Here's part two of my raw, non-sanitized posts regarding my children. As before, please know I am being completely honest, with total disregard for societal niceties. Please respect it.
Kathryn
Jared and I found ourselves pregnant again in October 2012. I woke up early on a Saturday to take a test, and was so excited I tried to wake Jared. He was not excited enough that he wanted to get up *that* early on a Saturday. But immediately after the "we're pregnant!" thought, came the "but what if it happens again?" thought. This was a theme for me, up until about 14 weeks. I knew what could happen and it robbed me and Jared of true joy. We were cautious. Our parents had more subdued reactions when we told them.
When we went for our first ultrasound, it felt like going to identify a dead relative at the morgue. You need to know, but you don't want to know. We were sent to the same place as last time, the same room, the same ultrasound tech. I think I was shaking. As soon as the image came up, my eyes zeroed in on where the heart should be beating. And it was. The baby even moved an arm or a leg. We breathed easier, but then worried if we did that, would something bad happen? Shouldn't we be vigilant? In that aspect, it was a difficult pregnancy.
But in every other way, it was easy. Morning sickness was very slight, fatigue wasn't there. Aches and pains didn't come along until about 36 weeks. I felt like I looked awesome. I was confident and proud. Even going into week 41, in July in North Carolina, I knew I was doing great. I was sent for an ultrasound at that point, and the doctor told me if I was her patient, she would induce me, because my amniotic fluid was low. I smiled, thinking I knew better from my Bradley birthing class and from my midwives.
I did have about 2 weeks of prodromal labor, which is labor that feels real but is non-productive. Finally, the morning of Sunday July 7, I went into real labor. I labored at home from about 9am until about 5pm. It was very, very slow going. At 5, I thought I must be far enough along to get going to the birth center. It was an hour drive on the interstate. After already doing labor for 8 hours. And when I got there, I wasn't even that far along. It was disappointing but I figured it would speed up soon.
At that point, I was hollering through contractions. That's when I found out the midwives preferred you to keep calm and quiet. I was told more than a few times to try to keep my mouth closed through a contraction and breathe through my nose. The assistant nurse would sit on a chair and frown at me while I yelled out. I tried laboring in the tub, on my side, sitting up, laying down. Nothing felt like it was working, and I kept throwing up. I'd immediately try to rehydrate, but it didn't work. At about midnight, 9.7 cm and complete effacement, I couldn't finish it. I was too weak and tired. The midwife decided I needed interventions at UNC. I got back in the car with the midwife in the backseat and Jared driving. It was 5-7 minutes to the hospital. I was quickly brought up to a labor and delivery room and, clutching the side of the bed through a contraction, asked the nurse, "what do you need me to do!?" She was just standing there looking at me, and I wanted things to move along. This was already not what I was hoping for.
I was given an IV, which I cried through. I needed the hydration but had wanted to do labor IV-free. They also decided I needed an epidural, because I was so tired and weak. That was very hard. I had to keep so still through my contractions, and I felt plenty of pricks to block the pain of the very big needle that went through to my spine. The idea of it was terrifying--I hate needles. Something about how I know it's not supposed to be inside me and it freaks me out. I was sad that I "needed" that. After getting that, it stalled my labor and I actually "slept" for a couple of hours. I was so out of it, I don't know what the doctors and my midwife discussed. Perhaps they advised Pitocin. Maybe they argued I should have a c-section. All I knew is I woke up around 4:50am on Monday, July 8, and was told it was time to push. Only at that point did my midwife break my water. When she did, it was green with meconium.
The NICU team was put on standby. I couldn't feel anything, so my nurse and midwife told me when to push. Pushing took about 30 minutes--I think there were 8 people in the room at that point. Jared, nurse, midwife, doctor, anesthesiologist, and NICU team. I was flat on my back, I could not see or feel my daughter being born. This was beyond not what I wanted, planned or prepared for. I was worried, I was disappointed; not excited or triumphant.
Kathryn was born and was very quickly brought to the warming table of the NICU team. They suctioned her mouth and her nose, listened to her lungs, and wiped her down before she had cried twice. I was trying to see, but they were in the opposite corner of the room and the NICU team was between me and her. They wheeled her over to my side, but I didn't want them to. Obviously she needed help--go get her help! What if she's getting worse and we're losing precious seconds to help her, by you being courteous enough to show her to me? Get going! I touched her head and hand and told them to get her help.
My birth plan, in tatters, had its final rip done, actually, by my midwife. I had said I didn't want a shot of Pitocin to develop the placenta, unless there was a very real threat of substantial blood loss. There wasn't--she gave me the shot anyway. I didn't even find that out until I ordered and paid for my medical records earlier this year. She delivered the placenta and gave me "a few" stitches. I was never told how many or how bad the tear was.
I didn't get to hold my daughter, do skin-to-skin bonding, immediate breastfeeding, etc. I rested, then, and was taken to a different floor to a maternity room. I didn't like being far from Kathryn. I didn't like not knowing what was happening. I didn't like not knowing how serious everything was.
Later in the morning we found out Kathryn had gone through fetal distress at some point and pooped in the womb. The poop is called meconium at that point and Kathryn breathed it in through the amniotic fluid. This is called meconium aspiration. Meconium is thick and tarry and it popped 2-3 holes in her lungs. This is called pneumothorax. She was struggling to breathe and was at risk for pneumonia. She was put under an oxygen helmet that was giving her 80% oxygen. The air we normally breathe is about 30% oxygen, I think.
There's no way to know if doing something different would have changed Kathryn's experience. I was 41 weeks and 4 days when Kathryn was born. What if I had been induced at 40 weeks, or even 41 weeks? What if my midwife had broken my water earlier, in a bid to speed up my labor? It's possible--although not a definite--that Kathryn would not have pooped in the womb or if she had, she would've been unable to breathe it in. These are my what ifs. These are my regrets. Could I have done something different to improve our first week together? I'll never know and always wonder.
Having a baby in NICU is hard, beyond just the actual worry for your child. After 2 days, I was discharged. But my baby would be there another 6 days. We lived too close (by half a mile) to qualify for a room at the Ronald McDonald house. We didn't have money for a hotel. My original plan had us cuddling for 4-6 hours as a family and then going home together. We didn't have a plan for this.
My parents got us a room at a hotel. But since I was trying to breastfeed, I was at the hospital every 3 hours. I drove myself to the hospital at 8pm, 11pm, 2am and 5am, and the same hours during the day. It was miserable and I paid so many parking fees. And I know I shouldn't have been driving myself in the dark, in the rain, 3 days after giving birth, and then walking from a dark parking lot over to the hospital. But I didn't have a choice.
Looking back, I feel I should've visited with my daughter more than I did. But what I didn't know during that first week was that I had postpartum depression and anxiety. I was concerned for my daughter, but detached. Love wasn't really a part of it. It got notably, aggressively worse after we came home. I dreaded the moment Kathryn would wake up and cry and need something from me. I resented breastfeeding and felt like a cow. I didn't marvel at little fingers, tiny toes, precious face. All I wanted to do was sleep in my bed. Not eat, not laugh, not see people, not love on my daughter. A different midwife immediately got me on an antidepressant and directed me to a counselor. She personally called my mother to explain what I was going through and how she could help me. My mom needed that. And she came out to our house every day for a week to help me. I needed that. My mother-in-law came out for a few days after that. I didn't dislike or hate Kathryn. I just wasn't connecting to her. She was anybody's newborn. Cute, but not fiercely loved. Postpartum depression and anxiety robbed me of enjoying my daughter's first month, and robbed my daughter of a normal, loving mother. I hated it for that. I still hate it. And I know it's probably going to come back with Naomi. I hope there is a way I can fight through it and "be there" for my husband and children.
Thankfully, I leveled out once Kathryn was around 4 weeks old. We went on a beach vacation when she was 5 weeks old, and stopped breastfeeding. It just was not working for her, or for me. As we moved to formula, Kathryn began sleeping through the night and was happy and full. We were finally, finally in a good place. I'm thankful she healed well from her birth, and that I healed well from her birth and my PPD and PPA, but will always wish it could've been better. It was traumatic for us both. I hope for an easier labor and birth for Naomi, but know it could happen again. It concerns me, but what can I do but hope? Kathryn and I continue to be in a good place and we share an amazing connection. She's not a Daddy's girl so far--she is a Mommy's girl. I love her in a way that's so different from everyone else I love, yet inexplicable.
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