The fruit of MY labor
This is the way it was supposed to happen: after I had washed and put away all the pretty pink things for Baby No. 3, tidied up the house best I could, prepared the boys for their first day of school, and stocked up on frozen dinners, I would go into labor, traipse into the hospital and give birth.
Both sides of the family would then go into Baby Mode, one aunt taking time off from work to stay with boys while Hubby and I were in the hospital, another taking over while everyone else took turns visiting us at the hospital where I would make them sign a proclamation that our baby was the cutest baby in the whole world.
By the time my due date came and went, and I was still pregnant, I had a feeling this pregnancy was going to throw me for a loop. And how.
"I don't want to leave her in there even just one more day," my doctor said, listing the reasons post-term babies often suffer complications. "Let's induce you."
She graciously allowed me time to make arrangements for the boys (and I squeezed in a last minute trip to Target to boot) before Hubby and I drove to Huntington Memorial in Pasadena, confident that we'd done this twice before, excited to meet our little girl.
"We'll be back in two days," I promised the boys.
I'd been induced before, so I knew the drill: check in, have an IV put in, and follow that up with increasing amounts of Pitocin, a drug used to induce labor and help it along. Don't forget to ask for your epidural in plenty of time, then just sit back and get ready to have a baby. I had a book and some magazines on hand and Hubby rejoiced that he had WiFi in the labor and delivery room (the better to update his Facebook page.)
I got my epidural that night, which lasted me well into the morning. I praised the magic elements of the epidural and waited for the next act.
"You're in a very nice labor pattern," my doctor complimented me, and although I'm sure I had nothing to do with this, I accepted the praise.
Then everything went wrong: my contractions started getting stronger so I asked for the blessed anesthesiologist to top off my medication. But before it could take effect, my contractions came sharply in mighty peaks, leaving me little time to rest in between.
"Somethings's wrong," I hissed to Hubby, as I hung on to the bed rails and tried to ride out the pain.
My doctor agreed. The contractions not only became too powerful, they also didn't pause. Each contraction panicked me and sent Baby's heartbeat plummeting. As I writhed in bed, saying, "Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow," it seemed the room suddenly filled with hospital staff, moving quickly, accompanied by beeping alarms.
My doctor turned to Hubby and said, "We need to do an emergency C-section. Now."
He and I had time to exchange one stunned look before I was wheeled away.
I remember asking why (aside from the baby's distress, doctors were also afraid my placenta was separating from my uterus before our baby.) I remember looking up at the operating room lights and thinking, "This is just like the movies," then bursting into tears at the thought that the doctors won't be able to rescue my baby in time. That was the worse.
I arrived at the operating room at 11:03 p.m. Our baby, Alicia Rivera, all 7 lbs. 3 oz. of her, was born five minutes later.
As I write this, my little girl is sleeping in her hospital bassinet, looking for all the world like a pink-faced pea in a pod. She has her older brother's lips, my ears and her daddy's cheeks. She is fine.
It wasn't
at all the birth story I had planned to tell, but the ending is what matters
most. And how was YOUR Labor Day weekend?
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