Soon we saw the squad car's flashing lights behind us. Mike and I looked at each other and said, "Is this seriously happening?" And it was. As the female officer approached our window I felt another contraction. She started to say something cheeky about how it was a fairly obvious "no left turn" sign. I started laughing while tears streamed down my face. She must have thought I was mocking her because she glared at me until she noted my rather pregnant form and the pain on my face. Mike said, "I'm so sorry, my wife's in labor." Her only response was something to the effect of, "Of course she is! This will make a good story." And as she walked away, she patted the car and said "Be careful."
We went in through the after hours emergency entrance and walked up to the desk. The woman looked at me with an expression that said "why are you here bothering me?" I told her I was in labor and needed to check into the women's center. She shot off a barrage of questions to gauge if I was really in labor when I finally said, "I called my doctor and she said I needed to check in because my contractions are at 5-1-1." I was both annoyed and flattered by her disbelief. Apparently, I was holding it together better than I thought. It must have been the make-up. She buzzed us in the door and we walked up to yet another desk to be greeted by an all-women staff. They escorted me to our room and told me that a nurse would be in soon. All shreds of keeping it together were gone. I started shaking uncontrollably with each contraction. I thought my legs were going to give out. I sat in a chair hoping the shaking would stop but it didn't help. In fact it just made the contractions more painful. This was the moment that I realized this was a little more than I had bargained for. It was now the middle of the night and I was in an eerily quiet and dimly lit hospital room. Mike kept asking if he could help but I didn't know how he could help me. I felt completely alone and wished my Mom didn't happen to be out of town for just this one day. The nurse came in and Mike said to her (mostly just commenting because I think he felt helpless), "She's shaking so much." And then the nurse just looked at me with complete honesty and sympathy and said, "She's just scared, honey. She's never done this before. And it's just plain scary." That was a turning point for me. I needed to hear that in order to put words to my feelings. This was by no means something I knew how to do. And I was scared at the prospect that this was just the beginning.
She put a blanket over me and asked me about my birth plan. I said that I was intending to have an epidural but I would like to labor as long as I could without one. She asked me why and I didn't have the presence of mind to give her a good answer--or I just didn't have a good answer. Sensing that I was already completely overwhelmed (it was probably the tears rolling down my cheeks), she said "well, the only prize at the end of this is a baby whether you get it now or wait." Also good to hear. She hooked me up to the monitors and started my antibiotic drip. A few minutes later she popped her head to tell me the anesthesiologist was in the next room and could come in if I wanted him to. With contractions coming at one minute apart, and the prospect of 10 more hours of that, I decided to pull the trigger. And before I knew it I was bracing for a rather large needle to go into my back. He had to stick me twice but I didn't care at that point. Relief was nigh. And relief it was. It started to kick in before the doctor even left the room.
This is solely for record keeping purposes. It is not polished or well-edited. I just needed to force myself to write about how our little babe came into the world before I forgot the details--it has already been three months! I remember reading other people's birth stories while I was pregnant and being really grateful for their candidness. They helped me to form a semblance of an idea of what the whole process would look like. So here is my version of bringing a baby into this world:
Sunday came and I decided to forego going to church-because after all it was my due date. And I thought I was starting to feel the slightest cramping sensation. I waited out the day as they got a little stronger. I wasn’t actually even sure if they were the real thing that’s how small they were. I had to ask my friend what they felt like and she assured me it sounded like I was at least moving in the right direction. Monday came and the cramping was getting a little stronger and more consistent. I went on a long walk that day. I was longing for a body sans baby bump so I went to every clothing store within walking distance and dreamt of the day that I would get to wear cute non-maternity clothes again. Soon, I hoped. That evening Mike and I weren’t in the greatest of moods. We were getting stir crazy from all the waiting we’d done in the past week. We just stared at each other through dinner. It was like we didn’t have anything to say until the baby came.
I woke up Tuesday and I told Mike I thought today was the day—the day we’d meet our baby. He told his boss the same thing when he called to say he wasn’t going into work that day. I was definitely feeling the cramps by this point and they were coming about every 30 minutes. We were so excited. We had planned what we were going to do on delivery day in our birthing class but we didn’t really do any of it—except get our favorite cupcakes from St. Cupcake. To be honest I can’t really remember what we did that morning—I think we cleaned the house. Things didn’t seem to be progressing much though. I just felt like I was on my period, nothing very painful. I decided I would let Mike know I was feeling contractions by saying “Oh, that tickles” so he could at least pay attention to how far apart they were. We got dinner with Mike’s sister, Christina, and then headed to St. Cupcake and then home.
I was still wondering if I was actually ever going to have a baby. It seemed too easy to me. I even made the mistake of saying that a few times throughout the day. By the time Glee rolled around I was really starting to feel the contractions. And by the last musical number I was trying to do anything to get comfortable and make them stop. Mostly I was lying on my side, clenching a pillow watching our enormous wall clock. 15 minutes apart. It was 10 o’clock by then. I figured it would take all night to get to that infamous 5-1-1 everyone tells you about so I told Mike I’d try to sleep through them. The second my head hit the pillow I was wincing in pain. I told Mike to look at the clock. The pain stopped. And then it rolled through me again. And again. 5 minutes apart.
I couldn’t lie down any longer. I had to stand up to feel more in control of my body. I rocked back and forth and held onto the dresser, the stair rail, the bathroom sink—whatever I could to stable myself through the next contractions. Mike said I should call the Doctor. I called and tried not to sound too panicky. She asked if my water broke. I told her I didn’t think so. She said I should probably head to the hospital anyway. I dressed as fast as I possibly could and then proceeded to put on my makeup. Makeup—seriously, at a time like this? I braced myself again.
Mike was hurriedly trying to gather everything so we could get to the car. I’ve never seen him so frantic. Ever. He was picking things up, then setting them down, then moving them from one place to another. We walked to the car and as we got in I held onto the door handle to brace myself again. It was midnight. There was construction on the street heading to the hospital so Mike decided to make an illegal left turn onto the street directly behind it. And that’s when I spotted the cop car (without its lights on) driving down the other side of the street.
1. Agreeable; Attractive 2. of palatable flavor and pleasing texture : delicious
The apple fritter at Voodoo Donuts is quite toothsome to me.
*I saw this word on my college roommate's blog--we were both word nerds and had a word of the week wall that we loved to fill with quirky words. She inspired me to start the tradition again.
Mrs. Druse labored all year to see us connect with the literature we read.
I remember writing a tongue-in-cheek paper about reading too much into the author's meaning.
I remember the term "platonic conception" being used ad nauseum to describe the chraracter Daisy in The Great Gatsby.
I remember being a little disturbed by The Scarlet Letter.
I remember writing another tongue-in-cheek paper about why the American public education system was "stupid" compared to it's European counterpart. (I think I was just angry that I had to take Advanced Algebra.)
I remember listening to a girl from South Africa read the part of Abigail Williams in The Crucible in a very thick English accent--and spitting every time she tried to add dramatic flare to her lines.
I remember reading the SparkNotes for The Grapes of Wrath.
But more than anything I remember hating The Cather in the Rye.
I hated Holden Caulfield and his "woe is me" attitude.
I hated the way he used The Savior's name in every other sentence.
I hated his constant description of himself as "yellow."
Mostly though, I hated the way I felt after I read it.
I hated that it made me hate.
As soon as I closed the book I began seeing the world as Holden saw it.
And I did not like what I saw--everything was fodder for criticism.
We had a long class discussion when we had all finished the book.
It was peppered with comments like "I loved this book" and "Holden is so funny."
The entire time I seethed with disgust for my fellow classmates.
So much so that my heart raced and my face was flush as I planned what I would say.
I raised my hand and proceeded to give a scathing monologue detailing why this book was literary trash.
I'm sure I was not quite so articulate at the time.
It was probably closer to rambling.
But allow me to remember it as a scathing monologue.
I was passionate like I had never seen myself before.
You might say (if you were looking to find a moral in this story) that for the first time I felt the power of the written word.
I vowed then and there that I, unlike J.D. Salinger, would not be a part of polluting the world with written smut.
And so it is with that same passion that I have decided to start a blog dedicated to writing.
Because I believe in writing about the things that are virtuous, lovely and of good report in this world.
And because sometimes a girl's just got to write what she feels.
So here it is world.
My tiny attempt at ridding the world of written smut--and probably closer to the truth (and not nearly as noble), my attempt at sharpening my writing skills in preparation for my Master's in English Education.
