, November 20th at 9:32am, she finally arrived. Agustín says she looked a little sickly, and she supposedly also had a temperature of 101. I was too exhausted to notice or feel much of anything, so it was just kind of weird when they set her on my chest for a second and told me to kiss my daughter before they carted her off to the nursery.
With the help of an oxygen hood and an IV, Emilia gained her strength over the next few days and was able to be released from the hospital only 12 hours after I was released. We arrived home the night before Thanksgiving.
Tomorrow we plan to celebrate the special occasion with a small family gathering. I’ll post photos of the event. In the meantime, here's a photo of almost-one-year-old Emilia modeling her new winter coat.
One year ago this evening, after experiencing two days of increasingly frequent contractions, I said to Agustín around 7:00pm, “I think it’s time to go to the hospital now.” To which he responded, “Oh, now? I still have to shower.” (He’d been working around the house all day while I alternately worked desperately on finishing a final paper and lying in pain on the couch watching the only channel that Agustín had been able to program on our new TV—one football game after another.) On the way to the hospital, my contractions were exactly five minutes apart (which is when we were told to go to the hospital). Upon arrival I was dilated to six and got the epidural I requested an hour or so after check-in. All was good with the world for many hours as Agustín and I attempted to get some sleep in between frequent visits from the nurses to check my progress. In the early morning hours I was told to start pushing, which I did with such vehemence that Agustín told me later he was scared and surprised at just how intense it was (how did he think I’d push—daintily?). At first it seemed like all was going well, but after about a half hour of pushing the nurse realized the baby had turned sideways, so they made me lay on my side for an hour to try to turn the baby. By this time the epidural was wearing off, I was tired from the pushing and the fact I hadn’t been able to eat much before coming to the hospital, and the world was just a little less wonderful.
Luckily, this painful lying in wait turned the baby and we were back to pushing—hours of pushing. For some reason she wasn’t coming out as quickly as we’d initially expected. Meanwhile, my epidural was continuing to wear off and exhaustion was setting in; I swear I blacked out a little at the end of each push (I just remember briefly thinking, ‘Where am I?’ at the end of each contraction). After more than two additional hours of pushing, I finally convinced nurse #3 (funny, when the first one had to go home she was convinced I’d be delivering any minute) to get a doctor to assess whether they could use a vacuum on me (the modern-day equivalent of forceps). By this time they’d realized I had a temperature of 101 degrees, which supposedly meant I had gotten an infection in my uterus during the labor, so they forewarned me that the baby risked having an infection as well, and so they were going to take her away for monitoring right away. I think I was too exhausted to be very concerned, but they acted like it wasn’t a very big deal.
Finally a doctor (I think it was the third one I saw) came and decided it was indeed time for the vacuum. I thought that meant just another push or two, but I actually had many more contractions while they set things up, then even with the vacuum I had to push a half dozen or so more times. But she came out! Monday, November 20th at 9:32am, she finally arrived. Agustín says she looked a little sickly, and she supposedly also had a temperature of 101. I was too exhausted to notice or feel much of anything, so it was just kind of weird when they set her on my chest for a second and told me to kiss my daughter before they carted her off to the nursery.
With the help of an oxygen hood and an IV, Emilia gained her strength over the next few days and was able to be released from the hospital only 12 hours after I was released. We arrived home the night before Thanksgiving.
Tomorrow we plan to celebrate the special occasion with a small family gathering. I’ll post photos of the event. In the meantime, here's a photo of almost-one-year-old Emilia modeling her new winter coat.
1 comment:
Happy Birthday Emilia!
Wish I could give you a big hug and a kiss.
All My Love, Martha
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