Special Delivery

Song of the Day: Don’t Want to Close My Eyes by Aerosmith

 

Today, instead of offering up my special brand of writing advice, I’m going to stray and blog about my new debut. No, I didn’t secretly contract a book deal since my last post. Something far better.

 

Many of you may already know that on 9/09/09 I gave birth to my second child, a gorgeous baby girl. And true to my colors, I had a bit of drama surround this blessed event. It seems that nothing I do comes easy or normal – not that squeezing large, wrinkly produce out through a crazy straw is easy.

 

As an example, I’ll quickly revisit the arrival of my first born.

 

Water broke at 3AM. Got up, showered, shaved (hey – don’t want impede delivery with friction or scar anyone with unkempt legs). Packed up the all-important labor bag and skittish hubby. Drove 40 minutes and stopping not once, but twice, to pay toll. Arrived at the hospital at 6 AM only to find it closed. (Yes, closed. It had been the day after the September 11th terror attacks.) Then there was the little IV mishap that left massive bruising on my right arm and had me cursing up a terribly nasty storm. Nurse, be gone! Give me the damned anesthesiologist! When the doctor finally put that precious gift in my arms, the only words I could mutter were “Now what?” Not the glamorous, Hollywood-style birth you see on TV.

 

Fast forward eight years to September 9^th.   9:30 AM in my doctor’s office. Time to give my urine sample to the nurse. Oops. That’s a lot more than a sample. My water broke! Or at least that’s what I thought. The doc said, ‘close but no cigar’. Adding, ‘It isn’t amniotic. Go on about your day as usual.’ Oookay. Who am I to question the doctor?

 

Three hours later my water broke again – in Kroger’s! A major rupture in the dam, if you will. Clean up on aisle 3. So, with my basket full of groceries, I headed for the check-out lane.  No way was I going to put back my favorite ice cream that was on sale. In hopes to speed things along, I casually mentioned my dilemma to the checker, who promptly became wide-eyed and twitchy. The sacker, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the urgency of packing up my victuals and provisions. The dam has broken, people. Move! Move! Move! What could possibly make this experience even more unpleasant? How about a torrential downpour – this time from the skies? <sigh>

 

I get home soaking wet, unpack the sopping groceries, make my phone calls, wait for DH, and my water breaks AGAIN! Jiminy Cricket! How many “waters” can I break? I’m like a bull in a china shop.

 

We check into the hospital at 1:30PM and my water breaks again. I’m wondering if the 33 lbs I gained was completely in water. I get giddy at the thought. Surely I’ve lost 15 lbs in water alone.

 

All is now going as planned. Textbook. Until…

 

Until the dreaded IV. Because I tested positive for Group B Strep and this could be fatal for a newborn, I had to be given a double shot of penicillin. Normally, I would welcome any double shot. Let the warming take effect and throw inhibitions out the door. Whoo Hoo! Writers Gone Wild! As the nurse opened up the IV drip, she said that I would feel a little burn. BLAZES AND THUNDER! My arm caught fire!! The pain was so fierce I thrashed about screaming and gasping for air between uncontrollable sobs. This all while having painful contractions coming faster and lasting longer. What the heck. Let’s top it off with my PUPPPs kicking into high gear.

 

PUPPPs, for those unaware, is a condition brought on by pregnancy causing severe itching. Who knew you could actually be allergic to your baby? For me, the scratching usually leads to a see-saw between weeping and maniacal laughter, with just a hint of self-mutilation. There is no cure other than birth and relief varies, if you are lucky – which I am not.

 

At this point, another patient had to undergo an emergency C-section. My nurse and the anesthesiologist were in the next room while I suffered in sheer torture spawned from the bowels of Hades for nearly a half hour. From all the screaming and grunting, I don’t think anyone could tell which room the baby was being delivered in. Even after the pain meds and the epidural were given - all hail the anesthesiologist! – the PUPPPs raged on. I bruised myself so badly from the clawing and striking that my hubby worried someone would slip me a domestic violence pamphlet.

 

It wasn’t long before I could feel the baby crowning. Freaky, man, f-r-e-a-k-y!

 

Nine – that’s right – only nine pushes later, and Bristol was born. Healthy, happy and amazingly beautiful. Not at all like a shriveled piece of produce.

Was it all worth it? No doubt about it. Would I do it again? HA! Can you say vasectomy?

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