The birth of Rosie: Part 2
(This, along with Part 1, is a story that deserves to be well written. However, as most of it is being recorded in stops and starts from a hunt and peck one handed position, many adjectives and more descriptive phrases had to be sacrificed. My apologies.)
After lumbering straight to bed at 5:00, I slept almost immediately. I couldn’t bear to be conscious another minute. I woke up around 6:45 when Noah crawled into our bed and snuggled up next to me, and I thought “Hmmm. I feel rather uncomfortable.” However, as this was my constant state of being for the last three or four weeks, I didn’t think it was anything out of the ordinary.
Fifteen minutes later I knew I was wrong.
I woke up with a start at seven and immediately stood up to go to the bathroom. When I got there I gripped the wall and realized that I was having a real, bonafide 6 or 7 on the pain scale contraction. I hobbled back to the bedroom after it subsided and woke Lorso. I’m not sure what I said, but it was probably something like “NEED TO – OW – HOSPITAL – QUICK – OMG” or some other totally coherent sentence.
Now, the Lorso is by no means a perfect man. But ladies, on that memorable day when you go into labor, I for real hope you have a partner at your side who is even half as kick ass as my husband. First of all, from past experience he knew that we had to get in the car THAT SECOND. At this point it was the magical time of day known as Rush Hour, and we live about 20 minutes from the hospital. A winning combination! He threw on pants and shoes and tossed our bags in the car (getting me a barf bag to boot, which at the time seemed quite necessary) – and was escorting me down the steps of our house in a matter of minutes. He then drove mostly one handed (I had a Grip of Death on his right hand from my reclined, wailing position in the passenger seat) through morning work traffic while simultaneously supplying words of encouragement to me that were actually encouraging. Things like, You’re doing a great job, You’re doing just what you should be doing and No, you are NOT going to die. (Note: this is surprisingly helpful to hear.) He even kept his cool when I told him, mid-contraction FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT WRECK GET ME TO THE HOSPITAL and simply said, “You concentrate on what you’re doing, and I’ll drive.” And he even said it in a nice voice.
So like I said, Lorso = shoo in for Husband of the Year.
He whipped us into the ER parking lot and helped the (poor, poor) security guard put me into a wheelchair and they wheeled me, still wailing, through the ER to the elevator up to Labor and Delivery. This was a familiar scene to me, because it’s exactly how I arrived to the hospital when Bug was born. (And I’m just now thinking about this, but I really hope there weren’t any extra people on that elevator car because WOW would that have been an awkward ride.)
They wheeled me straight into a labor room and since my latest contraction was dying down, I stood up and immediately stripped all my clothes off so as to not have a baby in my pants. (And I’m just NOW thinking about THIS, but man, I hope that security guard had left. Because WOW would that have been an awkward ride for him. Maybe I should send him some flowers. Or a bottle of vodka.)
I climbed onto the table, was checked, and then before the next contraction was told NOT TO PUSH. Uh, sure, ok. Right after I bend this piece of titanium with my bare hands. However, Lorso, amazingly, had read up on What To Do When You’re Told Not To Push (I know! And he wasn’t even ever a Boy Scout!) and lifted my chin and said “RACHEL. Take short breaths. Chin up. Short breaths.” And he was all I heard, and I obeyed. And miraculously, I did not push. Husband of Year = CLINCHED.
My bag of waters, which apparently was a polymer of mylar and that plastic they make Tupperware out of, had not yet broken even with all that crazy action, so they got out the Crochet Hook of Doom and popped that sucker open. This was the green light my body needed and I was allowed to push. I pushed once. The nurses and midwife said “Good! She’s almost here!”, and I thought “If they are giving me that ‘Almost there but really it’s going to be 45 more horrific minutes’ crappola then we are about to have some serious problems.” But that thought was interrupted by the next contraction, during which I pushed for what seemed to be a whole minute while also levitating somewhere near the ceiling and screaming a scream that probably made about five laboring women walk right out the front doors of the hospital.
And out she came.
Internet, I cannot tell you how completely and totally and utterly AWESOME it feels to have a baby leave your body. Instant relief to the nth degree. And then? They hand you a baby. Your baby. Crying and slippery and covered in cheese and the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen.
I don’t know if you were paying attention, but the chain of events was: arrive at ER, one contraction in the wheelchair up, clothes off, contraction on the table, checked, told not to push through next contraction, one push, another, and then – BABY.
Check in time: 8:00 am
Time of birth: 8:17 am
I will have more to say about this in the weeks to come, I’m sure, but now Rosie is wriggling in her cradle, ready to be changed or nursed or loved or all three. She’s an easy baby. An easy sleeper, an easy nurser. Easy on the eyes. Easy to love.
She’s my girl. And totally worth any number on the pain scale.
Welcome to the world, Rosie Mae.