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August 2, 2006
The Birth of Garrett Thomas
Everyone told me that I would know when I went into labor. Even though this was my second pregnancy, I wasn’t sure if my body was truly in labor, or just teasing me. With my daughter, my water broke naturally (in medical terms, grossly ruptured) and it still took Pitocin for me to have contractions, so how could I be sure that my body would know what to do?
My son was due to arrive on July 20th. I went to the doctor and she told me that I was dilated two centimeters, but it didn’t look like the baby was ready to come out. I complained of pains in my rib cage. I whined about the carpal tunnel that the pregnancy had induced. I told her that I could tell this baby was much bigger than my first. I begged her to take him out, now. She told me that I was healthy and having a perfect pregnancy and that the baby would come out when he was ready. I would have to schedule an appointment for the following week to see how things were going. Fortunately, I had chosen a practice that did not believe in forcing labor, no matter how much I begged. I did not want Pitocin again and my doctor knew that, but my need to have things planned, was taking over. I wanted to make sure that someone was at my house to watch my daughter, that my mom was in town so she could meet this new being when he arrived, that I wasn’t in line at the grocery store when my water broke. I left the doctor’s office and hoped that labor would start before the following week.
On July 21st I decided that I wanted my mom. She lives six hours away and I knew that I needed some help. I was tired and it was hot. My two year old wanted to be outside playing and I just wanted to relax. My mom agreed to come the next day and stay for a week. I worried that I wouldn’t go into labor until the following week and she would only be able to see her new grandchild for a day or two. But in the end, I just needed my mommy.
My body must have known that I needed to get my mom to our house to make the plans I had go smoothly. On the 23rd I started having contractions. They started around 7pm and only happened when I was up and moving. I dusted. I folded laundry. I wore a path in the carpet from the living room to the bedrooms. When I put my daughter to bed, I told her that I might not be there in the morning, and gave her kisses. Around 9:30 I started keeping track of the contractions. As long as I was moving, they were ten minutes apart. I took a break and sat down to type some hopeful emails, and went thirty minutes with nothing. I decided the dishwasher needed to be unloaded and they started again. By 11pm the contractions were coming every ten minutes without fail, but still weren’t anything strong. I told my husband I was going to call the doctor, just in case. At midnight I told him I thought we should go in because I had a few contractions that were strong and across my back and seeing as my mom was here to watch our daughter, it wouldn’t hurt to be checked.
As we left the house, I began to cry. I was excited to be bringing this new life into the world, but at the same time, I was so sad for my daughter. She had been the center of our world for two years, and that was about to change for her. She was going from having mommy and daddy’s full attention, to having to share more than she would be able to understand. I knew I would nurse my son, and that the decision to nurse would greatly limit the time my daughter would have to cuddle on my lap. I needed to mourn the loss of time I would be able to spend with my daughter and prepare for a new relationship as the mom of two.
The hospital is twenty minutes away and half way there I was sure we made the right decision. I filled in paper work and went through the admitting process with a few minor contractions. They took me to a room and checked, I was 4 centimeters and the baby was zero station. I told them I was going to want an epidural. I had been through this before and even though I can deal with quite a bit of pain, I loved being calm and clear headed as I controlled the birth of my daughter and wanted the same sensation with my son. I would have to wait another two hours before the anesthesiologist would come to see me due to other women and emergencies. During that time, I paced around the room, resting my head on the bed during contractions or sitting on the bed cross-legged rocking back and forth.
When they got me to the delivery room around 3:30am, I measured 5 centimeters. At 3:45 I got an epidural and finally was able to smile. The epidural made my blood pressure drop way below the comfort range for the doctors, but after me assuring them that for me it was normal, and no, I did not have a metallic taste in my mouth, and I was no more light-headed than usual, they left it in. At 4:30 I woke up from a short rest when my water broke, grossly ruptured, again. I asked my husband to call for the nurse. She helped me get some clean sheets and then left so I could relax. At 6:10, I called for her again to tell her I was feeling a great deal of pressure. She started to get the room ready. My doctor came in at 6:30 to introduce himself and then he left. (There are six doctors at the practice. I had seen five during my nine months of pregnancy. He was the only one I didn’t see.) The nurse called him back ten minutes later because I told her I needed to push. She had checked my progress only to see the baby coming out on his own. I had them decrease the epidural, a must for being able to push. The doctor returned and asked me to push with the next contraction. Three rounds of pushing later he told me to stop. I stopped, but the baby didn’t. He just kept coming down. A small episiotomy was done to keep me from tearing and the baby was out and screaming.
The doctor helped me lift Garrett onto my chest. It was 6:52am on July 24th. Garrett Thomas arrived on his own four days past his due date. The lights in the room were dimmed and the nurses and doctor did what they needed to in silence. They let me hold and nurse Garrett before they took him to be weighed. I stared at him, this creature who just a few moments before had been inside me. He looked so big compared to my first, but still so small. My husband’s face beamed with pride as he gently caressed Garrett’s head. Garrett had a perfectly round head covered with dark brown hair and a look of absolute contentment to be nestled up against me.
After he finished his first meal, the nurse took him to be weighed and cleaned. He was 8 lbs. 9 oz., almost two pounds heavier than his sister had been. The nurses and doctor told me what an easy patient I was and that I was a great pusher. The doctor said I should do this one or two more times and I told him that it is always a possibility. They took Garrett for his first bath and me to my post-partum room. As soon as Garrett was returned to me, I let my husband go home to rest and tell our daughter that her brother had arrived. I stayed awake, holding my son in my arms. It didn’t matter that I had been awake for most of the last 24 hours; I needed to study every part of my new baby.
My husband, daughter, and mom came in later that day. As I sat in the hospital bed, with my two children in my lap, I could not feel more blessed. My daughter suddenly looked so big. I could not believe that just twelve hours ago, when I had kissed her goodnight, she had been a baby. Now, she was a big sister. As I gazed at my little boy swaddled tightly in his baby blanket, I looked forward to learning about his unique personality and all that he would bring to our family.
Stacey is a stay-at-home mother to her two children: Corinne who is
three years old and Garrett who is 1 year old. She lives in New
England. You can read the birth story of her daughter here.Comments
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