| A Moment of Jen | |||
posted by Jen at 5/09/2003 08:55:00 AM Hallelujah! The Bun has decided that today is a good day for a birthday. Labor began last night. We headed to the hospital two hours before our scheduled C-section -- the one I was grieving over, the one I really wanted to avoid -- and got hooked up to the monitors. And lo and behold....I was contracting every three to four minutes. I've finally started to dilate. Okay, not much -- obviously not much if they were willing to send us home -- but the ball is rolling. And we're both thrilled! More soon..... | # Wednesday, May 07, 2003 posted by Jen at 5/07/2003 10:29:00 PM Hi everyone. No, still nothing. I'll be seeing the doctor Thursday morning to make sure that the baby's still okay, try to figure out if/when/whether I'll ever go into labor, and whether at this point it makes sense to watch and wait or go ahead with the C-section. I spent the day walking with one of my few still-pregnant friends. Then Adam and I went to Home Depot and got a bunch of flowers, and I planted them. Then I took a nap and when I woke up there was this cantaloupe-shaped mound sticking out of my belly. It was undeniable. It was unmistakable. It was....a butt. That's right. The Bun was mooning me. Thanks to everyone who's sent such wonderful encouraging letters, and positive thoughts our way. More soon..... | # Tuesday, May 06, 2003 posted by Jen at 5/06/2003 09:47:00 PM Today was kind of an up-and-down day -- lots of emotion, with shopping in between. But first, a small clarification from yesterday -- a lot of you wrote to ask why my doctor hasn't brought up induction. I think the reason is (and I'll get some clarification of this at my next visit), there's nothing so far indicating that it would work. I think if my cervix had started to change (and boy, I never thought I'd be discussing my cervix with the Net-surfing world), I'd be willing to consider going that route, but as it is, my choices seem to be C-section or waiting. Things started with more bad news. Our doula -- who we really like -- had a death in the family, and will be out of town until Friday. Not good. I spent a pretty miserable night, trying to come to grips with the notion that, among other things, if I don't go into labor pronto I won't have a wonderful how-you-were-born story to tell my baby -- it'll just be, "Well, you were late and the doctors got worried so we went to the hospital and the doctors cut me open and took you out." In the morning, the news got worse. My doctor called to say that he'd reviewed my case with the high-risk guys, and while estimates for weight can be wrong, estimates for head size rarely are. And this baby has, in the words of Mike Myers in "So I Married an Axe Murderer," a great gargantuan cranium. ("Spherical. But quite pointy in parts!") Of course, the baby's head size only really matters in proportion to the size of the mother's pelvis. I'm pretty tall and fairly substantial (how's that for delicately phrased?), so it's not as if I'm some tiny five-foot-tall ninety-pound thing trying to give birth to Pumpkinhead. But still....they're worried. And they want to do the C-section sooner rather than later. So Adam and I went to the mall, to walk around and try to take our mind off things. We bought placemats. It worked as well as anything else, I guess. And we were hanging out at Pottery Barn Kids when my cell phone rang. It was Jane, our Bradley instructor, calling in with the opposing viewpoint. "Babies are born when they want to be born!" she said. "Your doctor needs to trust your body and your baby! Don't let them bully you!" Her take: as long as the Bun looks healthy on the monitors (and the Bun does) and the fluid levels look good (and they do), there's no danger in waiting for my body to go into labor on its own, even if that means going to week 43 or -- God, I don't even want to type this -- week 44. Of course, I know my doctor's going to say that there are risks with going past forty-two weeks -- the rate of stillbirth rises, the placenta can deteriorate, the baby keeps growing, big babies equal difficult labors, why not just do it now? The horribly frustrating thing is, I feel as if we're not in the realm of facts and absolutes. Birth is politicized. People have agendas, whether they're doctors worried about malpractice suits and trying to insure the best possible outcomes (which I think can lead to more C-sections than are technically absolutely necessary) or Bradley teachers trying to return the world to all-natural childbirth, all the time. Both sides make persuasive arguments. Both sides have studies to back those arguments up. There's not an easy, obvious choice. So what I did was this: I bought letters at Pottery Barn Kids that spell out the Bun's name. I took a long, slow walk with Wendell down by the Delaware River. I took my boom box and a bunch of candles into the bathroom. And I did the one thing that my doctor and my Bradley teacher both recommended -- I talked to the baby. Well, not talked so much. I've always felt kind of silly talking to the Bun (strangely, I feel perfectly normal talking FOR the Bun -- I'll have Adam ask a question and I will respond in a small squeaky Bun-like voice that is usually both indignant and profane. The Bun, you may be interested to know, has already expressed a keen desire for a pony). So I got in the tub and lit the candles and I set up the letters spelling out the Bun's name, and I turned on the music and I, um, sang. I sang Springsteen and Paul Simon and Dar Williams and Kirsty MacColl. I lay curled on my side in the water with my hands around my belly and I sang and sang and sang, and I hummed when I didn't know the words. I sent telepathic messages telling the Bun that we live in a wonderful city in a beautiful house full of love and dog hair and way too many scented candles, but that it's generally quite a happy place. I said that the Bun's father is very smart and nice and funny, and the dog is....well, the dog is unique. And that there are lots of people eager to meet the Bun, me most of all, and that this would be a good time to start thinking about leaving. Maybe I'm a sucker for new-agey stuff (and scented candles, too), but I'm feeling a lot more peaceful now than I did last night. I wish that what I was feeling was contractions, but I'll take peace, for now. And I hope that feeling will either get labor started, or help me feel good and calm if we wind up with the C-section. (And then, of course, I came downstairs all freshly washed and glowing and found Joshua Gracin singing "Jive Talkin'" on TV, which just might have undone all my hard work and good intentions. My eyes. My EYES!) So that's all I can tell you, except to note that Adam has started referring to the pregnancy as my sweeps-month stunt. Heh. | # Monday, May 05, 2003 posted by Jen at 5/05/2003 04:35:00 PM Oh, boy, do I wish I had some happy baby news to post right about now. I had a bunch of contractions last night and got very excited. Then they stopped. But they left me in a very good mood, because I thought that things could maybe finally be starting to happen. "I think we should try reverse psychology," I said to Adam. "Like, let's tell the Bun that today isn't a good day to be born, because your birthday will coincide with cheesy Cinco de Mayo festivities and two-for-one margarita specials." So I bounced down to the prenatal diagnosis office for non-stress-test number three and an ultrasound to check on position, amniotic fluid levels and size. NST went great -- the Bun is happy and moving. The heart rate looks good, fluid level looks good, and the Bun remains head down. Size....well size was another story. "Ooh," said the technician, sliding the monitor over my belly. "This is not a small baby." Well, I knew that already -- from previous ultrasounds and from discussions with my doctor. I also know that ultrasounds get notoriously inaccurate as the pregnancy progresses, to the point that the technician said that her number could be off by as much as a pound and a half in either direction. That being said, the Bun, at present, appears to be somewhere upwards of nine pounds. Youch. Then it was time for the discussion with my doctor that I really didn't want to have -- the one about what we do if the Bun appears content to stay in the warm and sheltering confines of my uterus, and we get to the 42-week point. Yes, you probably guessed it -- with a baby they think is big, and a mom whose cervix hasn't done squat, it's C-section time. And right now, the thought of that has me a little sad and scared. As faithful readers may remember, Adam and I really wanted to at least try natural childbirth. We took a nine-week-long Bradley class to get ready. We've read a zillion books, done exercises, practiced relaxation, hired a doula. I've gone swimming and walking and done prenatal yoga, and spent more hours than I care to count squatting on my birth ball when I would have rather been snuggled on the couch. And up until last week's blood-pressure scare, the pregnancy's been textbook normal. I've been healthy. The Bun's been healthy. All systems seemed to be go. And a C-section....well, I've got friends and relatives who swear by them, who say that they wouldn't give birth any other way, that it's a breeze, the kid comes out looking gorgeous and recovery is no big deal (plus, you get to stay in the hospital for five days, instead of being booted after two. And they don't let you leave until after you've pooped, which offers its own special level of excitement. I mean, how, exactly, are you supposed to relay that information to your caretakers? Do they follow the lead from the Vatican and look for white smoke coming out from underneath the bathroom door? Or maybe just the smell of air freshener? ). The thing is, for so long I've been picturing going through labor with Adam beside me, holding my hands and rubbing my back and making me laugh (or at least trying to). I've imagined giving birth and holding the Bun in my arms and nursing right away. And with a C-section, there'd be no labor, no hand-holding or back rubbing, no chance to try out all the things I've learned and practiced and rehearsed in my mind. There'd be an operating room, a sterile field, a bunch of nurses and doctors. I know they'd put the Bun on top of me, but my arms would be strapped down so I wouldn't necessarily be able to hold or feed my baby immediately. Plus, surgery is still surgery. I've never had an operation, and I find the prospect pretty frightening. And the idea of my body just never going into labor....well, I know it shouldn't make me feel like a failure, or like I've done something wrong. But right now it sort of does. "I know it's not the birth you've been planning," my doctor said gently (he was probably being gentle because I probably looked as if I was going to have a nervous breakdown before I even got my feet out of the stirrups.) "Take some time to think about it. I'll see you Thursday. Maybe before." And Adam says not to worry about things initially not being the way I'd imagined, what with the snuggling and the nursing and the rose-tinted glow. He points out that we've got years and years to love our baby, and that in the grand scheme of things the first few hours won't matter so much. I know that's true, too, and I'm trying to think positive and focus on the good news -- no matter how it happens, I'll have an actual baby by next Monday. Thanks to everyone who's written in with encouragement and suggestions. Keep sending good thoughts my way! | # Sunday, May 04, 2003 posted by Jen at 5/04/2003 06:27:00 PM Sigh. Do I even need to say it? Do I even need to type the words? Isn't the simple fact that I'm posting this at 6 o'clock on Sunday night enough to tell you what's going on -- or, rather, what isn't going on? No baby yet. In spite of the walking, the spicy foods, the evening primrose oil, in spite of all of your helpful suggestions, and our frequent entreaties, no baby yet. Meanwhile, MSNBC's Weblog Central did a round-up of writers' weblogs, and gave this site a very nice mention. Except now I worry I've got people coming here to find out about the writing life, and fiction versus diary entries and, you know, literature, and instead it's just me bitching about my six-days-overdue Bun. I can't even really talk about good books I've read lately because it's been hard to focus. I devouted Amanda Hesser's COOKING FOR MR. LATTE and had an extended fantasy about cooking the duck with ginger and sherry that takes two days to prepare -- a fantasy because at this point I'm kind of hoping I don't have two days. And I've got THE DIRTY GIRLS SOCIAL CLUB packed in my suitcase to read in the hospital, even though I'm not sure whether reading in the hospital is a total fantasy because I'll be so preoccupied and tired. And I ordered a whole slew of books to arrive after the Bun does -- Scott Spencer's A SHIP MADE OF PAPER, Meg Wolitzer's THE WIFE, Jeffrey Eugenides' MIDDLESEX, which I've been meaning to read forever. We'll see how that goes. | # |
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