by Linda J. Redd
I was sitting in the doctor's office on March 26, 1986. The last two times that I had been in, he hadn't told me what I really wanted to hear. Instead of "Any time now," each time it had been "See you next week." I was tired of being pregnant. I had gained thirty-two pounds, every ounce within a one foot radius. When the doctor came into the room, I pleaded with my eyes for good news. The exam was more painful than the others, but I just clenched my teeth and crossed my fingers.
"Well, you're three centimeters dilated, so I will probably see you tonight. You most certainly won't go past this weekend."
Thank you, thank you, thank you! I thought. This was good news, even if it was only Wednesday. March 27 was my due date, so I was sure I would have the baby by then. It had completely escaped my mind that I was perpetually late for everything else in my life. I was so happy that I wanted to skip out to the car. Unfortunately, my legs vetoed that idea.
When my husband got home from work, I met him at the door and announced, "Billy, I'm going into labor tonight." I hadn't realized what I'd said until his chin bounced off my foot. I decided then that I had better calm down for his sake.
After dinner, I decided to make sure I had everything ready. I packed the clothes. I packed the phone numbers and quarters. I packed magazines, and I packed a deck of cards. I was ready-- and waiting.
Finally, at almost midnight, I felt my first contraction. It was a dull ache that started in my lower back, then wrapped around until my huge belly was hard as a rock. I let a few more go by before I called the hospital. They told me to call back when the contractions were either two minutes apart or unbearable. No problem. I told my husband (who was sleeping soundly) that I'd wake him up when I was ready to go. No problem. The hospital had suggested hot showers to ease the pain. In the next three hours, I took five hot showers. I also tried to keep track of the contractions but soon realized timing wasn't necessary because they were steadily getting unbearable. I called the hospital back at 3:00 a.m. to let them know that fact. It was time to come in. My husband woke up quickly, got dressed, and warmed the car up. I was ready.
We arrived at the hospital at 3:45. We had to go through the motions of being admitted. A nurse had to hook me up to a monitor and give me an exam to verify that I was in labor. Didn't I look honest? Surely I wouldn't lie about something like this. It was just procedure. "Well," she said, "you're in labor!" I had guessed that much.
I was then assigned to my own little labor room. My husband was given a set of scrubs to wear. He had told me repeatedly he wasn't going in with me, but they never asked him. I imagine he was too scared to say anything, or maybe he had only been kidding. The nurses proceeded to do things to me that I did not particularly enjoy. I had heard rumors of these indignities, but I had preferred to put them out of my head. Until now. Next, they hooked me to the bed by an i.v. and strapped a monitor around my belly. I felt like an oversized guinea pig trapped in a mad scientist's lab. I had a long way to go, and everything looked good, so my doctor wouldn't be called till first thing in the morning. That meant no epidural until then. To pass the time between contractions, I watched The Beverly Hillbillies on cable. I was ready.
About 6:30 that morning, my doctor showed up. At last, I could have the epidural I'd been yearning for. In order to do this, they would have to break my water first. Since the baby had not dropped down at all, there was a slight problem. But my doctor would give it a try anyway. In order to do this, I would have to lie on my side and bend over as far as I could until my chin touched my knees. Until What!?! No problem. Well...this was not an easy task, but the promise of relief urged me on. A disturbing vision popped into my head. A crazed man by the name of Bozo was twisting me into the shape of a poodle. After three or four attempts, I knew it wasn't going to work. Now there was a problem. Now I was not ready. All hopes of getting through labor had depended on this procedure so that I would be alert without pain. I had planned this for nine months. I had decided long ago that I wanted a local anesthesia in order to be fully aware of this wonderful event in my life. The reality of the predicament hit me hard. I broke out crying, and I begged my husband, my mother, and the doctor to please stop this; this was not a good thing happening to me. Then, the doctor offered me some Demerol to help me relax between contractions. I hadn't wanted Demerol, but I was thinking. "Yes, Yes, Please!" Did I say that? When it came through the i.v., it didn't take long to make me feel all right with the world. I could smile again. I could think straight, or so it seemed. The only thing I couldn't do was talk right. My words sounded like a Pink Floyd album rotating backwards. I found this so amusing that I couldn't stop laughing. My husband was worried, but my doctor understood our private joke. The next few hours were very vague. I remember getting another dose of Demerol. This time, I didn't wait to be offered; I requested it. I remember flashes of that morning. The faces were just a blur. The television was still on, and fuzzy memories of Green Acres and Family Feud linger.
About 11:30 that morning, IT happened. The Demerol wore off. This time when I asked for more, I was refused. I was being cut off my supply. What!?! "Want you alert," they said. The baby still hadn't dropped any, so I would have to start working hard. For the next hour and a half, every time a contraction would hit, I had to hold my breath, sit up, and push, while my husband held me up and s-l-o-w-l-y counted to ten. I was then allowed to lie back down and breathe. This got old, real quick. I told Billy to count faster- -onetwothreefourfivenineten. The next time the nurse came in, she told him to count slower. Billy looked at her, then looked at me. I knew he was wondering which one of us could hurt him worse. He slowed down a bit, but I would finish it up for him. During a very short break in the action, I glanced at my monitor chart. What I saw shocked me. I wasn't imagining this intense pain--I had proof. In black and white, over half the peaks in my contractions were up to an inch off the chart. The pains would start off mild, then quickly begin to squeeze every muscle in my body. I began to scream involuntarily. In this hour and a half, things went nowhere. An hour and twenty minutes after he should have, the doctor realized this, too. He decided to put me in the delivery room. Maybe if I was in stirrups, it would help, I was told. It didn't. I was so worn out that I couldn't bring myself to keep it up. I had pushed for two hours. Normally, it is exhausting after only the usual five minutes required. After whispering among themselves, my family and doctors (I now had two) decided a Caesarean would be needed to ensure a healthy mom and baby. I had feared the possibilities of a Caesarean for part of my pregnancy, but after all those hours, and all that pain, when they asked me, I only had one request: put me under before the next contraction, please.
They had to move me to surgery then and had gone ahead and given me more Demerol. All I remember about the trip was the bumps in and out of the elevator. When we got to the OR, they gave me something else, even better. I was happy. The world was a wonderful place, and God loved me.
The next thing, I woke up in the recovery room. Major pain. I quizzed them about all the details, but that wasn't their department. All they would tell me was that I had a baby boy. As I was being wheeled down to the maternity floor, we stopped at the nursery window. There he was. A beautiful baby with a little blue cap on his head, sleeping soundly. Behind glass. Had everybody held him but me? I wanted to hop off the bed and hold him to me and tell him how much I loved him. But I couldn't. I couldn't even get my head off the bed. I wondered if he was as exhausted as I was from the whole ordeal. Once I was settled in bed, my husband came into the room and hugged me. He was choked up, but I understood him when he told me that he loved us and he was so happy. My room filled with every relative and in-law I could imagine. I was still so tired, all I could do was smile. My eyes felt like they were bugged out of their sockets from the pushing. After everyone left, and I was alone late that night, the blues began to hit. But what seemed to have lasted for days at the time now seemed like a blur and my doctor had provided me with a grain of humor in the surprise of major surgery. I now had something in common with a Playboy Centerfold. I had staples going across my belly. This was one of the thoughts in my head as I pushed the button on my self-medicating machine. It would allow me to give myself a dose of Demerol up to every eight minutes. Now I was ready--to call it a day.