30 Hours

by Cookie

1005726_10151461896461423_1317257488_n

30 hours.

That’s how long I spent trying to get him out.  30 hours.   No drugs, no bullshit, just good, old fashioned dig in and bear it childbirth.  And you know what?  I feel pretty much like a superhero about it.  Someone get me a cape.

So.  On my due date, July 1st, I was sitting in my living room chatting with my neighbour around 8 pm when I started having some far apart, but regular contractions.  NO worries.  This had been going on for days.  They would usually last a hour or two and go away.  But a few hours later, they were significantly closer together and quite regular.  I had the “this is it” feeling.  I made the calls to my husband at work, my doula and my mother in law and put them all on standby.

I decided around midnight that Husband should come home, because labour with Destroyer had started off slowly, and then she just sorta shot out all of a sudden.  Nice visual, right?

By 4am, I was 5 minutes apart.  Not un-managemable pain, but we thought we should get our doula moving.  She came right over, and I decided to slip into a tub of warm water.  And totally fucking stalled my labour.  By the time I got out, the contractions were 15 minutes apart again.  Same intensity, but now we needed to build back up to where we were.  So we walked the dogs.  I bounced on the stupid ball.  Nothing.  I hang my head in stupidity and told Doula to go home and get some rest, and that I’d call her when I wasn’t pretending to have a baby.

My mother in law came over to hang out with Destroyer while Husband and I tried to get a bit of sleep.  In between contractions.  Yeah, ok.  Whatever.

So throughout the day, things built up slowly. I was still sorta convinced I was faking it, but by 6 pm on July 2nd, I thought maybe we should go in and see if I was progressing at all.  Before we left I had a good cry for my Twee Destroyer.  For her last moments as my one and only little love.  It made me feel incredibly sad for her.

Fast forward to triage.  I am 5 cm already.  Halfway there?  You’re keeping me?  Then End is in sight!  They tell us to go walking for half an hour and come back while they get a room ready, so we head downstairs to the coffee shop in the meantime.  I need to sneak in a sandwich before we go back, because I know those bitches are gonna starve me once I’m in my room.  Nothing sexier than watching a woman in active labour waddle around a hallway, eating bites of an egg salad sandwich between double-me-over-a-chair contractions.

So we go back up and I immediately sink to my knees on the floor of my room and collapse over the bed.  I beg them to fill a labouring tub for me because things are starting to rock and roll.  They do, but in the meantime we head over to the shower to try and take the edge off.

Now of course, we are in a hospital setting, so they want to be able to treat me for something.  So, my pulse and blood pressure start to go up and I agree to let them start an IV to help me stay hydrated.  Ummmm….did anyone stop and think that being in labour for 24 hours already and the lack of sleep might contribute to this?  Of course not.  So now they won’t let me in the water because of my blood pressure.  Bloody. Hell.

BY 10:30, the contractions are getting pretty bad.  I ask the nurse to check, and I am still at 5cm.  Are you fucking kidding me?  All those hours?  For nothing?  

The nurse suggests we consider having my water broken. I’m down, because this baby needs to vacate the fucking premises soon.  I’m getting close to a breakdown.  They make the call, and the senior resident says she’ll be by shortly to do so.

Enter:  The Troll Queen.

Let me say this.  Had I not had a doula present, this bitch might have broken me.  She was rude, apathetic, condescending and downright mean at times.  So she strolls in, describes the procedure and proceeds to inform me that if I can’t dilate past 5cm within a couple of hours we’ll have to start talking about oxytocin.  Like a threat.  “That’s a conversation you can have with yourself”  I tell her.  Because there is no way I’m taking any of that shit.  As if my contractions weren’t horrible enough.Her student breaks my water. She leaves.  Thank God.

This was about 12:30 am.  Now on July 3.  How long have I been in labour?  Seriously.  I look down, and see IV’s,  tubes and monitors and I want to fucking scream.   I turn to my doula and say ” this is quickly deteriorating into everything I didn’t want it to be. I need off these monitors, and off this bed, or I’m never going to get him out.”  She nods, and asks the nurse to find out if we can get mobile again.

We wait ten minutes, and to my surprise the Troll Queen gives the ok to take me off the monitors.  The second I get off the bed, I feel a change.  I beg them to fill a labouring tub for me, and head back to my shower to try and fend off the pain in the meantime.  So I spend the next 15 minutes or so doubled over the sink, running my head under the tap and fucking screaming through each contraction.  They were awful at this point.  With every one, I can feel his head descending lower and squeezing out my water.  It was so gross, but I knew the end was going to come fast.

The tub is still not ready.  OMG why does it take so long?  So now I’m in the shower.  And I start to feel that “pushy” feeling as I squat, kneel, do anything to try and get a hold of myself.  Someone comes to check me again and tries to tell me I have to go back to bed to make it easier for them.  Hahaha.   Guess who is not the least bit concerned about what is easier for them?  I tell no fucking way am I doing it.  “Find another way” is what I tell them.  And you know what?  She did.  7-8cm. Here he comes.  With Destroyer it took me less than 10 minutes to go from 7 to 10.

Somehow, I make it to the bed and try to hold off pushing while I balance on all fours.  At one point I look up at my Doula and say “I think I’m dying, and he’s coming out my bum”.  Cause that’s what it feels like.  For reals.  Oh and guess what?  The Troll Queen is back.  “Are you going to have your baby on all fours, or are you going to turn around so I can check your dilation?”  She says.

Had I been in my right mind, I would have told her to go fuck herself and get out, but for some reason I manage to turn around.  9-9.5 cm.  “Don’t push”  she says.  “I’m not, but he doesn’t care.  He’s coming.”  I scream back at her.  ” If you push you’re going to tear your cervix and you’ll need surgery” she threatens.  ” He’s coming!”  I scream again.

So the bitch left.  Can you fucking believe it? I tell her I’m about to crown and she leaves? Good riddance.  Now there is one nurse, Husband and my doula in the room.

So I look at Husband and ask him if he can see the head.  He says no.  The nurse laughs. ” You’re not there yet” ( or something like that).

Next contraction.  Out comes his head.  I fucking told you so, bitches.  This ain’t my first rodeo.  And then it is chaos so I close my eyes for a couple of minutes and hear someone tell me to give just a little push, and I pray it isn’t the Troll Queen because I would seriously have to punch her once it’s all over.

And then it’s done.  He’s out.  He’s on me.  And I’m so relieved and so in love and I just want him.  And it was worth every horribly beautiful second of those 30 hours.  And I would do it all again tomorrow for him.  And the next day and the next.

And then I open my eyes.  And there, between my knees is a super hot, young doctor stitching up my vagina.  “Hey don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asks.  Are you kidding?  Only to me would that awkward moment happen.  Only to me.

And that, bitches, is how I got My Little Buddy out.  Finally, at 1:35 am, July 3, 2013.

Advertisements