This blog has, unfortunately, been the furthest thing from my mind for the past month or so. Taking care of a newborn while recovering from a difficult labor/c-section is all consuming. Still, I made a promise to myself and to my daughter that I would document this journey...and I'd be a big boner face if I didn't record the most monumental portion of it before the memory fades from my mind and I start having crazy ideas...like getting pregnant again. In fact, I am hoping that this particular blog will act as sort of a birth control once the horror of my experience ebbs into what all of these other lying mothers out there fondly recall as the "happiest day of their lives."
Kismet Ivy Werner-Fazio. Born October 19th, 2011 at 2:43PM. Seven pounds, One ounce. Eighteen and a half inches long. These are the facts everyone eats up when a new human joins us on earth. These little descriptions are the first hairshirts we wear in life. Short. Simple. Adorably tiny. But these little facts do absolutely NOTHING to describe the journey to the miracle of life. They pay no homage to the incredible emotions one experiences in the moments leading up to the life changing event that begins with that first pissed off scream from your newborn child.
On October 14th, Dustin and I did something that was all at once crazy and perfect. We drove to Binghamton with his grandmother in a horrible monsoon and got married. To each other, not his grandmother. It was something we both wanted very badly, but hadn't been able to actually do due to many reasons. We must have been a very funny sight; I've only seen one picture taken on that day (there was an entire camera's worth) but I look like a moose. A very happy moose, but a moose none-the-less. It was a perfect day.
The following Tuesday, four days later and just a little over 37 weeks pregnant, I had a routine prenatal appointment. As mentioned in an earlier post, for those of you who have not taken the journey yet, for the last six weeks of a healthy pregnancy, you see the doctor once a week to make sure everything is still going according to plan. And up until this appointment and my broken pelvis, everything HAD been going according to plan.
HAD been.
My appointment started off normally, if not a little paperworky as I had to switch my insurance over to Dustin's now that we were married. The first thing they do at my prenatals is take blood pressure. Mine had been on the normal to low side throughout the pregnancy. This time, however, the reading the nurse got initially was 198/92. MONSTEROUSLY high. Alarmed, she took it again. Basically the same high reading. She called my doctor over and he looked surprised too. He instructed her to check my pee to make sure I wasn't leaking protein, which is what happens when you have toxemia, the dangerously high blood pressure in pregnancy that can affect mom and baby. I was not leaking protein, so my doctor took me in for our routine dialation check and told me we'd check my pressure once more on the way out. If it was still high, I'd have to go to the hospital to be monitored for a few hours.
I was not dialated, so labor did not seem to be happening any time soon. However the next blood pressure check was even HIGHER, so my doctor told me to head up to Moses Taylor Hospital for monitoring.
Now, at this point, I was not expecting it to be "go time." This is probably why I was so calm when I called Dustin to tell him what was going on. This is also probably why we didn't alert our families until much, much later.
I picked up Dustin from work and we stopped and got some stuff to drink as it was first thing in the morning and we were parched. We sort of took our time heading to the hospital, joking on the way about "how funny it would be if today was the day" considering we had JUST put the hospital bags/car seat in the car and gotten me on his kick ass insurance THAT MORNING.
We found ourselves back in Labor and Delivery, in the same bed I had found myself laying in when the broken pelvis was discovered. I got hooked up to all of those fun machines again, relieved to learn that while my blood pressure was still EXCESSIVELY high...now as high as 209/118...the baby was fine.
Hours passed. They continued to take my blood pressure and took some pee and blood. More time passed as we waited for the results. We passed the time by listening to the other women around us in triage, none of whom were close to delivering. We managed to convince the doctors and nurses to let us get some lunch. We decided that since my blood pressure was already in the shitter, we'd get Wendy's.
After lunch, an ultrasound tech appeared at my bedside with her portable sonogram. This should have been my tip off that something was up. The tech checked out the baby and informed us that she was "big enough to be delivered." Well, that's good, I thought to myself...STILL not thinking that today was "the day."
A few minutes later, we got the results of our bloodwork. It seemed that there was an indication that my blood pressure was indeed approaching toxemia levels...and dangerous ones at that. In an instant, everything changed with one sentence uttered by the on call doctor:
"At this point, it will be in yours and the baby's best interest if we induce you."
All of the blood that had been surging too powerfully within my body suddenly rushed to my head. I got dizzy with the realization that, indeed, today WAS the day.
...or so I thought.
When medical professionals finally get around to making a decision, they move fast. I would see this several times over the course of my birth experience. This was the first. Before Dustin and I could fully process what was happening, I was being stabbed with IV needles and verbally prepared for what was going to happen next. Our daughter would be joining us on a particularly busy day in Moses Taylor, so we would wait a bit for a birthing suite and then be started on some labor inducing medications right away.
Dustin and I had a little bit of quiet time before we were moved to our suite. During this time there was some crying (me) some phone calls made to family and some excited, nervous hugs and kisses. I won't ever forget the excitement I saw on Dustin's face when he realized the baby was now on her way. I also won't ever forget how that moment marked the beginning of nearly forty hours of sheer terror for me.
I was still feeling pretty good when we got to our birthing suite, even if I was totally annoyed and grossed out by the IV needle in my wrist. I hate those things. So uncomfortable and disgusting. I was also getting annoyed by the belly monitors and the fact that my ass was hanging out of my too-small hospital gown.
Had I known what was to come, I would have RELISHED in these minor discomforts.
The first thing they did to get this kid the hell out of me was to inplant a little tab of medication within my cervix...appropriately called "cervixal" or something like that. This tab of medication would (allegedly) work to force me to dialate and contract. The upside was that it was a more gentle approach than the dreaded pitocin, which brings on labor hard and fast. The downside? It could take up to two doses to work...and each dose takes TWELVE HOURS to be considered effective.
Balls.
So they insert the medication...ouch...and we wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I started to contract on my own when I was in the triage, before the medication was administered. In fact, in the days leading up to October 18th, the day of my prenatal, Dustin and I had been monitoring my contractions, which were coming about 20 minutes apart. Still we hadn't sounded any alarms because we knew this was normal and could continue for weeks before a kid showed up.
Six or so hours into this medication, my contractions started to pick up. I started to cramp. I started to get panicked and weepy. I was getting sick of being trapped in this stupid bed. The more time that passed, the worse I felt. And to top it off, my nurse was a BITCH.
Ahhhh, Jennifer. I will never be able to think of that name again without thinking of this nurse. She was about my age, thin, blonde and STRICT. In hindsight, she was exactly what I needed. I tend to revert back into being a little bit of a baby when I'm in pain or scared, complete with temper tantrums and excessive crying.
Jennifer arrived on the morning of October 19th, shortly after I found out that I had only dialated slightly and was further informed that we would be starting pitocin anyway due to my ever increasing blood pressure. From my research and polling of other induced friends, Pitocin is the devil. It does what nature is supposed to do...namely get your body moving into labor...but it's sort of like jumping into a freezing lake instead of easing in bit by bit. Within MINUTES of that dreaded drug entering my gross IV line, I felt like death. Nauseous. In severe pain. Sweaty. The only comfortable position I could endure was sitting straight up with my feet on the ground, breathing like a sea lion. This state would have been bad enough if we hadn't already had a sleepless night waiting for the stupid cervixal to work.
At some point about 20 hours into this ordeal, I started asking for a C-section. I had been informed (repeatedly) by all of the various medical staff, and most emphatically Jennifer, that a c-section was a last resort and not something they did unless it was an EMERGENCY. As long as the baby and I were tolerating current treatments, then current treatments it would be.
I sobbed some more and started to beg Dustin to break me out of this hellhole where I would find someone on craigslist to perform a c-section...or we would find out how to do it online and self serve.
More time passed. More pain. More crying. NO FOOD. NO WATER. Contractions were now waving up and down my entire body like some horrible roller coaster that was inside of my muscles. Even though I was now wishing for death, I was being praised for the horror of the experience...everyone kept calling it "progress."
At some point, Jennifer must have grown tired of my crying and moaning and started to talk about pain relief. She was barking up the IV drug tree, which I was against due to the effects on the baby. Then she started saying "epidural" a whole lot...and while I had thought I could do it without drugs, being numb from the chest down suddenly sounded like the best idea ever. I agreed.
As luck would have it, the next few hours were the hours that would change our lives.
About an hour after agreeing on some pain relief, I got my epidural. Traumatizing. I've heard women say it was a breeze, and while I didn't find it painful, I found it icky. I could feel the weird shit happening to my spine and I did not like it. I will also point out that Jennifer took sick pleasure in painfully holding my head down to my chest. When I told her she was hurting me, I swear she giggled a little bit. Once the epidural was in, I shoved her away a little bit. I think it was then that Jennifer realized that paralyzed from the waist down or not, she was gonna have to be a little gentler with me or I was going to eat her face zombie style.
The epidural didn't even have time to work before shit started to get real. My blood pressure lowered for a moment, an effect of the epidural, and then skyrocketed. The baby's heartrate started to dip. My heartrate started to soar. Within moments, a doctor appeared to break my water.
Again, with the epidural still pending, another horrific experience.
Side note...most of my pregnancy was spent checking to see if my water had broken. Trust me, you will know when your water breaks. It was like a typhoon.
Even with all of the drugs (my pitocin had been steadily increased to the maximum dosage) and with my water being broken, I was still in what everyone kept calling "stalled labor." Just as I was starting to enjoy some epidural related relief, my birthing suite turned into a scene from an ER as the machine that had been reassuring us that our baby was fine suddenly started squealing that everything was, in fact, not fine.
Our baby was in distress. My body was giving up. The doctor snapped into action. "We can't wait," she said. "Erin, we're going to do an emergency c-section. Right now."
Poor sleep deprived Erin and Dustin laid and stood in shocked and scared awe as an army of medical professionals suddenly arrived on the scene. People were no longer being calm and nice to me. In fact, I was pretty sure no matter what I said it was now being ignored. I was being hooked up to more machines and drugs and being told so much information at once that it was beyond scary and overwhelming. I think at one point I asked for "five minutes to collect myself" and was told "we don't have five minutes."
I started to freak out, particularly when they handed Dustin some scrubs and ushered him away from me, telling him to go and get changed. I watched out of the corner of my eye as they literally pushed him from the room. Dustin and I have a theory as to why this happened. We think shit was so bad that they didn't want him around to A.) freak out or B.) see some REALLY bad shit.
Regardless of why Dustin was taken away from me, I flipped. I started screaming anything I thought would buy me some more time, including "You can't operate on me! My epidural isn't working!" This got some attention. A nurse I hadn't seen before bent down to my face with a very serious expression.
"Listen," she said, her voice low and heavy with importance. "Say whatever you want. Scream if you have to. But do not say you feel pain. If you say you're in pain, they will knock you out completely and you won't be able to see your baby for hours."
Gulp.
I decided to pick something sort of vanilla to yell, and while I don't remember this very well, Dustin later informed me that I shrieked "THIS IS REALLY SCARY" for about an hour.
They dosed me with morphine at some point. I was told this would help with pain, but I'm pretty sure it was to make me quiet.
I was rushed to the OR in a blur of morphiney memories. I was aware, however, that Dustin was nowhere to be seen. As they strapped me down to the operating table, I started to demand his whereabouts.
They were so rushed that Dustin didn't appear until I was already cut open. He saw all my insides. How gross/cool.
As I was promised, (repeatedly) the c-section didn't exactly hurt, but it was a horribly uncomfortable experience. You don't feel pain, but you feel other sensations...like the blood pouring out of your in a spreading of warmth as they cut you. You feel their hands inside of you. You feel them reaching around, pulling out your insides. You feel suffocated as theses pushing hands knock up against your lungs. You feel dizzy and nauseous and powerless. And then you feel an incredible RELEASE of pressure as your child is ripped from your insides and held up for your husband to snap a bloody, purple-toned picture.
Kismet was quiet at first, but within moments we heard that tiny shriek of life pierce through the room. We heard everyone exclaim how beautiful she was. Now instead of screaming "THIS IS REALLY SCARY," I was screaming "IS SHE OK" to Dustin. Dustin was able to go over and see her immediately, something I am still very envious of. He touched her and took pictures of her and cut her cord...and then came over to me with the pictures at first and then finally her.
I cried at the sight of her and at not being able to touch her as they put me back together again like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz.
Thanks to morphine and God knows whatever else they shot me full of, I actually felt pretty good in the hours right after the procedure. I was able to hold Kizzy right away; we even breastfed immediately. I remember being very chatty with the evil Jennifer, who I was now calling my best friend (she had stayed with me during the operation even though she didn't have to. I guess she was okay after all.) I giggled as a very nice nurse gave Kiz her first bath and Dustin and I marveled at all of her adorable features and fuzzy head. We kissed her face and each other and her again. Then, just an hour later, we were moved to our baby room, which was actually quite cozy and where we'd spend the next five freaking days.
One of my best memories from October 19th was when I was being wheeled to our baby room. I was able to hold Kizzy for the ride. I felt like I was in a baby parade. We passed tons of hospital staff along the way, each of them giving congrats and telling me how beautiful my daughter was. If I didn't have a death grip on my little girl, I would have been waving like a pagent princess.
Our first night as a family was pretty easy. We decided that we didn't want the baby to be taken from us at all, so she stayed in either our arms or her little bassinet, sleeping peacefully and breastfeeding from time to time. I was still under the effects of morphine AND paralyzed so I couldn't move, and Dustin made a sort of crappy bed out of the hospital chairs. I think we all got a few hours of sleep.
I woke up on day two to another evil nurse who told me I should try to get up and walk around. At first I thought...okay...fair enough, I probably should. First order of business was removing my cath...OUCH. In order to do this, I had to lay down flat.
It was at that moment I realized why a c-section was a last resort.
Holy. Mutha. Effin. PAIN.
I am proud to say that I DID get up and stroll around that morning. And I forced myself to walk around a lot in those days immediately following the surgery as I heard it was instrumental in a fast heal. But I have never felt pain like that before in my life. And I was on a pretty high dose of Percocet. This pain prevented me from doing normal things...like putting on undies...for about 2 weeks afterwards. I am JUST starting to feel quasi normal again...and I still have pretty intense abdominal pain. I have heard some other people have found the c-section not as bad as I did, but my advice is to go vaginally or go home.
Kizzy wasn't really fairing much better than mom. As many premature babies are, Kiz was jaundiced and had to spend some time getting a tan. She actually really liked the "billy bed" because it was warm. She slept through most of her treatment.
They also discovered a small heart murmur which required an ultrasound and a cardiologist visit. This murmur still exists, but it's so slight the doctors are not worried about it.
We spent the next few days getting used to waking up every few minutes to tend to our daughter. We had our first parental breakdown moment when I made the decision to supplement with formula a little bit as my daughter cried from hunger because mom wasn't producing enough for her. Dustin was against this move, but I think he got on board after she stopped fussing and allowed us to sleep.
We were given the all clear to go home on the fifth day of our ordeal. I have to say that after being at home with my girl for just a few days, the hospital I was so anxious to leave became something I missed.
Having a newborn in the house is intensely stressful. Kizzy is an easy baby...not much of a crier, but sort of a fusser. I missed having an army of medical professionals at my disposal to ask a thousand questions. Also...sleep. There is no. sleep.
Kizzy has a shitbox schedule and it keeps getting worse. The first few days we were home, she slept all day and all night, only waking to feed and pass back out. We thanked our lucky stars for such an easy baby.
And she IS an easy baby, compared to what she COULD be doing...but she does not believe in sleeping at night.
Each night, from about 7 to midnight, Kizzy has fussy time. We've heard this described as a worldwide phenom amongst newborns called "The witching hour." It's basically just a few hours of a very pissed off kid. Kizzy also does this LOUD grunting when she's trying to poop or pass gas. It warranted a call to the doctor, who isn't alarmed by it. She's just vocal and getting used to a maturing digestive tract. Wonderful. Especially since it happens ALL NIGHT LONG.
I've reached a breaking point several times so far. This breaking point is easy to identify because it involves me at 3am, feeding Kizzy and sobbing out of sheer exhaustion. I'll say things like "I can't do this" and "I'm a terrible mother."
The other night the sleep deprivation took on a whole new form as I got myself so tired that I thought there was a racoon in the house and started meandering from room to room trying to catch it.
Dustin and I are adjusting, as all new parents eventually (thankfully) do. We know in the back of our minds that this newborn situation is temporary and eventually we'll all fall into a routine. Our routine right now, at least during the week when Dustin has to work, involves me going to bed around dinnertime, leaving my saintly husband to deal with baby fussy time. Then I get up at like 11:30 and he goes to sleep. Then I spend the rest of my night and the following day feeding, rocking, pumping breast milk and catnapping with my darling daughter.
Here come some cliches.
It is not easy. NOTHING can prepare you for your own experience with your brand new baby. You will never love and hate something so much at the same time. You will want to strangle your spouse when they are asleep because you are not. You will be hungrier than you've ever been, more sleepy than you thought a human could be, sadder than you've ever been and more elated than you have EVER been.
There are moments that make everything...EVERY PART OF THIS LONG SCARY JOURNEY completely worth it. One moment happened to me yesterday afternoon. Kizzy was being a fussy pants after napping for about six minutes. I walked over to her cradle and picked her up, cooing something along the lines of "it's ok, mommy is here."
Kiz smiled.
It was probably gas, but it was wide eyed, open mouthed, and in response to ME.
I could have crushed her I wanted to hug her so hard.
I hope to blog more about the little "joys" of parenthood...like how at our first doctor's appointment Kizzy pooped all over the nurse after having her temperature taken rectally...or how I have suddenly discovered that when you're home alone with a newborn you can't really leave her to shower so at the end of the day you are GROSS...or how Kizzy looks so much like Dustin it makes me fall in love with him all over again every moment of every day...but I have a feeling I'll be so busy that these blogs will come in drips and drabs. Rest assured, though, that I'm making memories I won't forget just because they aren't written here.
So it's the end and the beginning of our journey. I picked out our daughter's middle name, Ivy because I wanted something beautiful and simple and that reminded me of how things grow and bloom. Dustin, however, named her Kismet, which is a name he picked out long before we were on this parenting path. It had been a joke from our early dating days, when we would sit in my car chain smoking, sipping coffee and talking about the future. It happened at the moment we knew our dating was more than dating. When we decided that meeting each other was kismet...or very lucky, perfect fate. A destiny. Later on in our relationship, we were sitting on the docks in Port Jefferson, watching the sunset. A boat lazily sailed by us, the name emblazened on the back was KISMET. In this perfect moment of warm sun, hand holding and feet dangling over the edge of the faded wood of a dock we had both strolled at many other times in our lives, Dustin remarked that if we ever had a daughter we would have to name her Kismet.
And we did.
