Labor, Part II

Boy, did everybody start moving faster after that. They tried three times to start an IV line in me and failed miserably (this will become important in "Labor, Part III"). They told me not so gently that there was no way on God's green Earth that I was going to be able to get an epidural because 1) I was too close to delivering, and 2) ain't no way you get an epidural without an IV.

This, my friends, did not make me happy.

Then I overheard that all of the birthing rooms were full (and I'm thinking, "They're STILL full? They were full at 11:30 this morning! How long does it take to have a baby around here?") and that they'd called maintenance to set up a birthing bed in the C-section room for me.

I was really hoping they had done this before and weren't just pulling parts out of a box and trying to figure out directions written only in Japanese.

About an hour after we got there, they wheeled me over to the C-section room. The attending physician, Dr. MacNeill -- who I am in love with, I swear -- was pushing me in a wheelchair when he leaned down and said, very quietly in my ear, "Hm. No room at the inn, huh?"

Even in my state, I had to admit that was pretty cute. I said to him, "Just please tell me there's no hay in there."

No hay, he promised.

This was just before 2 a.m. Although they were still telling me not to push just yet (I wasn't quite 10 cm dilated apparently), I couldn't hold off any more, so I was trying to push just a little bit -- inconspicuously, which is as difficult as it sounds -- to ease the pressure of each contraction.

And then it hit me: I couldn't do this. Uh-uh. No way, no how, sister. This was way different from what I'd felt with Sam, especially at the end. With her, I'd had an epidural, and I had pushed for almost 2 1/2 hours.

No way could I push for 2 1/2 hours this time. I might actually go insane because I couldn't deal with the pain.

I felt like I couldn't breathe during the contractions, much less truly push to get the baby out. And, to be frank, I had decided this wasn't a good time and I didn't want to do it right then.

Know what one of the nurses told me? Basically, she said, "Too bad, kid. This is going to happen, and it's going to happen this way, and you don't have a choice."

If my mom had said that, I would've totally been OK with it (my mom, by the way, made it just as I started pushing. They almost didn't let her in because it was so close, but she worked some sort of magic, thank goodness). But somebody I didn't know who was supposed to be supporting and encouraging me? That pissed me off.

All right, all right -- I wasn't really rational at that point. I'll forgive her.

Anyway, I started pushing around 2:05 a.m. The first two pushes didn't really count because I wasn't concentrating on it (mostly because I was still fuming in my head at the nurse who had yelled at me).

Then, three pushes more, and he was here.

My Noah. Born at 2:14 Christmas morning.

He actually had brush burns on his cheek from being born so quickly.

Just like his sister, he didn't cry right away. Unlike his sister, he did start hollering fairly quickly in what I immediately knew was his mad cry.

He was perfect. 7 pounds, 12 ounces. 18 1/2 inches long.

After all I went through -- the first trimester puking, the scary month of August when doctors thought he was a Down Syndrome baby who could have severe kidney and heart problems, the discomfort of trying to walk or roll over in bed or breathe for months on end, the exhaustion from working full-time and taking care of Sammy and keeping up a house AND growing him inside me, the inane questions from well-meaning people in my last three weeks -- he was here.

Yeah, it's cliche, but it's true: He was worth it.

As it turns out, however, my night was not yet over.

To be continued ...