So, I really should get this typed up . . . you know, before I become so tired that writing coherent sentences becomes near impossible. :-) I've spent the last week though, just holding my baby. As well as, wincing when I cough or yawn, trying to keep a 17 month old and a 3 1/2 year old from diving onto my stomach, and trying to find that balance of getting up and moving and taking it easy.
But, all in all, I have to say things have gone amazingly well. Recovery has gone as well as can be expected, if not better than I was expecting. My baby is healthy and doing well, and seems to adore me. (So much so that from 1-4 this morning, he refused to sleep anywhere but in my arms . . . but that means he likes me, so I'm not gonna complain.)
I guess I should go back to last week to start to tell Owen's birth story though . . . so, Tuesday, December 27th, I had my 39 week appointment with my midwife. We chatted for a minute, then I laid down so she could find the heartbeat. It was taking a lot longer than normal. I wasn't worried, since I'd felt the baby moving no less than 5 minutes ago, but I didn't like that look on her face. I may not have been worried, but she definitely was. Finally, after what felt like forever, but was probably a minute or less, she found the baby's heartbeat. Apparently in a place she did NOT want to find it. She asked if he'd been moving a lot lately, and at first I said nothing big, that he moved all the time but I hadn't felt any major movement. Then I thought back to Christmas Eve or Christmas night, I can't remember which, when I made Greg lie next to me in bed with his hand on my stomach for a good half hour 'cause of the tumbling act Owen was putting on. Aw, crap. He'd turned. My midwife didn't flat out say he was breech, but she scheduled me for an ultrasound at the OBs office, in less than an hour. So, I ran home, got Greg (my Mom came over to watch my kids) and we headed in, the whole time I'm thinking, "He can't be breech, he can't be breech, he can't be breech . . . " They started the ultrasound, and immediately a very recognizable little butt showed up on screen. He was breech. The next several days were filled with me doing weird inversion exercises, going to the chiropractor, getting acupuncture (the baby would move ALL over the place whenever I was getting it done, but he didn't ever flip because of it) and praying like I've never prayed before. We're never optionless, but my options in this situation were limited, and I wasn't liking anything other than 'he magically flips himself back into position and labor starts spontaneously.' But that was looking less and less likely. The decision was made that I would come to the hospital on Friday, December 30th, where they would attempt an 'external version' (flipping the baby from the outside). If he flipped, they wanted to induce labor immediately (basically 'lock him into position' while they could). While not ideal, it was the preferable option to me versus the alternative. Which was a c-section. The being cut open thing was a little freaky, but it wasn't the worst part by any means -- it was the idea of recovery. The no picking things up over 10 pounds, no stairs, no driving . . . none of this seemed very conducive to my life at home, with a 17 month old, two other children, and three stories of house. The idea of not being able to pick up Isaac for weeks was enough to reduce me to tears just thinking about it. But, throughout the week a ever growing sense of peace seemed to inch its way into my heart . . . I thought it was because the version would work and I'd be able to go on to have the birth I'd planned on. At least for the most part. Turns out, once again, this kid had different plans. A mere 6 hours before we were supposed to leave for the hospital, my water broke. It was one in the morning, I jumped up, woke up Greg, told him to call my parents (my Dad was over less than five minutes later) and I told him that I don't think the baby had flipped. And I was going to be having a c-section. (Once my water was broken, it was 'game over', they couldn't try flipping the baby at that point, so I knew what we were going to the hospital for.) And oddly, I felt really good about it. My water breaking was an answer to prayers I didn't even realize I'd been asking for -- it was confirmation to me that my baby, my body had picked the time for birth. And the only good option was a c-section. I hadn't forced anything by doing a version or getting an induction (both choices I was fine with making, of course, it was just reassuring to me when my water broke and left us with one, clear answer.) I wasn't nervous anymore (still freaked out about the recovery, but the surgery itself, I was really pretty chill with), and it no longer seemed like the undesirable choice. It was just they way this baby needed to come into the world, and who was I to argue with that, or stress or worry about it. It was right, and I knew it. We called my sister Star, who after being out of town for the last two births in our family, was finally here to be a part of the birth -- except now she'd just be waiting for the surgery to end. Poor Star. She met us at the hospital anyway, and the next several hours were ridiculously fun. Star, Greg, the nurse, the midwife (not my normal one, but the same one who was there the night Isaac was born -- or, who was at least in the next room when he was born) and I have such a good time laughing and joking. At first I don't think the nurse knew what to think of us, laughing so hard it kept messing up the monitors they had on the baby. The midwife had been up for like 24+ hours though, so she was already slap happy :-) The nurse warmed up to us and our humor though, and was totally getting a kick out of our witty repertoire. (Or, at least it seemed witty at 3AM). It took over two hours for them to get an ultrasound to confirm the baby was breech. (The baby was obviously breech, but the anestesiologist would not move forward on even prepping me for surgery until he had a picture in hand, and we were not having ANY luck on finding a machine that would work.) Finally, someone from the ER brought up their ultrasound machine, we got to see Owen flaunt his butt one last time, and then it was go time. Which could not have come soon enough for me. Remember, my water had already broken. I was in labor now. Not hard labor (it felt much like Isaac's did last time), but I was contracting pretty regularly. Which isn't super pleasant. I was starting to worry about getting into harder labor and still getting the c-section -- didn't seem fair to have to do both! Soon though, we walked to the operating room. They realized they'd never put Greg in his bio-hazard suit (that's what it looked like at least), so they had him get ready while they brought me in to start the spinal block. I was a tad miffed they wanted me to start getting giant needles shoved into my back without my husband even being there to hold my hand, but I was SO ready for this to happen that I couldn't imagine telling them to wait. He was back soon though, and before I knew it, surgery had started. At just after 4AM, and 7 and a half minutes later, Owen was born. But not without scaring us first. It had never dawned on me that the dangers that can exist in delivering a breech baby vaginally, also are an issue delivering the baby through an incision. He was still coming out feet first. Which was the first problem we ran in to. Turns out he wasn't just frank breech (butt first, which he had been in the past), but at some point had gotten one foot down below himself and one foot up above . . . he was in the splits. It took them a minute to wrestle his feet out. I remember them talking about stuff like, "Where is that other leg?" but since I couldn't see anything, this was all very weird and trippy to me. Soon, they were excited they got his legs out. Then his head was stuck, his chin firmly anchoring him inside me. It took another minute before he was out. This whole time I kept thinking, 'This is taking so long! Why haven't they picked him up to show him to me?' Then I heard the scariest part. They were working on him, things weren't going well, Greg asked why he wasn't moving. My brain could not compute what was happening. Finally, he moved, and breathed, and they rushed him straight over to the warmer and started working on him there. I'd still never had anyone hold him up, but I could see him now if I turned my head to the side. I watched his little tight fists and arms suddenly go limp, and a few seconds later he tightened up again and
finally started to cry. I think Greg was a lot more scared than I was, since he was able to take it all in -- by the time I could even compute what had happened, he was fine. His initial apgar score of a 4 was already up to a 9 by 5 minutes, and he's done fine ever since. (But, because he started out low, he was on a non-standard protocol in the maternity ward, and he had to be checked hourly for awhile, then every two hours for a lot longer than normal. But his oxygen and everything was always perfect, and we haven't had to worry about him since.) It was a full 22 minutes before anyone picked up my baby and showed him to me. Greg brought him over at that point, lowered him down by my head and I kissed him, and then because Owen was screaming about the awkward angle he was being held at, I just told Greg to take him and cuddle him to his chest, and I would need to wait to see him again when we were done. The last 22 minutes of surgery had gone by quickly, as I'd been engrossed in trying to figure out what was going on with my baby. The last 10-15 minutes was excruciatingly long, as I hated the pulling and tugging feelings, and I just had to close my eyes and go to my 'happy place'. (Oh, at some point after delivery, my midwife had to jump up and run out of the room -- food poisoning. She apologized profusely afterwards, but said she was glad that this time she made it for the birth at least.) When they said they were done, moved me to the rolling bed, and handed me my baby, I was in heaven. I just cuddled with him the entire time we walked back to the room, and soon as we got there he latched on and we started nursing. He's a pro, and hasn't had any problems with nursing at all, which I am SO grateful for, as c-section related nursing issues was one of my concerns. I can't get over how different Isaac and Owen's births were -- from delivering one spontaneously and picking him up within seconds of birth, to not holding the other for well over a half hour after birth. And yet, I don't feel any different about them or their births. Both were right for the situation we were in. Would I have preferred to have another natural birth vs. a c-section? Yep, but I knew in the long run it wouldn't matter. What surprised me was how much it didn't even matter in the short run. I wrote this in an email to a friend a few days ago:
I'm doing well physically, I feel like I'm recovering well, I'm spotty about when I take pain meds, and I'm not noticing a huge difference, so I'm pretty close to phasing them out (night time is the only time I still feel crappy, trying to roll over in bed and stuff . . . ouch). (I have since stopped taking all pain medicines).
Emotionally (knock on wood) I'm doing pretty great actually -- I have not cried once since I had this baby :-) I know the c-section wasn't ideal, and it was far from my first choice. I know I didn't get to really see this baby for 20+ minutes after his birth vs. the 2 seconds after Isaac's. I know I was immobile and stuck to wires and tubes for an extra day or so. But you know, I don't feel ANY different about or towards Owen than I did any of my other kids. The bonding is the same, the emotions are more stable if anything, and he's doing great, even if his cord was immediately clamped :-) Physically, the pain is different, but I actually think I was MORE physically miserable after Isaac's birth (probably due to less drugs) :-)
Within hours the kids got to come meet their new little brother. They're smitten -- Isaac is by far the most excited to hold the baby, and wants to ALL day long. Recovery in the hospital went well -- I felt surprisingly great until the third day, then like a truck hit me for about half a day, then I've gotten progressively better ever since. I loved having the kids come see me -- for about 10 minutes. Then, as was even proven by the nurse who did my vitals during one visit, my blood pressure and pulse would start to rise and I kinda couldn't wait 'til Greg took them home. A small hospital room is NOT the best entertaining space for a 17 month old and a 3 1/2 year old . . . especially when you can only entertain them with graham crackers and the buttons that make the bed go up and down (hopefully without hitting the nurse call button on accident too often). During one visit the kids were fighting, Isaac ran out of the room and ran free down the hall, and Isaac and Greg accidently spilled a giant cup of ice water on my lap, in my bed. I so wanted to ask the nurse if I could stay one extra day at that point. :-) But, by Monday I was ready to come home. Greg's been great, taking care of the kids and everything that takes place on the main floor of the house while I mainly hang out with a tiny, squeaky little guy all day upstairs.
I need to write more, but Owen's just woke up from his nap. But, I figure I should throw out the essentials:
Born December 30th, at 4:08 AM
7 pounds 15 ounces (7 lbs. 5 oz. when we left the hospital)
21" long (my longest by a whole inch!)
He looks an awful lot like his older brother (his pediatrician's reaction when she first saw him was, and I quote, "Holy crap, woman! You gave birth to your son's twin! That's creepy!" You'd have to know her, but it was pretty funny, and she spent the rest of the exam mildly freaked out by the similarities.)
And, of course, pictures from our first day in the hospital (one or two might be from Day 2) . . .
