We've all been sick around here. We've all been cooped up in the house. The kids are going nuts, as am I. So, I decided to give my ladies a break and take them for a Sonic run and get them a little treat. I also decided to treat myself to a little cherry limeade even though the fizz hurts my palate and esophagus. I decided to just let it burn since I was already in pain with a sore throat anyway. My girls asked for a white coconut slush.
(SIGH) Ever have one of THESE conversations with your kid?
SYLVIE: Hey mom.
ME: Yes?
S: Did you get a cherry limeade?
ME: Yep.
S: Did I get a cherry in my drink?
ME: No, honey. Yours won't have one. You ordered a coconut slush, so there's no cherry.
S: Well, I just want a cherry in mine.
ME: I'm sorry, honey. There's no cherry in yours.
S: There's no cherry in yours?
ME: No. There's no cherry in YOURS.
S: Oh. There's no cherry in yours.
ME: NO! YOURS!
S: Yours?
ME: (SIGH) Mine has the cherry, honey.
S: Oh. Mine has the cherry?
ME: No MINE does.
S: MINE does?
ME: NO! MINE! MINE! MY DRINK! NOT YOURS! MINE!
S: Okay, mine does. Not yours, okay mommy? Just mine.
I fell completely silent. I was baffled. She was just not getting it and I didn't know how to explain it. At this point we had our drinks and I was driving toward home.
S: Hey mom?
ME: (SIGH) Yes, honey?
S: Did mine get a cherry in it?
ME: No, honey! NO! There's no cherry!
S: There's no cherry?
ME: No. Sorry, sweetie.
S: So, you didn't get a cherry too, mommy?
ME: Nope. Nobody got a cherry.
S: Nobody?
ME: Nope.
S: Mom, did you get a cherry limeade?
ME: Yep.
S: So, how'd you get a cherry? You got a cherry mom.
ME: I did?
S: Yeah mom! You did. You really, really did!
ME: Oh. Okay.
S: And I got a cherry too.
ME: Mm hm. (I decided just to agree for the sake of avoiding another argument)
S: I did, mom? I got a cherry?
ME: (HUGE SIGH) Sweetheart! Listen to me! My drink has a cherry and yours does not!
S: Yeah. My drink has a cherry and mommy's drink didn't have a cherry.
ME: OH MY GOSH! Listen! You got the cherry! Okay? You got it! It's in my drink, but I'm just gonna' give it to you when we get home, okay?
S: Okay, mommy. Hey Chloe, I get a cherry in my drink. Mommy said.
AAAAHHHHHHHH!!! She wins again!
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The Stage Name...
...this is one of THE most important aspects of being a performer. You have GOT to have a cool name. Ever heard of Carey Grant? His real name was Archie Leach. No joke.
Tonight, as my husband and I were driving home from an evening out with the kids, we were listening to the radio (because that's all we've got going on right now in this '99 minivan), and I noticed that all of the songs were about "rock stars". First Pink with "So What I'm Still A Rock Star" played followed by Nickelback's "I Wanna Be a Rock Star". So I commented on that little observation and said, "Watch. They'll play that other rock star song by that one guy....oh, what's his name? Dang it."
BERT: Who?
ME: You know, that guy with the long, blond hair? He always wears the wife beaters. I can't stand that guy. Oh man! WHAT is his NAME!?
BERT: I don't know who you're talking about.
ME: You know? Pam Anderson dated him. They almost got married.
BERT: That doesn't help me. What are some of his songs?
ME: Oh! I can't think right now. The radio is distracting me. He wears hats like yours sometimes, honey. You know who I'm talking about? (Bert was wearing a fedora during this conversation, by the way)
BERT: Is his name Chris something?
ME: NO! No, it's not Chris.
BERT: Ummm.....(mumbling to self) Chris....Chris.....man!
ME: It's not Chris, Honey. It's not. I know it's not.
BERT: Hmm. Let me think. (Mumbling to self again) Chris....Chris....
ME: It's not CHRIS! (Laughing) It's not Chris at all. Not even close, Honey.
So? Are any of you readers figuring out yet who I'm talking about? I was going NUTS trying to remember this guy's name. I was ready to have Bert pull over to the side of the road just to ask some random person walking down the street because I was SURE they would know the answer.
Finally! Four streets away from home it hit me - the name.
ME: KID ROCK! It's Kid Rock!
BERT: Yeah! Okay. I knew it started with the K-sound.
ME: MAN! I'm so glad I finally figured that out! That was driving me NUTS!
BERT: I need a cool name.
ME: You mean like a stage name?
BERT: Yeah. What should I be called?
ME: How 'bout Frenchie?
BERT: Nah. Not that.
ME: Okay, how about....?
BERT: Something like Kid Rock, but not that.
ME: What's rock in French? Isn't it caillou? You should call yourself Kid Caillou! HAHA!
BERT: NO! (Getting agitated) That's not cool.
ME: Hmmm...you need something edgy. (Mumbling to self) Something edgy...
Suddenly we got a suggestion from the very back of the van.
SYLVIE: How 'bout Wedgie?
ME: YEAH! That's it! We'll call you Wedgie! Thank you, Sylvie.
SYLVIE: You're welcome.
Bertrand was not amused.
Tonight, as my husband and I were driving home from an evening out with the kids, we were listening to the radio (because that's all we've got going on right now in this '99 minivan), and I noticed that all of the songs were about "rock stars". First Pink with "So What I'm Still A Rock Star" played followed by Nickelback's "I Wanna Be a Rock Star". So I commented on that little observation and said, "Watch. They'll play that other rock star song by that one guy....oh, what's his name? Dang it."
BERT: Who?
ME: You know, that guy with the long, blond hair? He always wears the wife beaters. I can't stand that guy. Oh man! WHAT is his NAME!?
BERT: I don't know who you're talking about.
ME: You know? Pam Anderson dated him. They almost got married.
BERT: That doesn't help me. What are some of his songs?
ME: Oh! I can't think right now. The radio is distracting me. He wears hats like yours sometimes, honey. You know who I'm talking about? (Bert was wearing a fedora during this conversation, by the way)
BERT: Is his name Chris something?
ME: NO! No, it's not Chris.
BERT: Ummm.....(mumbling to self) Chris....Chris.....man!
ME: It's not Chris, Honey. It's not. I know it's not.
BERT: Hmm. Let me think. (Mumbling to self again) Chris....Chris....
ME: It's not CHRIS! (Laughing) It's not Chris at all. Not even close, Honey.
So? Are any of you readers figuring out yet who I'm talking about? I was going NUTS trying to remember this guy's name. I was ready to have Bert pull over to the side of the road just to ask some random person walking down the street because I was SURE they would know the answer.
Finally! Four streets away from home it hit me - the name.
ME: KID ROCK! It's Kid Rock!
BERT: Yeah! Okay. I knew it started with the K-sound.
ME: MAN! I'm so glad I finally figured that out! That was driving me NUTS!
BERT: I need a cool name.
ME: You mean like a stage name?
BERT: Yeah. What should I be called?
ME: How 'bout Frenchie?
BERT: Nah. Not that.
ME: Okay, how about....?
BERT: Something like Kid Rock, but not that.
ME: What's rock in French? Isn't it caillou? You should call yourself Kid Caillou! HAHA!
BERT: NO! (Getting agitated) That's not cool.
ME: Hmmm...you need something edgy. (Mumbling to self) Something edgy...
Suddenly we got a suggestion from the very back of the van.
SYLVIE: How 'bout Wedgie?
ME: YEAH! That's it! We'll call you Wedgie! Thank you, Sylvie.
SYLVIE: You're welcome.
Bertrand was not amused.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Ah, He Kills Me!
The following are ACTUAL conversations between my husband and I:
B stands for Bert, K stands for Kristin. Ready? Set. Go!
B: Hey, honey. How many of these pills should I take?
K: I don't know. Read the side. It'll tell you. I can't remember the dose for that medication.
B: Should I take one or two?
K: What does it say on the side, honey?
B: It says two for adults.
K: Okay.
B: So, how many should I take?
K: Well, you're an adult, so two would be the correct answer.
SERIOUSLY!?!?! Yes. This conversation actually happened. And it WASN'T for headache medication either. GEE WHIZ!
B: So, how was it?
K: Awkward.
B: Why?
K: There was this lesbian who kept staring at me. It was just uncomfortable.
B: How do you know she was a lesbian?
K: Well, somebody else there told me and I could tell anyway. She wouldn't stop staring at me and it was one of those, "I like you" stares and I mean "like" in a non-friend sort of way. You know what I mean?
B: Well, if I was a lesbian I'd stare at you too, 'cause you're hot!
K: (Jumping on him and kissing his face all over) Oh honey! You're so romantic!
B stands for Bert, K stands for Kristin. Ready? Set. Go!
B: Hey, honey. How many of these pills should I take?
K: I don't know. Read the side. It'll tell you. I can't remember the dose for that medication.
B: Should I take one or two?
K: What does it say on the side, honey?
B: It says two for adults.
K: Okay.
B: So, how many should I take?
K: Well, you're an adult, so two would be the correct answer.
SERIOUSLY!?!?! Yes. This conversation actually happened. And it WASN'T for headache medication either. GEE WHIZ!
B: So, how was it?
K: Awkward.
B: Why?
K: There was this lesbian who kept staring at me. It was just uncomfortable.
B: How do you know she was a lesbian?
K: Well, somebody else there told me and I could tell anyway. She wouldn't stop staring at me and it was one of those, "I like you" stares and I mean "like" in a non-friend sort of way. You know what I mean?
B: Well, if I was a lesbian I'd stare at you too, 'cause you're hot!
K: (Jumping on him and kissing his face all over) Oh honey! You're so romantic!
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A New Form Of Capital Punishment
So, I'm all for capital punishment. I know, I totally shouldn't get political on my blog. That's when opinions start flying and razor tongues start cutting.
But, seriously, the punishment should fit the crime. Somebody kills, they should be killed. It's just my personal opinion and this happens to be...oh, look at that - it's my blog. I can say whatever I want! YAY!
Now, I don't know what these people did (the dancers), but this appears to be some show where they actually AIR the criminals being punished right there on TV. I think Germany is onto something...
By the looks on their faces, I don't think they'll be committing any more crimes. I don't know that I necessarily agree with allowing children to view this harsh form of punishment, but perhaps they're simply instilling in their minds the consequences of committing crime. Ten years from now that country will be crime-free. I'm sure of it. Time for America to adopt some German policy, hmmmm?
On a side note, I must say - good thing they're not on So You Think You Can Dance. Their personalities really aren't showing through in their dancing. Mary Murphy and Mia Michaels would pick them apart for sure!
But, seriously, the punishment should fit the crime. Somebody kills, they should be killed. It's just my personal opinion and this happens to be...oh, look at that - it's my blog. I can say whatever I want! YAY!
Now, I don't know what these people did (the dancers), but this appears to be some show where they actually AIR the criminals being punished right there on TV. I think Germany is onto something...
By the looks on their faces, I don't think they'll be committing any more crimes. I don't know that I necessarily agree with allowing children to view this harsh form of punishment, but perhaps they're simply instilling in their minds the consequences of committing crime. Ten years from now that country will be crime-free. I'm sure of it. Time for America to adopt some German policy, hmmmm?
On a side note, I must say - good thing they're not on So You Think You Can Dance. Their personalities really aren't showing through in their dancing. Mary Murphy and Mia Michaels would pick them apart for sure!
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
I Know Cool People
It's true. I do. You probably do too, but they're probably not as cool as the people I know:
1. Maurice Dew. He's a rapper. (Pretty fly for a white guy). He just dropped a new album called "For The People". Check it out.
Order it at: mauricescrapbook.blogspot.com
2. Dan (The Man) Poulsen. He's an entrepreneur (and my l'il brutha). He designed a line of watches called Mica. I love them so much I steal my mom's occasionally and wear it about town. I get compliments on it every time...because it's awesome. I want one for Christmas. You got that, Santa? (Santa reads my blog.)
Here's one of my favorites. It's called The Baron (Munchausen).
And this is The Plank. I dare you to walk it/I mean wear it!
These are just TWO of the styles he's designed. All of his designs come with different wood and face options. You're not cool until you're wearing one of these. Don't worry, I'm not cool either...yet!
Check out and order watches at: micamove.com
3. Laurel Amenta. She's also an entrepreneur (and my cousin). She designs decorative tiles. I was lucky enough to be bestowed one for my birthday, but I'll be ordering another. Everyone who came over and saw it lying on my counter LOVED it and wanted to know where I got it from, so I'm posting it here. She has several different options and takes custom orders.
You can contact her at: 480-430-9705.
4. Kylee Palmer. She's a seamstress (I'm super jealous). She designs ADORABLE little girl and now boy clothing.
I totally want two of these for my ladies.
5. Ravi Sinha. A published author. This man is an immigrant from India, an extremely talented and tender-hearted man. I had the honor of typing two of his books, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but this particular one reduced me to tears as I typed it for him. It's a very touching and inspiring story. It's called "In Pursuit of America: My Dreamland."
You can order it here:
http://www.amazon.com/Pursuit-America-Dreamland-Story-Immigrant/dp/1434303985/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1255564207&sr=1-1
1. Maurice Dew. He's a rapper. (Pretty fly for a white guy). He just dropped a new album called "For The People". Check it out.
Order it at: mauricescrapbook.blogspot.com2. Dan (The Man) Poulsen. He's an entrepreneur (and my l'il brutha). He designed a line of watches called Mica. I love them so much I steal my mom's occasionally and wear it about town. I get compliments on it every time...because it's awesome. I want one for Christmas. You got that, Santa? (Santa reads my blog.)
Here's one of my favorites. It's called The Baron (Munchausen).
And this is The Plank. I dare you to walk it/I mean wear it!
These are just TWO of the styles he's designed. All of his designs come with different wood and face options. You're not cool until you're wearing one of these. Don't worry, I'm not cool either...yet!
Check out and order watches at: micamove.com
3. Laurel Amenta. She's also an entrepreneur (and my cousin). She designs decorative tiles. I was lucky enough to be bestowed one for my birthday, but I'll be ordering another. Everyone who came over and saw it lying on my counter LOVED it and wanted to know where I got it from, so I'm posting it here. She has several different options and takes custom orders.
You can contact her at: 480-430-9705.4. Kylee Palmer. She's a seamstress (I'm super jealous). She designs ADORABLE little girl and now boy clothing.
I totally want two of these for my ladies.
You can see her designs and order them at: ragdollclothing.com.
You can order it here:
http://www.amazon.com/Pursuit-America-Dreamland-Story-Immigrant/dp/1434303985/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1255564207&sr=1-1
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Delivery Story/Nightmare
Well, it's been a long time coming, but here goes - a story that's been tough for me to tell. It was so traumatic that it took me several days to stop crying over it.
Now, some of you may be able to top this story, maybe even by a long shot, but when you have certain expectations and NOTHING goes according to plan, it's pretty upsetting - especially for someone like me who always has plan A, B and C in place before I do anything.
It all started with a random e-mail. The end of July I received an e-mail from an unknown sender. I know you're not supposed to open unknown e-mails. They could be dangerous. But this one had a very intriguing subject line. It read, "Kristin Coppee. A miracle will happen for you on August 13th". A miracle? I thought. Interesting. After a few days I told my husband about it. I even posted something about it on my facebook. I was making a joke of it. I don't believe in random e-mails like that.
Now, let's go back in time to the morning of Sunday, August 9th. I had been suffering Braxton-Hicks contractions throughout my last trimester, which was typical for me. However, with each week, they became increasingly aggressive and uncomfortable and began to feel more and more like labor. On Sunday morning, I was SURE I was in labor due to the fact that despite my efforts to stop the contractions, they would not let up and were coming closer and closer and harder and harder. Finally, I gave in and we called my mom who ran right over and took my ladies to her house so Bertrand could take me to the hospital. I gripped the door handle and breathed through my contractions as Bertrand squealed out of our cul-de-sac, flew over a couple of speed bumps and drove to the hospital like a maniac. Each of my children came with a quicker labor so we were pretty certain this one would pop out in the car if we didn't arrive at the hospital fast enough.
Upon arriving to the hospital, I was whisked into a room, placed in a hospital gown, and checked. I was dilated to a 1. That was it. A lousy 1! I felt so discouraged (with Chloe I was sent home from the hospital three times and I was NOT too thrilled about the possibility of being sent home even ONCE with this child). The nurse watched my contractions and said, "They're coming close together and pretty hard, so I'm sure your cervix will change. I'll leave you alone for about an hour and we'll check again later. Just let me know if anything changes before then, okay?"
"Okay", I grumbled and heaved a sigh. This was already shaping up to be a replay of my former nightmare - The Chloe Delivery!
Just then I turned to talk to Bertrand and noticed his head was in his hands and he was slumped over in his chair.
"Honey? Are you okay?" I asked, a little concerned.
"No", he mumbled. "I feel terrible. My head hurts so bad and my throat is really sore."
"What? Really? You feel that bad? You seemed fine at home." I couldn't believe it. I thought surely he was exaggerating. And how dare he take the attention away from me. I was in labor and suffering! I needed him to dote on me. I needed him to help me breathe through contractions. For those of you who don't know The Chloe Delivery story, he was suffering with terribly painful abscesses due to MRSA and was laid out on a stretcher right next to me as I delivered my daughter, only to hold her a few minutes and then be whisked off to an emergency surgery. NIGHTMARE! I thought, "Oh not again. Don't you dare try to die of some strange disease again! Not while I'm delivering your child!"
Several hours later the nurse apprehensively entered the room, avoiding eye contact with me.
"I know what you're going to tell me," I muttered.
"I'm so sorry. I feel so bad." The nurse responded.
I heaved a huge sigh. "This is ridiculous! My body needs help. My other doctors all induced me because I go into labor, but my body can't finish. My doctor told me he'd help me."
"I know, but the problem is your doctor is not on call and this other doctor says you're not far enough along to be induced." She stated apologetically.
"I'm a few days away from 38 weeks!" I nearly shouted.
"I'm so sorry. The doctor said I could give you a light sedative."
"Look, it's okay. It's not your fault. I'm just frustrated. I'm miserable. I have been for weeks. My body doesn't do it alone, so I'm going to have to be helped, but I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. I'm getting no sleep and I can't even function and I have three other kids at home. This is just ridiculous!" I finally stopped my rant, realizing the poor nurse felt terrible, but could do nothing.
I went home and my husband's condition worsened. The following day, Monday, he stayed home from work. His fever was relentless. He was shaking and sweating and looked just awful. He told me he wanted to go to urgent care.
"Urgent care? Come on, hon, it's just a bad cold or flu or something. We don't need to be spending money on urgent care expenses. It'll go away. Just be patient. I know just what you need. Stay there. I'm running to the grocery store."
With that, I grabbed my purse, limped to the car and drove to Fry's where I purchased Vick's Vapo Rub (Chloe used up all of our supply - see story several posts ago where she rubbed the entire jar through her hair), V8 juice and more pain killer. I came home, ran my husband a hot bath and poured him a glass of V8. "Honey, drink this, rub some Vicks on you during your bath and after and go climb into bed, cover up and sweat it out. You'll feel great by tomorrow. I promise!"
The next morning he was much worse. At this point his condition was so bad, he had lost weight (which he doesn't have to lose in the first place), was pale and sweating profusely, burning up with a fever, and literally crying and begging me to please take him to urgent care.
I left my teenage son home with my ladies and drove up the street to the urgent care. I limped in alone, contractions going like crazy, and asked what a visit cost there (we have no insurance on my husband).
"$220 to be seen," the receptionist stated, opening a booklet. I could feel my eyes popping out of my head.
"And then", she continued, "Let's see. If he has any tests done that will cost more, depending on the tests, and then..."
I held up my hand. "That's enough. Sorry. That's WAY too expensive for us. We'll go elsewhere. Thanks anyway." With that I limped back out to the car, stopping halfway to catch my breath. My body was aching and laboring and I just wanted to sit and put my feet up, but that was not an option. I drove like mad to the next nearest urgent care and ran in. Their price was $98 flat. I ran and motioned for Bertrand who slowly made his way to the building, his body so weak, he shuffled in like a 90-year-old man. His fever was so high he couldn't even think straight. I had to fill in all of the information for him.
Long story short, he had a severe case of Strep throat, running a temperature of 104. OUCH! I felt TERRIBLE!
Wednesday, August 12th was another typical day - painful, heavy contractions all day long. I continued about my business, suffering, growing increasingly tired from lack of sleep, as the contractions would continue all night long every night. My neighbor, Vickie, felt bad that Bertrand was suffering from Strep and I was so miserable, that she offered to bring dinner over and I gladly accepted. When she arrived with dinner she could see that I was in terrible pain. She called for my son to bring her a stop watch and as she served dinner to my children (Bertrand was back in bed on medication, still suffering himself), she timed my contractions.
"These are really getting closer and heavier, it seems. You really ought to go in," She advised.
"No way," I replied. "They've already sent me home once. And with Chloe they sent he home three times. I am NOT going through that again. I won't go in until my water breaks."
Vickie insisted on staying and monitoring me. Bertrand began to worry. He was still very sick and contagious, but my contractions were getting to the point where we knew delivery was near. He called the bishop in a panic and asked him to come give him a blessing to heal him. Our bishop ran right over with one of our home teachers and when they walked in on the scene, the bishop couldn't believe his eyes. Bertrand sat in one chair, pale and feverish, hunched over, and I sat completely sprawled out on the couch opposite him, moaning and groaning, breathing through heavy contractions.
"What in the world is going on around here?" He chuckled in disbelief. "This is crazy!"
After listening to my bishop, my husband and my neighbor insist for several minutes that I get to a hospital immediately, I finally gave in and agreed to let my neighbor, Vickie, drive me. Bertrand stayed behind with the kids and my mother drove over right away to stay with the kids so Bertrand could go back to bed.
On the way to the hospital I again gripped the door handle and breathed through heavy contractions - all the way to the hospital - all the way in the front doors - all the way to the observation room....where they completely stopped! COMPLETELY! And I was perfectly fine.
That was it! That was the final straw. I was so upset, I was beside myself at this point. I couldn't take it any longer. They were going to have to get that baby out or I would reach up in there and get him out myself.
Again, the nurse came in and informed me that my doctor was STILL not on call and the same doctor who had turned me away days earlier was intending to turn me away again. Tears began rolling down my cheeks. I couldn't even speak.
"Oh, you're not sending her home," Vickie insisted. "She's been in labor for weeks. You've already sent her home once. She's not going home again."
"Ma'am, I understand," the nurse began, "but we have to follow the doctor's orders. My hands are tied. Her contractions aren't happening right now, she's only 38 weeks, and this doctor won't induce unless you're 39."
"Oh, that's ridiculous. Get her admitted. She's having this baby," Vickie persisted.
The nurse left the room and returned a few minutes later. "Okay", she said. "The doctor said I can admit you as a 'sleeper'. That means you'll be given a shot of morphine and monitored over night so you can get a good sleep. The next morning your own doctor will come in and assess you and decide what to do with you, okay?"
"No. I don't want that. I don't want to be in the hospital over night only to be sent home again. I'm leaving." I began to get up from the bed.
Long story short (AGAIN - there's a lot of these), after speaking with Vickie and my mom and husband for several minutes, and upon hearing the nurse's insistence that I take this offer, I agreed. I was wheeled into a labor and delivery suite, given a very long, painful shot of morphine in my right upper arm (it left a huge, disgusting bruise that covered almost my entire upper arm), the nurse surrounded me with pillows, turned on the spa music station on the TV, turned out the lights and left me with Vickie.
Earlier, back in the observation room, I had relayed a story to Vickie of how back in my Chloe days, a friend of mine massaged my feet for an hour because she said it would help induce labor and my water had broken from that incident, which allowed me to finally deliver Chloe at exactly 38 weeks. Vickie immediately reached into her purse, pulled out lotion and said, "Would you like a foot massage? I can give you one. I'm not that great at it, but I'll give you one."
"Oh no," I replied. "You don't have to do that. I was just saying that it's supposed to bring on labor, but I'm fine. I've got my morphine. I'm going to get some rest."
But Vickie insisted and after very little persuasion, I let her. She sat at the foot of my bed and massaged my feet for quite a while. It felt really good and I started to fall asleep. Her cell phone rang. It was her family. They needed her back. I felt so bad for keeping her from her family for so long. She had saved my sanity and now she had completely relaxed me. I was drifting off into dreamland....completely relaxed - drifting....drifting...........my breathing becoming more rhythmic.........
Now, some of you may be able to top this story, maybe even by a long shot, but when you have certain expectations and NOTHING goes according to plan, it's pretty upsetting - especially for someone like me who always has plan A, B and C in place before I do anything.
It all started with a random e-mail. The end of July I received an e-mail from an unknown sender. I know you're not supposed to open unknown e-mails. They could be dangerous. But this one had a very intriguing subject line. It read, "Kristin Coppee. A miracle will happen for you on August 13th". A miracle? I thought. Interesting. After a few days I told my husband about it. I even posted something about it on my facebook. I was making a joke of it. I don't believe in random e-mails like that.
Now, let's go back in time to the morning of Sunday, August 9th. I had been suffering Braxton-Hicks contractions throughout my last trimester, which was typical for me. However, with each week, they became increasingly aggressive and uncomfortable and began to feel more and more like labor. On Sunday morning, I was SURE I was in labor due to the fact that despite my efforts to stop the contractions, they would not let up and were coming closer and closer and harder and harder. Finally, I gave in and we called my mom who ran right over and took my ladies to her house so Bertrand could take me to the hospital. I gripped the door handle and breathed through my contractions as Bertrand squealed out of our cul-de-sac, flew over a couple of speed bumps and drove to the hospital like a maniac. Each of my children came with a quicker labor so we were pretty certain this one would pop out in the car if we didn't arrive at the hospital fast enough.
Upon arriving to the hospital, I was whisked into a room, placed in a hospital gown, and checked. I was dilated to a 1. That was it. A lousy 1! I felt so discouraged (with Chloe I was sent home from the hospital three times and I was NOT too thrilled about the possibility of being sent home even ONCE with this child). The nurse watched my contractions and said, "They're coming close together and pretty hard, so I'm sure your cervix will change. I'll leave you alone for about an hour and we'll check again later. Just let me know if anything changes before then, okay?"
"Okay", I grumbled and heaved a sigh. This was already shaping up to be a replay of my former nightmare - The Chloe Delivery!
Just then I turned to talk to Bertrand and noticed his head was in his hands and he was slumped over in his chair.
"Honey? Are you okay?" I asked, a little concerned.
"No", he mumbled. "I feel terrible. My head hurts so bad and my throat is really sore."
"What? Really? You feel that bad? You seemed fine at home." I couldn't believe it. I thought surely he was exaggerating. And how dare he take the attention away from me. I was in labor and suffering! I needed him to dote on me. I needed him to help me breathe through contractions. For those of you who don't know The Chloe Delivery story, he was suffering with terribly painful abscesses due to MRSA and was laid out on a stretcher right next to me as I delivered my daughter, only to hold her a few minutes and then be whisked off to an emergency surgery. NIGHTMARE! I thought, "Oh not again. Don't you dare try to die of some strange disease again! Not while I'm delivering your child!"
Several hours later the nurse apprehensively entered the room, avoiding eye contact with me.
"I know what you're going to tell me," I muttered.
"I'm so sorry. I feel so bad." The nurse responded.
I heaved a huge sigh. "This is ridiculous! My body needs help. My other doctors all induced me because I go into labor, but my body can't finish. My doctor told me he'd help me."
"I know, but the problem is your doctor is not on call and this other doctor says you're not far enough along to be induced." She stated apologetically.
"I'm a few days away from 38 weeks!" I nearly shouted.
"I'm so sorry. The doctor said I could give you a light sedative."
"Look, it's okay. It's not your fault. I'm just frustrated. I'm miserable. I have been for weeks. My body doesn't do it alone, so I'm going to have to be helped, but I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. I'm getting no sleep and I can't even function and I have three other kids at home. This is just ridiculous!" I finally stopped my rant, realizing the poor nurse felt terrible, but could do nothing.
I went home and my husband's condition worsened. The following day, Monday, he stayed home from work. His fever was relentless. He was shaking and sweating and looked just awful. He told me he wanted to go to urgent care.
"Urgent care? Come on, hon, it's just a bad cold or flu or something. We don't need to be spending money on urgent care expenses. It'll go away. Just be patient. I know just what you need. Stay there. I'm running to the grocery store."
With that, I grabbed my purse, limped to the car and drove to Fry's where I purchased Vick's Vapo Rub (Chloe used up all of our supply - see story several posts ago where she rubbed the entire jar through her hair), V8 juice and more pain killer. I came home, ran my husband a hot bath and poured him a glass of V8. "Honey, drink this, rub some Vicks on you during your bath and after and go climb into bed, cover up and sweat it out. You'll feel great by tomorrow. I promise!"
The next morning he was much worse. At this point his condition was so bad, he had lost weight (which he doesn't have to lose in the first place), was pale and sweating profusely, burning up with a fever, and literally crying and begging me to please take him to urgent care.
I left my teenage son home with my ladies and drove up the street to the urgent care. I limped in alone, contractions going like crazy, and asked what a visit cost there (we have no insurance on my husband).
"$220 to be seen," the receptionist stated, opening a booklet. I could feel my eyes popping out of my head.
"And then", she continued, "Let's see. If he has any tests done that will cost more, depending on the tests, and then..."
I held up my hand. "That's enough. Sorry. That's WAY too expensive for us. We'll go elsewhere. Thanks anyway." With that I limped back out to the car, stopping halfway to catch my breath. My body was aching and laboring and I just wanted to sit and put my feet up, but that was not an option. I drove like mad to the next nearest urgent care and ran in. Their price was $98 flat. I ran and motioned for Bertrand who slowly made his way to the building, his body so weak, he shuffled in like a 90-year-old man. His fever was so high he couldn't even think straight. I had to fill in all of the information for him.
Long story short, he had a severe case of Strep throat, running a temperature of 104. OUCH! I felt TERRIBLE!
Wednesday, August 12th was another typical day - painful, heavy contractions all day long. I continued about my business, suffering, growing increasingly tired from lack of sleep, as the contractions would continue all night long every night. My neighbor, Vickie, felt bad that Bertrand was suffering from Strep and I was so miserable, that she offered to bring dinner over and I gladly accepted. When she arrived with dinner she could see that I was in terrible pain. She called for my son to bring her a stop watch and as she served dinner to my children (Bertrand was back in bed on medication, still suffering himself), she timed my contractions.
"These are really getting closer and heavier, it seems. You really ought to go in," She advised.
"No way," I replied. "They've already sent me home once. And with Chloe they sent he home three times. I am NOT going through that again. I won't go in until my water breaks."
Vickie insisted on staying and monitoring me. Bertrand began to worry. He was still very sick and contagious, but my contractions were getting to the point where we knew delivery was near. He called the bishop in a panic and asked him to come give him a blessing to heal him. Our bishop ran right over with one of our home teachers and when they walked in on the scene, the bishop couldn't believe his eyes. Bertrand sat in one chair, pale and feverish, hunched over, and I sat completely sprawled out on the couch opposite him, moaning and groaning, breathing through heavy contractions.
"What in the world is going on around here?" He chuckled in disbelief. "This is crazy!"
After listening to my bishop, my husband and my neighbor insist for several minutes that I get to a hospital immediately, I finally gave in and agreed to let my neighbor, Vickie, drive me. Bertrand stayed behind with the kids and my mother drove over right away to stay with the kids so Bertrand could go back to bed.
On the way to the hospital I again gripped the door handle and breathed through heavy contractions - all the way to the hospital - all the way in the front doors - all the way to the observation room....where they completely stopped! COMPLETELY! And I was perfectly fine.
That was it! That was the final straw. I was so upset, I was beside myself at this point. I couldn't take it any longer. They were going to have to get that baby out or I would reach up in there and get him out myself.
Again, the nurse came in and informed me that my doctor was STILL not on call and the same doctor who had turned me away days earlier was intending to turn me away again. Tears began rolling down my cheeks. I couldn't even speak.
"Oh, you're not sending her home," Vickie insisted. "She's been in labor for weeks. You've already sent her home once. She's not going home again."
"Ma'am, I understand," the nurse began, "but we have to follow the doctor's orders. My hands are tied. Her contractions aren't happening right now, she's only 38 weeks, and this doctor won't induce unless you're 39."
"Oh, that's ridiculous. Get her admitted. She's having this baby," Vickie persisted.
The nurse left the room and returned a few minutes later. "Okay", she said. "The doctor said I can admit you as a 'sleeper'. That means you'll be given a shot of morphine and monitored over night so you can get a good sleep. The next morning your own doctor will come in and assess you and decide what to do with you, okay?"
"No. I don't want that. I don't want to be in the hospital over night only to be sent home again. I'm leaving." I began to get up from the bed.
Long story short (AGAIN - there's a lot of these), after speaking with Vickie and my mom and husband for several minutes, and upon hearing the nurse's insistence that I take this offer, I agreed. I was wheeled into a labor and delivery suite, given a very long, painful shot of morphine in my right upper arm (it left a huge, disgusting bruise that covered almost my entire upper arm), the nurse surrounded me with pillows, turned on the spa music station on the TV, turned out the lights and left me with Vickie.
Earlier, back in the observation room, I had relayed a story to Vickie of how back in my Chloe days, a friend of mine massaged my feet for an hour because she said it would help induce labor and my water had broken from that incident, which allowed me to finally deliver Chloe at exactly 38 weeks. Vickie immediately reached into her purse, pulled out lotion and said, "Would you like a foot massage? I can give you one. I'm not that great at it, but I'll give you one."
"Oh no," I replied. "You don't have to do that. I was just saying that it's supposed to bring on labor, but I'm fine. I've got my morphine. I'm going to get some rest."
But Vickie insisted and after very little persuasion, I let her. She sat at the foot of my bed and massaged my feet for quite a while. It felt really good and I started to fall asleep. Her cell phone rang. It was her family. They needed her back. I felt so bad for keeping her from her family for so long. She had saved my sanity and now she had completely relaxed me. I was drifting off into dreamland....completely relaxed - drifting....drifting...........my breathing becoming more rhythmic.........
POP!
I sat straight up in my bed. My legs suddenly felt very warm. I rubbed my eyes and squinted in the barely lit room. The clock on the wall showed 12:00 midnight exactly! It was August 13th. (Remember the random e-mail? Bum! Bum! Bummm! Spooky). It was then I realized - my water had just broken. Vickie had just finished rubbing my feet only two hours ago. Looks like the massage worked (I told her she should really start a side business).
I pushed the call button for the nurse. A voice on the other end responded, "Yes. Can I help you?"
"Ummm..." I began a little hesitantly. "I think my water broke?"
"Oh good," the voice sounded genuinely happy and excited. "We'll send your nurse in right away." I laid back in bed and smiled in relief. Suddenly I heard a faint cheering coming from outside my door. Apparently all of the nurses at the nursing station were cheering me on.
My nurse came rushing in with a big smile on her face. "Oh, I'm so happy for you. This is great. Now you REALLY won't get sent home. You're gonna' have this baby!"
"Yay!" I replied.
And so, all of the preparations were made. I let her know I wanted the epidural and that my other labors had happened fairly quickly once my water broke, so she called the anesthesiologist right in. The nurse was impressed with how well I took the epidural. "Wow!" She exclaimed. "You did great! Good girl!"
"Well, I'm totally doped up on morphine," I reminded her. "I barely felt that." (It's the way to go, ladies. Get a shot of morphine first. It's painful, but not nearly as painful as the epidural.)
After I was all settled in and resting comfortably on my anesthesia, the nurse readjusted my pillows, turned out the lights again, and turned up my spa music. "All right, hon. Let me know if you need anything."
I lay there smiling in the dark. FINALLY! This was going to happen! After all of the suffering. My sweet baby boy would be arriving very soon, I thought to myself.
Early the next morning I called Bertrand. "Honey, my water broke last night. I'm on the epidural and I'm going to be having this baby soon, so you might want to get down here."
Because Bertrand had only been on antibiotics for his Strep throat for 24 hours, the nurses hesitantly agreed to let him be present as long as he promised to wear a mask and gloves. He rushed down to the hospital, my mom not far behind him. Upon their arrival the nurse informed them that I was still at a 4 and they were getting ready to start Pitocin to help me along.
And so we all sat and visited. An hour passed.
And another.
And another.
"Wow, honey! I thought you said this baby was coming soon," Bertrand quipped.
I heaved a big sigh. I was tired of laying on my backside in the bed....waiting - something I'm not very good at, by the way, in case you don't know me well. Heck, you don't even have to know me well to know I'm not good at the waiting game. My mom and husband went to the hospital cafeteria to grab some food. They were starving.
So was I. HOWEVER, because I was now on the epidural and in labor, I was not allowed to eat. I got ice chips. Glorious, tasteless ice chips. Wonderful. Bertrand scarfed his food down and paced around my bed, checking out all of the equipment I was hooked up to, crunching away at his Doritos.
"You know, you're not being very nice right now, honey," I glared at him in frustration.
"Sorry, babe. It's just payback for making me suffer with Strep throat for days." He laughed. Alone. Not funny.
Just then a nurse came in and checked my vitals and monitors. "Hmmm..your oxygen saturation is low. I think the morphine is having a bad effect on you," the nurse said as she pulled out some oxygen. "Here. You're going to have to wear this for a while, okay?" She started to put the mask over my face and I panicked.
I batted at the mask and turned away, gasping for air.
"Honey, this is oxygen, what's wrong?" she asked, fighting against my resistance to get the mask on.
"I can't," I gasped and sputtered. "I can't just have oxygen put on me like that. I have to ease into it."
Yes, you read that right. I have to EASE into oxygen. Why? I don't know. I'm a freak of nature. It's this whole anxiety thing about something being put over my face that's blowing into it too hard. I can ride a rollercoaster just fine. I can ride on a motorcycle just fine. I can ride with the windows down in my car just fine - all activities, which produce a lot of oxygen blowing in my face. However, the mask is a different story.
ANYWAY...
My mom and husband were giving up on me and I was exhausted. I wanted my sleep. My mom went home and Bertrand fell asleep in the chair. And I lay there, my backside aching from so much pressure from all of my weight for so many hours. I tried to sleep, but the alarms kept going off signaling that my oxygen levels were low. I tried to keep the mask on, but it was uncomfortable. I wanted my dang sleep. My labor had pretty much stopped. I was not progressing at all. Hours had passed. My frustration grew more intense. I started to feel hopeless. Would this baby EVER come out?!
The nurses had to come in every hour or so and turn me in the bed. Now, these were tiny nurses and I was a whopping 198 pounds. Yeah! 5' 4", 198 pounds. NOT pretty. NOT cute in any way, shape or form. Every time the nurses came in and prepared to turn me, I'd warn them about my weight. "I hope you work out because you're about to lift 198 pounds of dead weight," I said one time. The nurse just chuckled and said, "Oh honey, don't worry about it" and then would grunt and groan as she tried to turn me in the bed. I was on an epidural and completely paralyzed. I tried to use my arms to help turn myself, but I have no upper body strength, so I was pretty much useless. I was a beached whale. Literally. Get a visual in your imagination. Google it and check out the picture of what that looks like. I don't need to post a picture, just check out the beached whale and imagine my head on it. Cut and paste one if you need extra help visualizing that. Go ahead. You have my permission.
Several more hours passed. I was reduced to tears. "This is ridiculous!" I cried. "My last two babies came so fast. This is turning out to be just like my very first delivery. It's taking forever!" It was now 4:30 PM. I had been sitting at an 8 for several hours. I had been laying in bed on an epidural NOT progressing! I was completely uncomfortable and exhausted. I just wanted it to end! I felt like I was letting everyone down - all the people waiting. My doctor kept coming in and checking me and making statements like, "Any time now. Within an hour you'll be delivering." My parents brought the kids down and kept them in the waiting room. Everyone was SURE this was going to happen at any moment.
Another hour passed.
And another.
Nothing. Still an 8. At this point they were running Pitocin through me every 10 minutes. They were just pumping it and pumping it and checking me constantly.
Nothing.
They raised the bed up so I was in a seated position. Everyone sat in chairs at the foot of the bed. Just staring. Another nurse walked in just then.
"Welcome to the freak show," I stated, motioning with my arm toward the small crowd. "Take a seat and enjoy."
"Aw, come on, honey. This will be over soon," my mom tried to reassure me.
"No. No, I've given up on ever having this baby. He's gonna' come sometime next year, I think." I heaved a big sigh.
"Oh no, dear. You have to have this baby within the next 24 hours. We'll take him by C-section if we have to," the nurse responded.
I smiled weakly. I was joking. Apparently she thought I was that stupid. I looked stupid. That's for sure. I felt ridiculous! I'm surprised no one made signs, "SAVE THE BEACHED WHALE" and posted them about the hospital. I'm surprised a news crew didn't show up and do the big story. Literally. Big. HUGE!
It was nearly 7:00 now and my doctor came in to check again. Still an 8. His wife had called and scolded him, warning him that he had better get home for dinner. Or else! He apologized and left the room. I was a hopeless cause. He gave up. Someone else's turn to deal with the mess.
Another doctor entered, shook my hand and tried to reassure me, "You'll have this baby soon. I promise." He checked me and said, "Ah, a 9 now. See? Not much longer." Everyone stood around watching. Waiting. I started to feel quite a bit of discomfort.
"I think my epidural is starting to wear off," I advised the nurse. "It's really starting to hurt."
"Are you going to be okay?" The nurse asked.
"Well, yeah - if the baby comes soon. My epidural was only half when I had Chloe and I did fine, so I should be fine."
Half an hour later I was FINALLY ready to push.
"Okay, let's do this," the doctor stated, positioning my legs (with much help from the nurses and my husband) in the stirrups. "How good are you with pushing?" The doctor asked.
"Oh, I'm really good at pushing. I had my last two babies out in 2-3 pushes, so this should go quickly," I assured him.
"Great!" he replied. "On your next contraction go ahead and push."
I felt my stomach start to harden, I felt the pain begin and increase in intensity.
"Okay, push!" the doctor and nurse both called out at the same time.
I sucked in a deep breath, grabbed my legs and beared down. That's when I felt it. The intense, burning, ripping pain of natural labor - no epidural. It was gone. Done. Over. This was 100% natural. Just the way I DIDN'T want it.
"AAAAAHHHHHH!" I screamed. "I can feel it! I feel everything! I don't want to! It hurts so bad!"
"Just push" the doctor and nurse yelled. "You can do it!"
I pushed and yelled out. "NO! I can't! I can't do it! OH MY GOSH! I wanna' die! Please! I'm gonna' DIE! AAAAHHHHH!!!"
The pain was so intense, I can't even describe. You can never know the feeling unless you actually go through it. I NEVER want to feel that again. I felt like I was ripping in half. It was intense, it was traumatic, it was frightening. I yelled and groaned and called out to God to please take me away. I looked to my husband with desperation. I could see the horror in his eyes. Tears were welling up in them. He had never seen me like this. My other labors were wonderful, quick, easy, painless....pleasant, if you can even fathom putting the words pleasant and labor together. Yes, I had experienced pleasant labors.
Not this time. This was horrific! I felt like it would never end.
Ten pushes later, the head was still stuck. I couldn't get it out.
"GET IT OUT! I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!" I screamed. "PLEASE! PLEASE!" I pleaded out loud with God again to PLEASE take me out of my misery. Please spare me.
Just then the doctor stopped, looked up into my eyes and our eyes locked for a few seconds. I could see the worry and it scared me. "What's happening?" I sobbed. "Pleeaaase. Please help me. It hurts so bad I can't stand it."
He reached over and grabbed an instrument. The light caught it and the gleam shone in my eye. It was a knife. I gasped.
"Gah" I sputtered as he cut me. I felt it. I felt my body being cut open. Everything fell silent. I couldn't hear. My ears were ringing. My teeth began chattering.
And then suddenly the silence was interrupted. "Push!" The doctor and nurse called out again. I gasped in a big gulp of air and bore down hard.
"Yay! The head is out!" Everyone called out at the same time. The doctor began moving his arms about in a strange motion, working feverishly. Again, I could see desperation on his face. I wanted to push again. I wanted the pain to stop. I couldn't stand it. Why was he making me wait? What was he doing?
Finally he called out again, "Push. This is it. Let's get the shoulders and out!" I pushed hard a few more times and FINALLY! I felt instant relief. Somewhat. The intense burning was still very present. I still get twinges of that pain from time to time. I fell back against the bed and gasped for air, sobbing in between breaths.
But there was no sound. No crying baby. The doctor didn't hold him up for me to see. The room fell silent and the doctor continued to work feverishly at the bottom of the bed. My baby out of my sight.
"What's happening?" I managed in a weak voice.
"Just cleaning the baby up," the nurse assured me.
"Oh," I replied and fell back against the bed again, still trying to catch my breath.
Just then the doctor turned abruptly, my baby in his arms, and walked briskly to the warmer. The nurses followed and gathered around, blocking my view. Nobody said a word. The doctor continued to work feverishly. Still, no sound coming from my baby. I could feel fresh tears welling up in my eyes. I had no idea what was happening, but the feeling in the room was not a good one.
"Why isn't he crying?" I called out. "Is he okay?"
I don't know who said it, but somebody tried to reassure me that he was still "getting cleaned up."
FINALLY, I heard a cry. A huge sigh of relief washed over the room. Everyone suddenly looked more relaxed. My son was wrapped in a blanket and brought to me. It was then that I was informed that the reason I couldn't get him out was because the umbilical cord had been wrapped around his neck twice and he was blue and not breathing. It took the doctor a few minutes to get him going. Very scary. I'm so thankful that my son and I survived that horrific ordeal.
When the nurse took me to the bathroom to clean up, she kneeled down at my feet to help me and looked up into my eyes, hers filled with tears.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I feel so terrible. We should have given you another epidural bolus. We just didn't know what to do. We didn't want you to have to sit around for four hours afterward waiting for the feeling to come back".
"It's okay," I whispered through teary eyes. "I thought I would be okay too. I am. I'm fine. I'm just glad it's over."
Eventually I was wheeled to my recovery room with my son. We made a very brief stop at the nurse's station. Apparently word had already arrived there that I had been through a traumatic delivery and needed to be drugged up and left alone. "Oh you're the one," I heard repeatedly over the next several hours. "You poor thing." All this did was induce more tears and sobbing.
Despite the beautiful drugs they gave me and the fact that they took my son to "the cottage" for the night so I could sleep, I lay awake in a dark, lonely room, reliving my delivery experience over and over and over, sobbing all throughout the night.
I pushed the call button for the nurse. A voice on the other end responded, "Yes. Can I help you?"
"Ummm..." I began a little hesitantly. "I think my water broke?"
"Oh good," the voice sounded genuinely happy and excited. "We'll send your nurse in right away." I laid back in bed and smiled in relief. Suddenly I heard a faint cheering coming from outside my door. Apparently all of the nurses at the nursing station were cheering me on.
My nurse came rushing in with a big smile on her face. "Oh, I'm so happy for you. This is great. Now you REALLY won't get sent home. You're gonna' have this baby!"
"Yay!" I replied.
And so, all of the preparations were made. I let her know I wanted the epidural and that my other labors had happened fairly quickly once my water broke, so she called the anesthesiologist right in. The nurse was impressed with how well I took the epidural. "Wow!" She exclaimed. "You did great! Good girl!"
"Well, I'm totally doped up on morphine," I reminded her. "I barely felt that." (It's the way to go, ladies. Get a shot of morphine first. It's painful, but not nearly as painful as the epidural.)
After I was all settled in and resting comfortably on my anesthesia, the nurse readjusted my pillows, turned out the lights again, and turned up my spa music. "All right, hon. Let me know if you need anything."
I lay there smiling in the dark. FINALLY! This was going to happen! After all of the suffering. My sweet baby boy would be arriving very soon, I thought to myself.
Early the next morning I called Bertrand. "Honey, my water broke last night. I'm on the epidural and I'm going to be having this baby soon, so you might want to get down here."
Because Bertrand had only been on antibiotics for his Strep throat for 24 hours, the nurses hesitantly agreed to let him be present as long as he promised to wear a mask and gloves. He rushed down to the hospital, my mom not far behind him. Upon their arrival the nurse informed them that I was still at a 4 and they were getting ready to start Pitocin to help me along.
And so we all sat and visited. An hour passed.
And another.
And another.
"Wow, honey! I thought you said this baby was coming soon," Bertrand quipped.
I heaved a big sigh. I was tired of laying on my backside in the bed....waiting - something I'm not very good at, by the way, in case you don't know me well. Heck, you don't even have to know me well to know I'm not good at the waiting game. My mom and husband went to the hospital cafeteria to grab some food. They were starving.
So was I. HOWEVER, because I was now on the epidural and in labor, I was not allowed to eat. I got ice chips. Glorious, tasteless ice chips. Wonderful. Bertrand scarfed his food down and paced around my bed, checking out all of the equipment I was hooked up to, crunching away at his Doritos.
"You know, you're not being very nice right now, honey," I glared at him in frustration.
"Sorry, babe. It's just payback for making me suffer with Strep throat for days." He laughed. Alone. Not funny.
Just then a nurse came in and checked my vitals and monitors. "Hmmm..your oxygen saturation is low. I think the morphine is having a bad effect on you," the nurse said as she pulled out some oxygen. "Here. You're going to have to wear this for a while, okay?" She started to put the mask over my face and I panicked.
I batted at the mask and turned away, gasping for air.
"Honey, this is oxygen, what's wrong?" she asked, fighting against my resistance to get the mask on.
"I can't," I gasped and sputtered. "I can't just have oxygen put on me like that. I have to ease into it."
Yes, you read that right. I have to EASE into oxygen. Why? I don't know. I'm a freak of nature. It's this whole anxiety thing about something being put over my face that's blowing into it too hard. I can ride a rollercoaster just fine. I can ride on a motorcycle just fine. I can ride with the windows down in my car just fine - all activities, which produce a lot of oxygen blowing in my face. However, the mask is a different story.
ANYWAY...
My mom and husband were giving up on me and I was exhausted. I wanted my sleep. My mom went home and Bertrand fell asleep in the chair. And I lay there, my backside aching from so much pressure from all of my weight for so many hours. I tried to sleep, but the alarms kept going off signaling that my oxygen levels were low. I tried to keep the mask on, but it was uncomfortable. I wanted my dang sleep. My labor had pretty much stopped. I was not progressing at all. Hours had passed. My frustration grew more intense. I started to feel hopeless. Would this baby EVER come out?!
The nurses had to come in every hour or so and turn me in the bed. Now, these were tiny nurses and I was a whopping 198 pounds. Yeah! 5' 4", 198 pounds. NOT pretty. NOT cute in any way, shape or form. Every time the nurses came in and prepared to turn me, I'd warn them about my weight. "I hope you work out because you're about to lift 198 pounds of dead weight," I said one time. The nurse just chuckled and said, "Oh honey, don't worry about it" and then would grunt and groan as she tried to turn me in the bed. I was on an epidural and completely paralyzed. I tried to use my arms to help turn myself, but I have no upper body strength, so I was pretty much useless. I was a beached whale. Literally. Get a visual in your imagination. Google it and check out the picture of what that looks like. I don't need to post a picture, just check out the beached whale and imagine my head on it. Cut and paste one if you need extra help visualizing that. Go ahead. You have my permission.
Several more hours passed. I was reduced to tears. "This is ridiculous!" I cried. "My last two babies came so fast. This is turning out to be just like my very first delivery. It's taking forever!" It was now 4:30 PM. I had been sitting at an 8 for several hours. I had been laying in bed on an epidural NOT progressing! I was completely uncomfortable and exhausted. I just wanted it to end! I felt like I was letting everyone down - all the people waiting. My doctor kept coming in and checking me and making statements like, "Any time now. Within an hour you'll be delivering." My parents brought the kids down and kept them in the waiting room. Everyone was SURE this was going to happen at any moment.
Another hour passed.
And another.
Nothing. Still an 8. At this point they were running Pitocin through me every 10 minutes. They were just pumping it and pumping it and checking me constantly.
Nothing.
They raised the bed up so I was in a seated position. Everyone sat in chairs at the foot of the bed. Just staring. Another nurse walked in just then.
"Welcome to the freak show," I stated, motioning with my arm toward the small crowd. "Take a seat and enjoy."
"Aw, come on, honey. This will be over soon," my mom tried to reassure me.
"No. No, I've given up on ever having this baby. He's gonna' come sometime next year, I think." I heaved a big sigh.
"Oh no, dear. You have to have this baby within the next 24 hours. We'll take him by C-section if we have to," the nurse responded.
I smiled weakly. I was joking. Apparently she thought I was that stupid. I looked stupid. That's for sure. I felt ridiculous! I'm surprised no one made signs, "SAVE THE BEACHED WHALE" and posted them about the hospital. I'm surprised a news crew didn't show up and do the big story. Literally. Big. HUGE!
It was nearly 7:00 now and my doctor came in to check again. Still an 8. His wife had called and scolded him, warning him that he had better get home for dinner. Or else! He apologized and left the room. I was a hopeless cause. He gave up. Someone else's turn to deal with the mess.
Another doctor entered, shook my hand and tried to reassure me, "You'll have this baby soon. I promise." He checked me and said, "Ah, a 9 now. See? Not much longer." Everyone stood around watching. Waiting. I started to feel quite a bit of discomfort.
"I think my epidural is starting to wear off," I advised the nurse. "It's really starting to hurt."
"Are you going to be okay?" The nurse asked.
"Well, yeah - if the baby comes soon. My epidural was only half when I had Chloe and I did fine, so I should be fine."
Half an hour later I was FINALLY ready to push.
"Okay, let's do this," the doctor stated, positioning my legs (with much help from the nurses and my husband) in the stirrups. "How good are you with pushing?" The doctor asked.
"Oh, I'm really good at pushing. I had my last two babies out in 2-3 pushes, so this should go quickly," I assured him.
"Great!" he replied. "On your next contraction go ahead and push."
I felt my stomach start to harden, I felt the pain begin and increase in intensity.
"Okay, push!" the doctor and nurse both called out at the same time.
I sucked in a deep breath, grabbed my legs and beared down. That's when I felt it. The intense, burning, ripping pain of natural labor - no epidural. It was gone. Done. Over. This was 100% natural. Just the way I DIDN'T want it.
"AAAAAHHHHHH!" I screamed. "I can feel it! I feel everything! I don't want to! It hurts so bad!"
"Just push" the doctor and nurse yelled. "You can do it!"
I pushed and yelled out. "NO! I can't! I can't do it! OH MY GOSH! I wanna' die! Please! I'm gonna' DIE! AAAAHHHHH!!!"
The pain was so intense, I can't even describe. You can never know the feeling unless you actually go through it. I NEVER want to feel that again. I felt like I was ripping in half. It was intense, it was traumatic, it was frightening. I yelled and groaned and called out to God to please take me away. I looked to my husband with desperation. I could see the horror in his eyes. Tears were welling up in them. He had never seen me like this. My other labors were wonderful, quick, easy, painless....pleasant, if you can even fathom putting the words pleasant and labor together. Yes, I had experienced pleasant labors.
Not this time. This was horrific! I felt like it would never end.
Ten pushes later, the head was still stuck. I couldn't get it out.
"GET IT OUT! I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!" I screamed. "PLEASE! PLEASE!" I pleaded out loud with God again to PLEASE take me out of my misery. Please spare me.
Just then the doctor stopped, looked up into my eyes and our eyes locked for a few seconds. I could see the worry and it scared me. "What's happening?" I sobbed. "Pleeaaase. Please help me. It hurts so bad I can't stand it."
He reached over and grabbed an instrument. The light caught it and the gleam shone in my eye. It was a knife. I gasped.
"Gah" I sputtered as he cut me. I felt it. I felt my body being cut open. Everything fell silent. I couldn't hear. My ears were ringing. My teeth began chattering.
And then suddenly the silence was interrupted. "Push!" The doctor and nurse called out again. I gasped in a big gulp of air and bore down hard.
"Yay! The head is out!" Everyone called out at the same time. The doctor began moving his arms about in a strange motion, working feverishly. Again, I could see desperation on his face. I wanted to push again. I wanted the pain to stop. I couldn't stand it. Why was he making me wait? What was he doing?
Finally he called out again, "Push. This is it. Let's get the shoulders and out!" I pushed hard a few more times and FINALLY! I felt instant relief. Somewhat. The intense burning was still very present. I still get twinges of that pain from time to time. I fell back against the bed and gasped for air, sobbing in between breaths.
But there was no sound. No crying baby. The doctor didn't hold him up for me to see. The room fell silent and the doctor continued to work feverishly at the bottom of the bed. My baby out of my sight.
"What's happening?" I managed in a weak voice.
"Just cleaning the baby up," the nurse assured me.
"Oh," I replied and fell back against the bed again, still trying to catch my breath.
Just then the doctor turned abruptly, my baby in his arms, and walked briskly to the warmer. The nurses followed and gathered around, blocking my view. Nobody said a word. The doctor continued to work feverishly. Still, no sound coming from my baby. I could feel fresh tears welling up in my eyes. I had no idea what was happening, but the feeling in the room was not a good one.
"Why isn't he crying?" I called out. "Is he okay?"
I don't know who said it, but somebody tried to reassure me that he was still "getting cleaned up."
FINALLY, I heard a cry. A huge sigh of relief washed over the room. Everyone suddenly looked more relaxed. My son was wrapped in a blanket and brought to me. It was then that I was informed that the reason I couldn't get him out was because the umbilical cord had been wrapped around his neck twice and he was blue and not breathing. It took the doctor a few minutes to get him going. Very scary. I'm so thankful that my son and I survived that horrific ordeal.
When the nurse took me to the bathroom to clean up, she kneeled down at my feet to help me and looked up into my eyes, hers filled with tears.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I feel so terrible. We should have given you another epidural bolus. We just didn't know what to do. We didn't want you to have to sit around for four hours afterward waiting for the feeling to come back".
"It's okay," I whispered through teary eyes. "I thought I would be okay too. I am. I'm fine. I'm just glad it's over."
Eventually I was wheeled to my recovery room with my son. We made a very brief stop at the nurse's station. Apparently word had already arrived there that I had been through a traumatic delivery and needed to be drugged up and left alone. "Oh you're the one," I heard repeatedly over the next several hours. "You poor thing." All this did was induce more tears and sobbing.
Despite the beautiful drugs they gave me and the fact that they took my son to "the cottage" for the night so I could sleep, I lay awake in a dark, lonely room, reliving my delivery experience over and over and over, sobbing all throughout the night.
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