Hormonal surge and reflux...Lord, why do you hate me??

I have been surfing the wave of hormonal tween for the past 4 maybe 5 months.  I don't remember it starting this early with Olivia but then again Hannah seemed to do everything faster than Olivia did for the pure and simple fact that when you have two children the younger one tends to want to do EVERYTHING that the older one is doing and not wait until the same age bracket to do it in.

Case in point.  Hannah started walking at the lovely age of 9 1/2 months.  Olivia was closer to 14 months.  Hannah potty trained over a few months and was peeing like a champ on the potty by age 2.  Olivia held out for reinforcements (ie: my mother who had to travel from Florida to Ohio) in order to coax that tushy out of a pull-up and into Big Girl panties. This was accomplished after she was 2 yrs old.  Olivia breastfed until 18 months, Hannah dropped that and the bottle by 9 months and demanded a sippy cup. 

So while Jon and I steeled ourselves for the fact that "it" meaning puberty was coming, we had NOT in any way shape or form prepared ourselves for the fact that striking double digits on the birthday cake would bring about a tidal surge of dramatic outburst, raging mood swings and the onset of what appears to be a reflux disorder. 

And the countdown to 10...continues...Part 6

Part 6: I'm all for jokes...but really, is this the time??

Once I was firmly situated on the operating table I began to feel really, really...REALLY nervous.  I know it sounds like a moment of brilliant retardedness but at that exact moment it all seemed real.  It was like the past 40 weeks didn't even happen.  Like I had just showed up at the hospital and they announced, "hey you look like a nice woman who'd enjoy a new baby...come on back and we'll cut one out of your belly".

When they talk about pregnancy induced amnesia...I'm pretty sure they are referring to moments like this.

The anesthesiologist began to push the meds and they made sure I was good and numb.  I was elated because when I'd had Olivia I had an epic failure of an epidural.  They didn't insert the catheter properly and when they went to push the meds I could feel them leaking down my back.  Unfortunately, the monitors began to signal that Olivia was in fetal heart distress and she needed to be out.  NOW.  So they couldn't take the time to try and reinsert the epidural and I had to be put completely under.  I was the absolute last person to greet the arrival of my daughter.  I didn't want the same thing to happen with my the delivery of my son.

Once the drugs began to take affect I began professing my love to the anesthesiologist...the nurses...some dude that was bringing in gloves.  They figured that was a perfect time to bring in my husband.

They laid out the rules of how he was NOT to touch the sterile curtain that shielded him from a full view of the surgery that was about to reveal the baby.  I secretly wished them luck with that endeavor because I'd been telling him not to touch stuff in doctor and hospital settings through this whole pregnancy and HE WOULD NEVER LISTEN TO ME.  You have no idea how scary it is to watch your husband screw with a piece of equipment that probably cost as much if not more than a years salary.

They provided a stool and he took it...just in case.  I was worried that he would pass out.  He didn't do very well with blood.  Or surgery.  Or gore in general.  But I was high as a kite on pain meds...if he hit the ground...I was pretty sure one of the scrub clad individuals and that random dude with the gloves would handle it.

Then the doctor came in.  He explained that I'd feel some tugging and pressure but if I began to feel pain that I should just let the anesthesiologist know and she'd fix me right up.  I felt like saying, "dude...you do your job and don't you worry bout me and Sarah (that was the first name of the anesthesiologist) will be JUST FINE over here".

He asked if we were ready to go and we chimed in with a yes.  For a split second I wondered what would have occured if we would have said no.  Would he have been all like, okay..."I'll step out for a latte and come back in a few and see if you are ready to do this thing??"

Jon asked how long it would take before the baby was out.  The doctor explained that since their was no distress he could have the baby out in about 3-4 minutes.  I was amazed.  Made me ask how fast they could have a baby out in times of distress and was floored when he said less than a minute if need be.  Holy crap.  He said that getting the baby out was the easy part.  Putting everything back in was the long part.  Hmmmm...could have gone without the last part of info.

And so it began...

Jon says that he remembers seeing smoke from the laser.  I don't have any memory of it.  All I remember is feeling tugs and the anesthesiologist asking "are you okay"..."are you hurting"...the haze of her pushing more meds because apparently I said yes and then the sound of crying started.

Next came the voice of the doctor..."congratulations....IT'S....A.....GIRL!"

WHHHHAAAAAAAATTTTT?????

I turned to Jon willing him to verify that the doctor was in fact the King of Bad Jokes!

Jon looked down at me with misty eyes...."babe....it's a girl"!

I think I actually uttered the words, "stop joking...that's not funny" before finally looking up and seeing that in fact I was the proud momma of a beautiful baby girl.

Garren Jesse....was in fact a beautiful...perfect...10 fingers, 10 toed...little Hannah Michel!

I kissed Jon and told him to please follow the baby to the nursery.  I didn't want her out of our sight and since I obviously wasn't going anywhere...that left him on baby watch.

I got some more magical pain meds and the doctor continued with bad jokes saying first, "let me just make sure there aren't any more babies in there" and then asking "sure you don't want me to tie up any loose ends while I am down here".  To the last one I actually said yes...but he said, "no".

Next moment I can remember is waking up in the recovery room with my nurse checking my vitals.  I asked if I could see my daughter.  I then asked if it was in fact a daughter that I'd had and not just a dream.  She confirmed that it was in fact a girl and that I could see her once I was back in my room.

A few minutes later Jon strolled in all proud papa like.  Feeling drunk with the love of his first born or maybe just drunk he decided to be a jokester.

Me:  Hey...hey...is she okay.

Jon:  She's beautiful. And don't worry about the whole boy thing...doc says we can try again in like 8 weeks!

Thankfully...for him I was numb from the chest down so I couldn't physically get out of the bed and kick his ass.  However, my recovery nurse who was 3 months pregnant herself actually told Jon to, "go ahead and start running now...I'll give you a head start".

He left to go back to Hannah's side and I waited, albeit impatiently, for the moment when I could finally be properly introduced to my baby girl.

A few hours later I was rolled back to my room and in came the little lady of the day.

She was beautiful.  Absolutely captivating.  I was in love.  Everything that had taken place to get to this day just faded away.  I had my husband and two beautiful daughters...life, in this moment was perfection.

When we began making phone calls to announce our new baby we had a lot of "are you shitting me" and "no...come on...stop joking" to deal with.  Even my mom was blown away by the fact that we had absolutely NOTHING for a baby girl and rushed to buy something pink and frilly to bring home our newest family member home in.

Three days later we were heading home with our newly nicknamed Hannah "Banana" Michel Pettus.  I know...super original, right?  Well shortly after birth we noticed that she had jaundice so until we could do the sunlight treatments like the doctor prescribed we'd have a little Banana to love on.

I made Jon stop at the store because apparently my craziness hadn't stopped with delivery and I was intent on buying as much pink stuff for my new daughter as a woman who has just given birth can manage to get her hands on.  Once we got home this pretty little girl would be inundated in mass amounts of blue and Paddington Bear.  I needed something to break up the masculine undertones until I could feminine it up!!

Olivia got the first look at her baby sister when we arrived home.  She had gotten sick while I was "laboring" so we chose not to have her come to the hospital.  First thing she said when she saw her was, "hey wasn't she supposed to be a boy?"

Too tired to deal with another smart ass comment, even if it was from my 5 year old daughter I decided to just pop a pain killer and settle in to enjoy all the magic and mania that is being the mother of two girls....

~JP

And the countdown to 10...continues...Part 5

Part 5: Sometimes you've gotta fake it until you can make it...all the way to the delivery!

When we...meaning me...began to creep towards and then past the 37 week mark I began to go from happy that I'd managed to carry this baby past the fears of pre term labor to being completely pissed that he was now refusing to vacate the premises.  Seriously what the fuck??  COME OUT ALREADY!!

I was swollen.  I was tired.  My breast refused to cooperate unless they were coralled in a nursing bra AT ALL TIMES!  I'd begun to have these bizarre dreams that I'd be pregnant forever and that pretty soon you'd be able to see an imprant of this childs face pressing up against my belly as if he were stuck behind a glass window.

The days of Jon not getting any nookey were LONG gone.  I...like every other expectant mother had read "What to Expect When You're Expecting" on top of a slew of other maternity books and was determined to subscribe to any and all proven or even slightly plausible actions that may possibly enduce labor.  My first strategy was to have sex until this kid screamed, "ENOUGH ALREADY!  PULL OUT SO I CAN ESCAPE THIS WHORE HOUSE".

Unfortunately, the one that screamed enough first, was in fact my once sex deprived husband.  Useless.  Completely useless.

You're gonna whine cause you don't get anything.  Not even a hint of sexual action in months and then when I'm all, "hey baby...ya wanna (wink, wink)"...he can't keep up!

He began to make excuses.  He was tired.  He wasn't feeling well.  Lies...all lies.  I don't care how tired this man said he was...he'd stay up for sex.  My god he was 23 years old...how tired can you possibly be at that age?  And the not feeling well crap...well, we had been together almost two years and he'd NEVER had so much as a sniffle in all that time.  When the lies stopped working he would just try to avoid me.  It wasn't hard to do because I was huge and I couldn't cathc him when he ran away.

I cried. A lot.  I was so miserable.  I couldn't understand how at 29 weeks my body was insistent that this child GET OUT but at 36, then 37, 38 and now creeping ever closer to 39 weeks it was all "hey you like this womb??  You should totally stay here FOREVER."

I was becoming desperate so I did what any person with a shred of sanity would do...I called my doctor.  I figured he is the only one with the power to help me.

I had complications dialating and then delivering Olivia.  After 28 1/2 hours of "pure hell" they had to do an emergency c-section.  Later on it was determined that I had cephalo pelvic disproportion and that unless Olivia had been like 5 lbs with a teeny tiny head...she was never gonna make the final pass into the birth canal.  Thanks to the drugs I didn't feel much like going and kicking in the doctors teeth that had lied to me for 4 1/2 hours while I pushed.

Him and the bitchy ass nurse kept saying "great push"..."good job"...."keep doing that".  I kept thinking the mere definition of doing a good job means you are progressing towards an end result.  The end result was delivering this baby...apparently they didn't see it the same way.

They had me convinced that if I just "tried harder" or "gave it may all" she would come out.  Even as they were wheeling me to the operating room I kept telling my parents, "maybe if I just push for a little longer she will come out"...yeah, not gonna happen.

Apparently at that moment my ability to push life into the world was broken.  This was something that was discussed MANY times during this current pregnancy.  I wasn't afraid of trying for a vaginal birth.  I actually was on board with it.  My doctor didn't try to dissuade me either but early on we had discussed the definite possibility that I may end up right back in that same failed pushing situation.  What the hell is it with my failed lady parts anyways??

He offered me the chance to just schedule a c-section.  I didn't accept at that time but now...now I was tired...I wanted this baby to come out....I wanted my option for c-section back.

Me:  Dr. Doran...I'm tired...I think I wan't to go ahead and have a c-section.

Dr. Doran:  Tired huh?  Well you're gonna be even more tired when this little one arrives.  Enjoy this time with just your daughter.  The baby will come when he is ready.

Me:  Okay.  Yeah.  Umm...I get the whole wait for the natural progression...but I'm ready.  I'm like...really, really, REALLY ready.

Dr. Doran:  (polite doctor laughter...scribbling in chart...totally ignoring me)

Me:  So are you saying that I can't have a scheduled c-section?  (on the verge of tears)

Dr. Doran:  I am saying...(dramatic pause to show that he is so in control of this situation)...that you are barely 39 weeks.  What's the rush?  I can carry you safely to 42 weeks if need be.

Me:  (tears have dried up completely and sheer anger has ensued)  Are you married Dr. Doran?  Because if you are I am going to hunt down your wife and tell her that you are now threatening me with another 3 weeks of pregnancy.  If she has ever been pregnant I am pretty sure she may want to kill you for that remark.

I leave the office.  Escorted by a nurse.  I go directly home, call Jon and commence with having a nervous breakdown.

Me:  Babe (sniffle) I hate my doctor.

Jon:  Are you crying?  Oh my god...what's wrong?  Do I need to come home?  Is it...oh my god..is it time?

Me:  NO!  NOOOOOO!!!  It.  Is.  NOT.  Time.  Didn't you hear me??? I hate my doctor!!!

Jon:  Okay.  Okay..sorry...it's not time.  You had me worried.  I'm sorry..why do you hate the doctor?

Me:  Because he's mean.

Jon:  (trying not to laugh because he knows that even though he is currently safe by being 20 minutes away...I do, however, have the ability to get in my car, drive over to his work, and attempt to kick his ass)  Why is he mean?  Did he say something about the weight you've gained.

Me:  What?  What?  Why would you bring up my weight?  Now you're mean.  (starting to sob)

Jon:  I didn't bring up your weig....nevermind...lets focus on why you hate the doctor.  What did he do?

Me:  Okay so you know how my due date is September 25th?

Jon:  Yes I am painfully aware that is your due date...you talk about it constantly.  Now that we are over obsessing about the number 35, I can see your new favorite number is 25.

Me:  Okay...so the date today is September 16th.

Jon:  Yes I know that too...is there a point to this?

Me:  Well the crazy ass doctor who I thought held my salvation and would grant me a magical c-section is now saying he can carry me "safely" until October 9th if I don't go into labor on my own...naturally.  

Jon:  Whoa...hold on...wait a minute.  He said what??

Me:  Yeah...ya heard me...OCTOBER!  9th!!  That's like almost another month!

Jon:  Oh HELL NO!  I can't do this for another month!

Me:  YOU?  YOU CAN'T DO THIS FOR ANOTHER MONTH...WHAT ABOUT ME!  HELLO...REMEMBER ME...YOUR WIFE??  CARRYING HUMAN...IN HER OWN BODY???  LET'S NOT LOSE FOCUS ON WHO IS TRULY IN NEED OF THIS DELIVERY!

Jon:  You want me to come home so we can have sex?

Me:  (pretty sure I am now sounding like Freddy Crougar) NO you had your chance...you failed... I WANT THIS BABY O-U-T!!  NOW DAMNIT!

I slammed down the phone and immediately began thinking of any and EVERY possible way to accomplish this.  I was a woman on a mission.  I didn't care how cooky or possibly embarassing it may be I was not going to keep this child in for a minute over September 25th even if it meant camping on my doctor's door step!

I went on the internet.  I consulted friends that had recently had a baby.  Some suggestions were helpful like the one that said walking would enduce labor.  My neighbor Stacy, who lived directly across from me, would come over every night and lead me around our apartment complex for a good hour.  She would drink a glass of wine and we would chat about our kids.  We did this for a couple of nights and on the 20th I thought I had finally hit pay dirt.  I was contracting.

I waited for a little while and sure enough they were coming every couple of minutes and getting a little stronger each time.  I alerted Jon and we took Olivia to our friends house that was on the way to the hospital.  As soon I was hooked up to the monitors the contractions began to fizzle.  I tried not to be upset because they still needed to check me.  The nurse came in and did the exam.  I prayed for a 7 or 8.  I new that was the magic number that meant I could stay.  I was at a 4.  Some women would be excited by this.  Me, not so much.  I had been at a 4 since I left the hospital after the pre-term labor.  I had been holding a 4 for just about 10 weeks now.

After about an hour more of monitoring and announcing that the fetal heartrate sounds "perfect" and there was "no change in the cervic"... we were cut loose.  I was dissappointed but hopeful.  If walking brought contractions...then more walking and other things would surely start them back up and get this show on the road...right??

Two days later I thought for sure this was it!  Now back when I was pregnant with Olivia my water broke and then the contractions came...but they didn't start until I was at the hospital.  This time I seemed to contract first but no water breakage so I thought...hey don't lose hope...just cause there is no waterworks can't possibly mean that this isn't the real deal.  I had been contracting for the entire time that Jon was at work.  I figured 9 almost 10 hours of solid contractions that started at 10 minutes apart and worked their way down to just north of 1 1/2 minutes apart definitely meant we were in business.

So we took Olivia to my parents this time.  And with bleary eyed husband at the wheel we made it to the hospital just at about 7pm.  I was still contracting when they strapped on the bands.  Good sign.  The room was filled with the sounds of the heartbeat and the whooshing of baby body parts moving.  The nurse came in to check but had to wait out several good contractions.  Great sign.  I awaited her announcement that I had dialated to an acceptable number.

Nurse:  Good news.

Me:  Yeah??

Nurse:  You've progressed.

Me:  Oh thank god.

Nurse:  Now you're a 5.

Me:  What??

Just after midnight the doctor came in to see me since he was there doing a delivery.  No change and contractions had once again died out.  I felt like one of those women who kept hearing a squeaking sound every time she pushed the brakes in her car but now that she was actually at the mechanic it failed to duplicate.

I was all..."I swear...I was really have these STRONG contractions...like doubled over praying for rescue..painful...contractions".  The doctor just looked at me...smiled politely and declared I was good to go home and wait for "actual" labor to commence.

Since this doctor was not the one I usually saw, but was in the same practice, I thought I could sob my way into a c-section.  Or at least gain sympathy for a possible tribunal to be held where all the other doctors in the practice would scorn my doctor for torturing me in this way and he would finally feel horrid and grant me a c-section on my due date just a mere 2 days away now.  It didn't seem like it was going to happen.

I had to wake Jon up as he dozed in the painful looking chair that was crammed in the corner of the exam room.  I offered to drive.  He politely refused and we made it home in time for him to grab about 4 hours of sleep before he had to be up for another day of work.

Desperation at getting this kid out had now turned to sheer craziness.  I spent all day walking.  My mom took me out to the beach thinking that maybe walking in sand would help.  All it did was give me crazy charlie horses and make me extremely tired.  I tried not to sleep...I was like a Navy Seal during hell week...I had to keep training.  But for what??  I was training my body to go into labor.  It was utterly ridiculous.

September 24th rolled around and the weekend was within our sights.  What I had deemed, privately, to be our final Friday as a family of 3 started out quiet at 5 a.m. when I got up to get Olivia ready for Kindergarten.  We lived out of district so I would drive her to my moms house and she would take her in when she took my sister.  Oh how my baby sister enjoyed being in the same exact elementary school as her niece.  A niece that happened to have been introduced for the first time at just 4 months old to this exact school as a sort of "show and tell project".  Yep...early signs that we were indeed on track for our own reality show or at least a guest spot on Jerry Springer.  Magic...pure magic.

I had dropped off Olivia and headed back home to do some laundry and make sure everything was truly ready for this baby.  I tried to keep the irrational thoughts of attempting some ridiculous manuever to coax this kid out of my belly.  Instead I decided to drink castor oil.  What on God's green earth was I thinking??

Thankfully I couldn't handle more than half a swallow and therefore didn't have to endure what I'm sure is the painful wrath of that choice.  All I managed to do was make myself puke from the sheer disgustingness of the taste.  Apparetly I wasn't as determined as most to enduce "actual" labor.

Everyone checked in with me during the day to see if I had any progression in either the crazy department or more importantly the labor department.  Each time I advised no...on both counts.  The weekend was still young though.

That night we decided to eat out and when we came home I treated myself to 1/2 a glass of wine.  I only got 1/4 of it down before falling asleep.  I woke up completely startled at a little after 1 a.m.  I thought for a second that I was in labor.  Turned out that I was having extreme gas from the steamed brocolli I had decided to eat for dinner.  It must have been really bad because Jon had wedged a pillow above his head.

I went to the bathroom and then made my way to the nursery.  I sat there for a long while and imagined a sleeping baby in the crib.  I then willed myself to start contracting.  All I actually accomplished was falling asleep on the double bed we had in the nursery for middle of the night breast feeding.  Jon found me sleeping there a little after 7 a.m. when he woke up to no pregnant wife in bed and began to search the house in a panic.

I laid there for a good while with him laying next to me and wondered why wasn't I in labor.  Jon told me not to rush it.  I began to hate him.  I tried to force that idea out of my head because I couldn't bare the thought that "if" I did go into labor and "if" I was fortunate enough to have this baby in a timely manner all I wouldn't want to retell the story years later to him and be like, "the day you were born I was SO pissed at your father for telling me not to rush it".  In hindsight...now knowing how things turned out...that would have been a far less scarring and possible psychology trip enducing story for our child to hear.

As morning turned to afternoon and then evening I was once again a mad woman.  I called my girlfriend, Jen, and asked if they would like to have dinner with us.  At her house.  Apparently along with my inability to control the ever expanding size of my ass...I had in fact also lost my ability to have manners.  Who the hell calls someone to have dinner and insist that it be at the other persons house??  Ummm...that would be me.

She agreed and then I asked her possibly "the" most embarassing question that I have ever asked a female friend.  First let me say that she was training to become a doula.  She had two children already and was very wonderful with labor and delivery.  I missed her first child being born because...well...she adamantly told me NOT to come.  Her second child I missed being born because...well...I think she actually sneezed and that baby came flying out.  Thankfully a nurse was there to catch her.  She had no drugs with either and was now very interested in helping other woman labor through in a natural way.  She was also privy to "ways" that could help you contract and dialate.  I no longer faulted her for the failed castor oil attempt from the day before, so I thought if anyone could get me to labor & delivery tonight...outside of my unwilling doctor...she was it.

So I asked her to help soften my cervix.  Yep...you read that right.  I...crazy pregnant woman...had just propositioned one of my very best friends to stick her hand where no self respecting friends hand should EVER have to be placed!  She was stone cold sober when she actually agreed.  I decided at that exact moment that she should be the baby's godmother.  It only seemed right after what we were about to attempt.

I announced to Jon that we'd be going to Jen's for dinner.  He was fine with any distraction from what the day was supposed to be, but clearly was NOT producing.  I conveniently left out what else would be going on outside of the consumption of spaghetti and letting our kids play.

Jen was completely professional about the whole exchange and finally I decided to tell Jon, once we were at her house, that this is why I wanted to come over.  After he went through a litany of girl on girl action jokes he just nodded his head and steered clear.  There was NO reasoning with me at this point.  I wanted this child out.  Jen lived less than 1/2 a mile from the hospital I'd be delivering at so in the event that this worked I was right close by.  I even threw my overnight bag in the trunk for good luck.

Nervous chatter ensued as she "attempted" to strip my cervix.  Guess I should have advised her that I had a bum cervix that was very uncooperative to anything close to child delivery.  After what seemed like a lifetime but in truth was only 20 or so minutes...we gave up.  Failure...once again was the tattoo that I should have placed on anything below the waist but about my knees in regards to my body.

Instead we chatted and ate dinner.  Jon and her husband just stared at us through the meal.  Around 9p we began to have restless kids that whined and fought more than played so we announced it was time to go.  I felt crampy.  I decided to go to the bathroom before leaving.  I was hit with a rather large contraction right off the bat.  I must have been in the bathroom for awhile because when I came out I had three sets of eyes on me, with questioning glances.  I hugged Jen goodbye and swore we would keep this between us (too bad I decided to get a blog 10 years later...oops) and she made me promise to call her if anything began to happen.  I promised but I felt empty inside because I didn't forsee a damn thing happening.  This would be like ALL the other moments of contracting and then nothing.

We drove home and got Olivia into bed.  It was close to 10pm and I couldn't sleep.  I was 2 hours away from being technically OVERDUE!  The clock was taunting me and I was so uncomfortable.  No position seemed to help.  I went and took a shower just to let the water relax me.  All that seemed to do was make it worse so I got out after only a few minutes.  I tried to lay on my side.  My back.  I wanted desperately to lay on my stomach...but even after constructing a pillow frame to around the outskirt of my body and lumbering on to my stomach I couldn't stay in that position for very long because I hurt so bad.

I didn't want to wake up Jon but it was getting increasingly worse and to the point where these were definitely the worse contractions I had to date.  I went to the bathroom for the millionth time in the past hour and found that I had lost my mucus plug.  For me...I deemed it was "time".  I woke up Jon and stupidly asked him what to do.  He said maybe we should wait.  For some reason...I thought it sounded like a good idea.

I continued to contract through the night and at around 5 a.m. I declared that I just could not handle another minute.  I called my mom to see if she could take Olivia.  I kept apologizing for the early hour in between gritting my teeth in pain.  I went and woke up Jon who had fallen asleep on the couch. 

I was continued right on contracting.  The whole time leaving the house, driving to my parents house, kissing Olivia good-bye and then making our way to the hospital.  Jon literally thought about pulling over a few times because I was panting so hard to keep from crying.  I was hurting....but ecstatic.  It was baby time!!

It was so quiet in the parking lot and the sun was barely pinking the sky.  Jon helped me out of the car and it took an additional 10 minutes to make it into the building.  We had to stop every few steps because I was consumed with contractions.  Once upstairs the nurses greeted us cheefully and put us in the exam room.  The monitors recorded each contraction and once I had a good mountain range of peaks and valleys registered they came in to examine me.

I was at a 6.

OH MY FUCKING GOD!

I didn't have time to harp on the number I was being thrown into another horrendous contraction.  This continued for another 2 hours when the nurse announced they would need to check me again because surely "with all these contractions your cervix must be dialated more".

Apparently my cervix as it seemed did not get the memo that contractions + crazy pregnant woman desperate to deliver baby in womb = dialated cervix.  The nurse announced that I was still at a "solid 6".

What?  How in God's name is that even......ugh...can't breath...fucking painful contraction that is apparently NOT having any affect on the gates of eternal child birthing bliss....possible??

And then before I thought I could not take another possible second of contracting...they stopped.  Not sputtered out.  They just downright stopped.  Done.  Finito.  Nothing.  NADA.

I was mistified.  I had been going strong for close to 4 hours and then boom...nothing.  They came back to check the bands assuming that they had simply fallen off or that maybe I had tried to escape...who knows.  Another 10 minutes.  Nothing.  The nurse checked me again and announced still a 6.  I wanted to kill her.  But I thought for sure they would keep me.  I had lost my mucus plug...they saw that I was contracting...what the shit??  Get me a room people...let's do this!  I am so ready!

Apparently in the world of L&D you need more than a mucus plug.  You need water breakage...a 7 or 8 cm dialated cervix... a never ending barrage contractions to actually be rewarded with an admittance bracelet.  The nurse began to unstrap me and tell me that it "will happen in its own time"...and "wouldn't you rather labor in the comfort of your own home than be cooped up here".  I was like ahhh...hey bitch...you guys have fucking awesome ice, jacuzzi tubs and rockin grill cheese sandwiches...nope I'd rather be here so lets get me a room!

Another 10 minutes and they were cutting me loose.  Waving at a bleary eyed Jon and a wild eyed possibly completely crazy and still pregnant me, who was now a good 10 hours overdue and not willing to take this shit another minute.  As we stepped into the elevator I began to hatch a plan.  I couldn't change the status of my broke down cervix or break my own water but while I had been hooked to the monitors I noticed any time I tensed up it mimicked a contraction.  Brilliance...pure brilliance.  Now the question was do I tell complete zombie of a husband or just make it look like the evil contractions had miraculously returned.

I went with option #2.

What did I have to lose??  I had to get this baby out!  I couldn't go another round of thinking it was time and then being turned away.  At this rate it would take another week possibly two to get to a 7!  And the thought of going to 42 weeks and letting my doctor prove that he was indeed right...well that shit was not gonna happen if I could help it.

We were just about the clear the threshold of the hospital when I stopped mid step and grasped Jon's arm.  If I was gonna do this I had to make it believable and that including possibly maming my husband.  Small sacrifice on his part...I mean I WAS THE ONE DOING ALL THE WORK!

Jon winced as I tightened my grip on his arm and braced himself for whatever else may come along.  Then approximately 30 seconds later I straightened up, took a deep breath and tried to act like I was fine.  He immediately asked if maybe we should go back upstairs.  Yes...this could work...but I can't be too obvious.

I looked at him with sad eyes...

Me:  No...I'm not going back up there...they'll just tell us to go home because of my stupid cervix.

Jon:  I know.  I know..you're tired of this, but you've never started contracting again so soon after being taken off the monitor.

Me:  (shit...did I just blow this by acting too soon) Ummmm....(better to fake another contraction) ouch, ouch, ouch.....

Jon:  Here...here...(dropping my bag to the floor)...lean into me.

He cradles me against him as I rock side to side.

Jon:  Breath.  Don't forget to breath.

Me:  (feeling slightly bad for lying to him) hee hee hee hee whoooooo....

Jon:  Good...good breathing babe.  How ya doin...you coming out of it yet?

Me:  mmmm...hmmm....

Jon:  Seriously babe...I think we should go upstairs.

Me:  Umm...lets just go walk around the parking lot for a few minutes and see how I do.  It may just stop again.  I can't handle being sent home...again.

Jon agrees completely unaware that I am doing perhaps my best acting...ever...and we walk back to the car.  Conveniently stopping every so often to drive home that I am "actually" contracting.  After another 30 minutes of being led around the parking lot like a show pony and really only feeling one...maybe two...true contractions but making it seem like I'd had over two dozen Jon was not taking any other answer except the one that led me back up to the 5th floor.

When the elevator doors opened the nurses looked at us like we were complete morons.  Jon was like...weeeeerrrrrre baaaaaaaack!  And I maintained a woeful yet strained facade.  The nurses put us back in the same exam room.

It was showtime.

I was checked every hour because the monitors were reflecting "such a beautiful strong pattern" so "you must be dialated more"...yep, these babies weren't stopping.  I tried not to laugh when first the nurse and then about 3 hours later the doctor stood mistified that I had indeed not gone any farther than a 6.  Stupid 6.  I hate the number 6.

I worried that for sure they would send me home.  But whether it was fear that I would harm myself, the child...a small group of innocent people...I don't know what but the next thing I knew I was being banded and led to a room.  It was just after 12p on Sunday, September 26th.  I had made it to a room.  Surely they couldn't cut me loose now that they had admitted me.

I wasn't about to find out.

However, faking contractions...is a little tiring.  The nurses and the doctor decided that in order to rev these bad boys up they wouldn't confine me to the bed and monitors so I was free to roam about the room.  I could use the birthing ball or soak in the tub (since my water hadn't broken) and then every so often they would check me.  SCORE!!

Turns out a husband left to peruse television channels unbothered does NOT notice that you are even in the same room as him...even when you are about to bare his child.  Men.  But that was fine by me because it allowed me to rest.  I actually took a little nap.  Called and checked in on Olivia.  Sat on the birthing ball...which I deemed to be demonic.  Whoever decided that a person who is at the moment in their life when they will most definitely be their heaviest (unless you are like me and carrying on a mad passionate affair with Ben & Jerry) would want to balance on a ball is a complete an utter fucktard!  For lack of a better word.

Every so often I would turn on the contractions, especially when I knew it was about time to go back on the monitor and be checked.  The nurses would come in and seem completely shocked that given the pattern on the monitor I was still only a 6.

Did I mention how much I hated that fucking number yet??

Night was approaching and I did finally begin to have some real contractions.  I had been advised to sit in a lukewarm bath with the jets if I was okay with that.  The nurses surmised that I must be too tense and that was why I wasn't dialating.  I sheepishly agreed and sat in the tub.  About 5 minutes later I could feel actual contractions.  It took everything in me not to say, "Jon I'm having a contraction".  That would have been bad.

After my bath I made my way back to the bed and continued honestly contracting.  So much so that when I was checked again a few hours later I was miraculously a 7!  Lucky number 7!

I did the math.  If I had gone back home and waited for the "real contractions" to start again I would have been just now coming back to the hospital.  It was a little past 11pm.  I didn't feel guilty in the least.  Especially since I'd had almost 12 full hours of yummy ice!

I tried to get some sleep but found that I was antsy as all hell.  Jon managed a few moments here and there on a the fold out chair/bed contraption.  I had a couple of hellish contractions that made me call out for him but it was a pretty quiet night.

When the shift change occured at 7 a.m. I was introduced to my new nurse and immediately I knew that I loved her.  She walked in and her first words to me were "my goal today is to get you delivered before I leave".  I worried that meant another 12 hours because that is what the other nurse had told me when I asked how long their shifts are.  So I said..."delivery before 7 tonight sounds like a plan to me".  Then she said the words that made me want to kiss her, "honey...I'm leaving early at 3p today...so we need to get this show on the road".

Ahhhhhhhhh....(choir of angels sing)

She came and checked me and announced I was at an 8.  Yippee.  I didn't know what prize that bought me nor did I care...all I knew was 2 more centimeters and I can push and this nurse is bound damned and determined to deliver this baby on her watch!  Let's roll!

Next thing I knew the doctor was in.  This was the same doctor that had performed my biopsy and informed us that "stopping the birth control in December" we would be able to get pregnant by "spring...summer at the earliest".  It was fall and I was just 2cm shy of being ready to push.  Maybe he should re-calibrate his fertility calculator.  Just a thought.

He asked if we would like him to break my water and hopefully get things moving faster.  I was on board for anything that would get this show on the road.  Plus, I was getting tired of faking things still unsure of whether I was "laboring" enough to keep me there and not get sent home again.  I figured broken water equals no possible way in hell I'd be released without a baby in my arms.  I barely uttered yes all the way and he was gloving up and busting my sack.

Within 10 minutes...maybe even less I couldn't decide if he was my new favorite person or if I hated him because the hellish contractions that brought us to the hospital just a day or so before were back...full throtle.  But before I could really settle on hating him for putting me in pain...they stopped again.

Jon and I just sat there thinking...this is ridiculous.  Noticing the stalled contractions the nurse came back with the doctor in tow and he checked me again...still an 8! It was just after 11 a.m.

He began to lay it all out on the line.  I'm full term.  I have a history of stalled dialation.  Once I am dialated I have problems delivering vaginally due to the cephalo pelvic disproportion...blah, blah, blah...medical talk.  I had two choices...he could start me on pitocin which would amp up the contractions and get me to 10cm and hopefully I could push the baby out but most likely would need a c-section like the last child and there was no way to guarantee how long that approach could take seeing as with Olivia it was 28 1/2 hours...I'd come in to the hospital with her at a 7 and it took 231/2 hours to get to 10 then push for over 4 hours only to be rushed into the OR for an emergency c-section.  There was no way to predict that this wouldn't be the same, different in a faster way or worse...different in a longer way!  Or we could just do the c-section.  I looked at Jon.  He gave me the gaze that said, "it's your decision".  I turned to the doctor and said, "when can you do the c-section"?  He checked his watch and said I have an open slot at 12p.

Holy shit that was less than an hour away.  Everything after that began to move incredibly fast.  The anesthesiologist came in and assessed me for the epidural.  I was nervous.  Epidurals meant this was really and truly happening.  No turning back.  Plus my epidural with Olivia had been horrible...a complete failure.  This one though...she was great.  I was settled back and ready to roll in no time at all.

The nurse came in to take us to the operating room.  She smiled down at me as I was beginning to tear up and my teeth were chattering from the anesthesia.  She said, "I told you we'd have a baby before I left today".  Yes, yes you did...I thought to myself.  She asked, "so what will we be welcoming in there?  A boy or a girl?"  Jon did the honors of announcing we'd be welcoming Garren Jesse...a son.  I was too busy trying to keep my teeth from busting.

The nurse smiled and said "a boy...that's great...we've had lots of girls today...a boy would be nice."

At that precise moment my husband said, "babe the name of the bed that you are laying on and have been laying in this whole enitre time is Hannah.  Isn't that bizare?"  At first I had no idea what he was talking about but then I had remembered last night while moving about the room each of the pieces of the equipment in the room had a name tag.  We asked the nurse and she said that instead of numbering them they named them.  It was a unique thing they did on the Labor & Delivery floor.  While we had taken notice of the name of my IV pump, the baby warmer and the O2...we had never noticed the bed.

"You're right"....I chattered...."that is bizare".  The nurse inquired why it was so strange and we explained that before we knew we were having a boy we made sure to pick out two names.  One girl.  One boy.  Just in case.  She laughed, said that we were smart for being so prepared since you just neve know and then it was time to move from the bed named Hannah to the cold steel operating table....

~JP

And the countdown to 10...continues...Part 4

Part 4: What’s in a name anyways?

About two weeks into my bed rest the words “stir crazy” took on a whole new meaning. I was craving contact with the outside world and sadly I had none. I began to think of the people on soap opera’s as my friends and would refer to them that way in daily conversation with Jon.

At first he thought I had visitors until I mentioned how one of them had come back from the dead to find out that the baby she’d had when she was dying was actually not hers. For a moment he’d thought I had begun drinking. I assured him that while it was tempting the whole point of this was to get that baby “safely” to full term…not kill it with fetal alcohol syndrome.

I finally stopped talking to him about the most recent story lines on Young and the Restless or Bold and the Beautiful and instead focused on baby names. I had nothing else to do but name this unknown sex of a child. I became obsessed with having a girl name and a boy name. Jon thought I was taking preparedness to a WHOLE new neurotic level. I didn’t care.

Deciding a girls name seemed far easier than settling on a boy name. We had it narrowed down to Bailey and Hannah. Early on in my pregnancy we had been out to dinner and there was a woman calling her little girl and her name was Hannah. The little girl came bounding round the corner with curls and these gianormous blue eyes. It stuck in my head. Jon agreed if this little bean was a girl it would be a Hannah Michel.

Finally, after all the things going NOT according to plan we had managed to check one thing off our list. It didn’t seem to matter that we had no idea what we were having, nor did we have a crib or half the stuff actually required to care for the baby…we had a name which covered at least half our chances in the sex of the child department. We took what we could get.

My only outings during this period of bed rest were to the doctors and my reward for cooking this kid was ultrasounds. Our first ultrasound after the hospital stay was when we got to know what we were having. I remember going through the water torture and thinking wouldn't it be cool if this time we could actually see something. Ya know like something other than the fluttering heart, the feet or that magnificent profile. All that was great don’t get me wrong but I’m not gonna lie to you….I wanted the money shot!

My bladders hard work was rewarded. After measuring the head, then the spine, then the femur the sonographer turned to Jon and I and asked the question that every parent to be is asked, "do you want to know the sex?" Jon's eyes lit up and for a second I had to remind him that she did not indeed ask if he had wanted to have sex. You gotta remember he had been banned from any sexual contact for the past few weeks and now he wasn't gonna get anything until I made it to 35 weeks or until after this baby made it's grand entrance. The word sex in any context made him giddy.



Once I got him back on track we both agreed that yes, we did want to know. The room seemed intensely quiet and it was like the words came out in slow motion, "congratulations...it's a boy".

I cried.

I was ecstatic. A boy. We would have one girl and one boy. Jon just sat there smiling. First he knew the baby was healthy and now a boy. It was a good day.

I was excused to pee and then we left. The whole ride home and every moment there after was spent really focusing on boy names.

A boy. We were going to have a boy. It seemed so surreal.





I immediately had to shut down Jon on his suggestions that we name this child after one of the Manning brothers. Or possibly both…hmmm??






Jon: Babe...what do you think of the name Peyton??






Me: Really, babe? Peyton?? Our last name is Pettus. You want to name our child Peyton Pettus?






Jon: ???






Me: Why don’t we just name him Pee Pee.






Jon: (clearly NOT getting it) Or how about Eli?






Me: I like Eli...but...hmm...why do those names sound familiar?






Jon: (smiling as though he may just get away with this) Yeah babe we could name the baby Peyton Eli Pettus.






Me: PEP…naaa…I don’t think so. But seriously why do I know those names?






Jon: Maybe you went to school with someone that had similar names?






Me: No, no...I remember hearing those names very recently...like on t.v. or in the paper...why do I know those names? (trying to rack my pregnancy brain)






Jon: Don't worry about it. So what do you think...Peyton Eli Pettus? Sounds good right? Rolls right off the tongue?






Me: Wait a minute. Do mean like Peyton and Eli Manning?? You seriously want to name our child after football players?






Jon: (trying not to laugh) NO! No...I just like the names. So you agree on it right?






Me: I am NOT naming my child after football players. What's next you'll suggest we name him after your favorite baseball player’s.






Jon: (looking semi intrigued…but unwilling to open his mouth)






Me: I am NOT...repeat NOT going to be the mother of little Sosa McGuire Pettus. Do you hear me??






Jon: Yeah. I hear you.






I became a fanatic about names. I had nothing else to occupy my time. I clung to anything that could possibly get me through the long and lonely hours laid up in bed or on the couch.


I refused to be one of those woman that I dealt with at work that had to consult tea leaves or tried to sneak out of the hospital without naming their child.






Honestly I had a woman tell me as she was being wheeled past my office on the way to her vehicle with newborn in hand that “indeed in the state of Florida you have up to one year from the date of delivery to name your child”…I never looked it up because well…that is just downright insane. I would not be bringing home “Baby Boy Pettus”…this baby would have a name come hell or high water!






Not only was I crazed about names. I was worried about initials. How would it look on a monogrammed towel down the road? After being concerned about that I also found myself obsessing about how a name can be shortened. For example…loved the name William…not so much in love with the name Bill or Will!






Every name I came across in books would seem okay at first but then when I ran it through my litany of criteria…was it unique, but not weird? Did it flow with our last name? Could it be shortened into something vulgar? I mean in all seriousness do you really think the first person that ever named their kid Richard thought down the road to the day their kid would be called Dick?? I think not.






Then I’d have to deal with Jon and these random kicks he would get on. For example there was the day he was on his Russian kick…






Me: I was looking in the baby books and I just don’t see any names that speak to me. How bout you?






Jon: I like Vlad.






Me: Seriously?






Jon: Or Viktor. But it has to be spelled with a "k" instead of a "c"...it's more Russian that way.






Me: You do know that WE are NOT Russian, right?? Like..our heritage is NOT in the least bit Russian? You do honestly get that right?






Jon: Why so negative?






Me: I'm not negative. I just think there should be some thought behind a child's name.






Jon: I am putting thought behind it. I just watched "The Saint" with Val Kilmer and they had all these Russian names....oooohhhh...wait...what about Ivan.






Me: No. Come on. Seriously??






Jon: Or Mikal? Yeah..yeah...I like Mikal.






Me: Like Barrishnakov?






Jon: Who?






Me: Have you been drinking?






Every name discussion ended the exact same way. Him frustrated that I wouldn’t “just consider” naming our child Skeletor Megatron Pettus and me wishing I could slit my wrist with the baby name books. It was agony.






Another couple weeks passed and we found ourselves back at the doctors. I was a day or so shy of 33 weeks. The heartbeat was strong. I hadn’t been contracting over the 4 weeks that I had been home from the hospital. Baby’s head was no longer down, so the doctor was willing to reduce my captivity but only by allowing me to be on my feet a whole 2 hours per day with no more than 30 minutes at one time. Party time.






We asked if there would be another ultrasound because he’d said he wanted to perform them every 2 weeks, which would equal a total of 3 over the 6 weeks until I made it to the magic number of 35. He said it wasn’t necessary this time but we could revisit it at the next appointment.






I celebrated my new found 30 minute freedom by taking a LONG shower when I got home from the doctors. But later I found myself craving another ultrasound. A baby shower had been planned and the nursery was taking shape. The little one was moving all the time, but I desperately wanted to see him again.










I had turned into an ultra sound addict. Here I had been sorta kinda…in my crazy mind… promised another 2 ultra sounds and now it was a “maybe”…”we’ll see”…at best. Oh hell no…I’m a mother. I know what “maybe” and “we’ll see” means…it’s code for NO, not gonna happen but I’m gonna say this BS answer and hope that you don’t throw a fit here in Target and make me look like Mommy Dearest.






I had no choice… I went straight to my dad and whined.






He worked for a hospital across the bay in Tampa and he just happened to be in the radiology department. Perfect. I began to court him with the idea of getting one of his people to do an ultra sound. Not for any diagnostic purposes. We just wanted to see him again. I couldn’t bank on a maybe…I needed a definite.






This was before the days of the 3-D ultra sound places that you could just go to and get a stunning picture of your soon to be cuddly baby. No, this was 1999 and I was at the utter mercy of the ultra sound nazi’s as I viewed it. I wasn't basing things on chance...I was taking control of this situation. So far this seemed to be the only thing, outside of choosing names, that I indeed could control. I felt drunk with power.










A week later I got my way and we were watching our little boy on the medium sized screen. We left that day with pics in hand and I became even more convinced that I needed a name. Not just any name. A great name. A name with meaning.






I went from crazed to obsessed to completely looney over picking the perfect name. I was stuck on the name Leighton for some reason. Jon was completely against it. He didn’t just dislike it…he downright hated it.










We agreed that we wanted to steer clear of any “J” names. With me being Jessica and him being Jon we didn’t want Olivia to feel left out. Especially since she didn’t share the same last name.






Next name I became obsessed with was Riley. Then Rory. Jon shot them both down. Citing too girly for Riley and "seriously what the fuck have you been smoking" I believe was the exact kiss off for Rory.






Finally one day I remembered a patient that had a little girl shortly after I started working in the birth records department. She also had a little boy and his first name was Garren. They were English and the poor kid had about six names in total, plus his last name. There was something about that name that just stuck with me.






I was hesitant to bring it up to Jon. I was running out of unique, non weird, can't be shortened into vulgar or pansy ass get your kids butt kicked on the playground kind of names.






He’d shot down every other name that I seemed to fall in love with. I tried to find it in one of the millions of baby name books that we owned but I couldn’t. I thought maybe if I casually put it in front of him and he stumbled upon it he’d bring it up to me and I’d be all “good job babe…I LOVE it”…he’d feel all proud and at last we would have a name.






It became abundantly clear that this scenario would not be occurring. So I bit the bullet and threw it out there.






Me: Hey babe?






Jon: Yeah.






Me: I found a name that I like.






Jon: Okay…what is it?






Me: (deep breath) Garren.






Jon: Hmmm…not bad.






Me: Really?? You like it?






Jon: Yeah…yeah I do.






Me: Oh my god…we just picked out our baby’s name.






Jon: Are you crying?






Me: (sniffing) No.






Jon: Are you happy that we have a name now.






Me: (trying to non chalantly wipe at my eyes and still sniffing) Yes.






Jon: Good. Now what is the middle name gonna be?






Me: (completely deflated) Crap.






Jon: How bout Peyton or Eli?






Me: (staring at him as if I can actually KILL him with my eyes)






Jon: I’ll take that as a no.










Now that we had a first name it was time to select the middle name. Really, how hard could this be? Apparently I had not closely examined how long it took us to select the first name. Stupid, stupid girl.






Immediately we were drawn to the name Alexander. Of course that flew out the window when I realized his initials would be GAP and his monogram would be GPA. Fail.






Then I thought maybe we should choose a name from the family. Jon agreed that trying to honor his father, who had passed away in 1994, was out of the question seeing as our choices would be Lester or Clinus. Epic fail.






Finally we settled on acknowledging my dad, Jesse. I was one of three girls and thus there was no one to carry on the family name. I adore my dad, especially since he is my step-dad and he came on the scene when I was at the unruly age of 11. He put up with a lot of my shit and I thought giving my son his name as a middle name would be a great way to say how much I loved and appreciated him.






We sat on the name for 2 more weeks. We had made it to 35! Another doctor’s appointment brought the blessed news that I could indeed be free of any restraints. If this little tyke wanted to come out and play they were on board. The doctor told us to enjoy our remaining time and keep him apprised of any problems. He would see me back in a two weeks if not sooner for problems or possibly in hospital for delivery.






We went over to the hospital to register and sign up for Lamaze classes. Since I wasn’t a newcomer to this rodeo we took a three night class. Kind of like the Cliff’s Notes of Labor & Delivery. We also called my parents and asked to take them out to dinner. It was time to unveil our name.






A few nights later we met at one of our favorite restaurants and with just my mom, dad and sister we spoke the baby’s name for the first time outside of our home.






Me: Well, we wanted to invite you here tonight so we could tell you that we selected a name.


Mom: That’s great. What is it?






Me: Jon do you wanna do the honors?






Jon: No, babe…it’s all you.






Me: (getting kind of misty eyed cause I’m a pregnant ball of hormonal emotions) Dad, are you listening?






Dad: Yeah. I’m listening. You wanna tell us the name for the baby?






Me: Okay…it’s Garren Jesse Pettus.






--- S I L E N C E ---






Me: (looking nervously at Jon and trying not to cry)






Jon: (looking at me trying to figure out why the hell I’m gonna cry)






Olivia: I have to pee.






Me: Is anyone going to say ANYTHING about the name of this baby?






Olivia: I like it. I have to pee.






Me: Ok. Is anyone else that hasn’t heard this name for the past two weeks gonna say anything about the name of this baby?






Olivia: I really have to pee.






Me: Yeah. I heard ya. Cole (my baby sister) I’ll give you $1 if you take her.






My sister thankfully escorts my cross legged child to the restroom and I attempt to not kill my parents with the steak knife resting in front of me.






Me: Okay. (becoming slightly shrill) One more time…is ANYONE…preferably the SOMEONE whose name is being used…going to comment on the name of the baby?






Dad: You only get called by your middle name when you are in trouble. This kid is gonna hate me.






UGH….this whole name shit sucks.






We left dinner and that night while we laid in bed I finally did cry. I was hurt. I wanted so badly to honor my dad, but strangely…he did have a point. I couldn’t bare to go back to the name selection game. We were now rounding into the 36 week mark and I was convinced this kid was coming at any second.






Jon agreed that whether it was used just as a name on the birth certificate or to scold the child when he acted out of turn, we knew what it meant to us in our hearts. So Garren Jesse Pettus was this baby’s name. I placed my hands on my overgrown belly and felt a kick. I concluded that the baby agreed and it wasn’t a topic of discussion again.






Now all that was left to do was get him here so we could meet him face to face…how hard could that be...





~JP

And the countdown to 10...continues...Part 2

Part 2: You wanna try growing a human and then call me back?

I was at about 4 weeks post op from my appendectomy which made me approximately 6 1/2 weeks pregnant and it was time to go back to work.  I had only been at my job for less than 1 month when I had to have emergency surgery and I was completely freaked about having to return to my position and announce to my boss that I was pregnant.  Another reason that I didn't want to announce it right off the bat is we had cause for concern with the fact that surgery had been done while I was so early on in the pregnancy and I had a fear that a miscarriage might occur.

After much consideration Jon and I decided that it would be best to be honest with my boss.  The day that I returned back to work I asked to speak to her in her office.  First words out of her mouth sucked my breath out of my body.

Boss:  You're gonna tell me your pregnant aren't you?

Me:  Ummmm...haha (nervous laughter)...

Boss:  Go ahead just tell me.

Me:  How do you know?

Boss:  Just a guess.  I've already had one other person come in today and tell me she is pregnant.

Me:  Ummm...okay...is it that obvious?

Boss:  No.  Not at all.  Just figured it was pregnancy. 

Me:  Oh thank god...I thought I was looking pretty good. 

Now that the news was out there...to my boss at least.  I breathed a bit easier.  Next it was time to break it to the family.  We decided to tell Olivia first.  At 4 1/2 her care was all about space.  She just wanted to know if she would need to share her room.

This brought up a good point.  We would need a bigger place.  While our townhouse worked for the 3 of us, the 2 bedroom 1 1/2 bath with barely 950 sq feet was a tight fit for an extra body.  Not to mention my expanding belly and the difficulty in navigating the many, many stairs.  Our townhouse started on the second floor which meant our bedrooms were on the third floor.  Our search for a new place began immediately.

The lease on the town home was up in two months and we were not going to renew so the hunt began.  A few days after breaking the news to my boss we decided it was time to let our parents know.  Jon's mom took it all in stride.  She is not one for dramatics.  Thank god, because I've got that shit covered with my family.

I tried to just call my parents to invite them to dinner so we could make a joint announcement.  That was a failure.  Apparently my mom can sense pregnancy a mile away.  I wasn't but two words into asking her out to dinner and she was like, "are you pregnant".  What the shit Martha??  Damn.

Now that family was notified we held off on any other announcing until we had another ultrasound.  There was still worry about how this little one was doing seeing as he/she has spent a good 3 days jacked up on meds.

At 8 weeks we went in for another ultrasound.  This was the first time Jon had to deal with the wrath of my hormones in connection to having my urge to pee being restricted.  I was a raging bitch.  I can't go more than a couple hours at best without peeing.  Factor in having to drink your weight in water and then hold it...and I was a force to be reckoned with.

Jon tried to be funny.  I shut that shit down real quick.  He would say, "oh it's not that bad" or "it will be over before you know it"...I was like really, REALLY...umm, hello growing a human here...this shit doesn't happen over night.  It takes like 10 months and I will lose my body, my mind and my boobs will become vessels of milk and NOT pleasure!  Lets not even discuss the size that my ass will become.  Did I mention hemrhoids??  Oh yeah...real sexy.  How's that for NOT SO BAD or IT WILL BE OVER BEFORE YOU KNOW IT?!? Why don't you try all that on for size then have to sit with your bladder full of a million gallons of water so that we can catch a glimpse of the life swimming within and then call me back jackleg!

The ultrasound tech was all tiny and sweet.  I wanted to break her neck.  She told me that I could go and "release some fluid from your bladder".  I tried to explain to her that when I break this seal there will be NO stopping so she should just do her thing.  The quicker she gets it done the quicker I can pee and thus end the hormonal rage of water torture.

I wanted to break Jon's neck too just for guilt by association because when she said that he was all like "yeah, just let a little out and you'll feel much better".  I was almost positive that Little Miss Suzy Ultrasound had NEVER had a baby or an ultrasound because she CLEARLY HAD NO FUCKIN CLUE!

Once we were in the room and I was on the table with gel on belly and lights dimmed I became calm as the sounds of the heartbeat filled the room.  I looked over at Jon and it was like we were frozen in this stare of complete and utter perfection.  My water tortured bladder was rewarded with a picture of what we deemed our "little bean".  Too early to see the sex what we had was a little fluttering bean.

We found a new place that had 3 bedrooms and the move commenced.  Since I was "with child" I was spared from the heavy lifting but my mouth handed out twice the orders.  Once we were settled in it seemed as though things were just falling into place.  Feeling confident and with ultrasound pic in hand we began spreading the exciting news of our expanding family.  We figured we better since people were either gonna think I had REALLY let myself go or that I was indeed trying to hide a pregnancy.  Most people didn't seem shocked...maybe we waited too long.

Work was going well and it was the perfect place to be while pregnant.  I was a birth registrar so I got to be around babies and baby names all day long.  This made me realize one thing.  People have anywhere from 35 to 40 weeks (if you don't count the preterm laborers) and they still can't figure out a name for their kids.

Day after day I was perplexed by the excuses I would get from people about their lack of namesake for the kid they just brought into the world.  Of course their were the ones that had to wait for an elder from their family in Russia to call after consulting some tea leaves or smoke from a cigar to advise them of what they should name the little babushka.  There was the woman who already had 5 kids and this was #6...I cut that one slack cause seriously...after 6, I would need to think about a name for a bit longer too.

When they were prepared I was handed everything from Aniken (Star Wars was HUGE) to Koda which was what the lady that popped out baby #6 named him.  She said it meant "last born".  I wanted to ask her if she was having a tubal in order to guarantee that he would remain true to his namesake.  I decided against it and about shit myself when hand to God she walked back into the Labor & Delivery ward 13 months later with all 6 in tow asking to see a nurse.  Turns out she was just friends with the woman and there to bring her lunch, but still I was like...holy shit lady...get a hobby!

One of my favorite naming moments was a phone call I got from a patient.  When there were strenuous birthing conditions it was customary to do the Q&A portion of the birth certificate over the phone and then bring the copy to the parents to revise and sign.  This was not how I liked to conduct the process because 9 times out of 10 I would get something wrong because trying to understand a woman after she has labored for ANY amount of time and then is forced to talk on the phone does not a good combo make.

*ring - ring - ring*

Me:  Birth Registrars office this is Jessica how may I help you?

New mom:  Did you say birth registered office?

Me:  (inaudible sigh) Yes.  How may I help you?

New mom:  Yes I need to name my son.

Me:  Okay...(goes through the general Q&A and verification of birth facts)...does all that sound correct?

New mom:  mmmm....hmmmm

Me:  Okay and the baby's first name.

New mom:  (mumbling)....ake

Me:  I'm sorry did you say Blake.

New mom:  No...I said (mumbling)...ake.

Me:  I'm sorry I still didn't catch that.

New mom:  I said....(speaking up but still mumbling)....ake

Me:  Okay...I think you said Blake.  B-L-A-K-E.

New mom:  No...it's Lake.  L-A-K-E.

Me:  Uh...huh...okay Lake.

New mom:  Yes.

Me:  Middle name??

New mom:  George.

Me:  Okay I have George.  G-E-O-R-G-E.

New mom:  yes

Me:  Last name?

New mom:  Fisher.

Me:  (trying NOT to say...are you fucking kidding me)  Okay so it's Lake George Fisher?

New mom:  Yes.

Me:  Okay I'll be down for you to sign and make any changes.

I wanted to say I will take my time so you can think this one over and possibly contemplate all the ways your kid is gonna get his ass kicked on the playground for being named Lake Fisher.  Seriously...you are not a superstar.  This kid will not be playing with other kids with fucked up names like Apple, Banjo and Moxi Crimefighter.  You really need to think long and hard about this one.

I didn't say what was screaming out in my mind.  All I could do was smile as she signed the record.  I tossed a quick look at the baby as I made my way out of the room and quietly wished him luck in the great wide and cruel world.

I'd like to say that this was the only time that bad names happened but it wasn't.  Sadly this stuff happened on a weekly if not daily basis.  Outside of being exposed to all the names that are swirling out there to pick from I had the pleasure of being surrounded by some top notch nurses and doctors.  They were constantly popping heads into my cubicle to check on me.  I also worked closely with a staff social worker.  We became friends and she was a mother hen to me.  She would pop in to check how I was in the morning and then come back by around lunch time to make sure I had eaten.

One day right at about 28 1/2 weeks I was making my way from a patients room and she was following behind me.  I kept pausing every few steps, placing my hand on the wall and swaying.  Before I knew it she was right beside me.  She asked if I was doing okay.  I waved her off with a hand saying, rather breathlessly, that I was fine.  In truth I felt like poo but I didn't want to be fawned over.  After politely arguing that I was indeed fine I tried to make a dash for my office but only managed a slow meander that was punctuated by painful cramps.  I wasn't even completely settled back into my office before there were two nurses at my doorway.  I asked if there was a record to do because my pager hadn't gone off.  The nurses said that there wasn't a record but that the social worker, Tracy, had brought it to their attention that I may be contracting.

I thought they were being ridiculous and I was more than willing to argue that point if they would just wait until this excruciating pain in my abdomen subsided.  They agreed that they would LOVE to hear that argument AFTER they had me strapped to a fetal heart monitor, another monitor for contractions and having the doctor check me.

I relented after two more cramps had me almost in tears.  I wasn't going to be delivering at this hospital because as much as I liked these people I didn't want all my junk on display and then have to come back and work with them on a daily basis.  So while I knew the docs on shift it wasn't as a patient.  Within 10 minutes of being on a monitor the doctor calmly suggested that we contact my husband.  Then he suggested that we contact the hospital that I would be delivering at since the NICU at the present hospital was not set up to handle a pre-term birth at this gestational age.

I went into sheer panic mode.  NO ONE HAD SAID ANYTHING ABOUT DELIVERING!!  Apparently it doesn't matter what you want to do...the baby has an idea that is all their own.  I was contracting and dilating.  Not a good combination at this early stage.  They suggested an ambulance to transport me but Jon was there within minutes and the hospital was already aware I was on my way, so with the doctors consent to "go directly there...do NOT stop for any reason" we went directly to the hospital I would be delivering at.

I was crying.  Jon looked like a tie between terrified and the verge of vomitting.  I was afraid to call anyone whether it be family or friends because I had no idea what to expect.  We had just celebrated our 1yr anniversary and now we were rushing to the hospital all movie of the week style.  This was NOT part of my birth plan.  Fuck we didn't even have a birth plan.  We hadn't even done lamaze yet.  The nursery was only partly started.

I was mentally calculating all the births that I had recorded where the baby was born at this gestational age.  There were 7.  I tried hard to remember what the outcome had been...I couldn't focus.  Jon was saying something about how it was going to be okay...everything was going to be okay.  I wanted to throw up.  I was feeling angry at the fact that my body seemed to be failing me at the most important time ever.  Attack of the broke down lady parts strikes again!

We pulled up to the hospital and after waiting out another contraction we made our way up to the Labor & Delivery floor.

I didn't even have to wait...I was whisked to a room and placed on what felt like a million monitors.  The room filled with the sound of the baby's heart and all I could think was, "God...don't let this be the last time I hear this"...

~JP

And the countdown to 10 begins...

In just 7 days my youngest will breach double digits.  So exciting for her!!  So...sorta...heartbreaking for me.  I still remember life before she arrived.  I still remember every moment that brought us to welcoming her into the world and as I count down the days that lead us to welcoming her 10th birthday I would like to share those memories with you...

I remember talking to my mom when I was younger and I would ask her about before I was born and she would say, "those things happened back before you were even a glimmer in my eye" or "back before you were even a blip on my radar".  I say that to my kids now, so here's the story of Hannah...ya, know...back before she was even a glimmer on my radar or some shit like that.

Part 1 - What do you mean I'm pregnant??

When Jon and I met I was already a mom to a pretty great little girl.  Finding Jon and seeing that without ever really being around kids he seemed to posess a great instinct towards being a dad was more than just a little sexy.  Then I realized the qualities that he was exhibiting were that of being an overgrown kid...the sexiness wore off just a bit.

Right off the bat we had a discussion about more kids.  He said he wouldn't mind having one of his own....some day....but he was fine just being a stepdad to Olivia.  We decided that we would focus on our relationship, making Olivia happy, getting married and give it about 3 years before we would discuss baby. 

My body had other plans and before we were even married it began to alert us on how it thought this whole procreation thing would go.  First off came the unplanned pregnancy which at 10 weeks ended in a miscarriage.  I was heartbroken.  Jon felt unable to comfort me and I began being OVERLY careful to keep this type of thing from happening again.

It was difficult because from the start of our relationship up until about a month into our engagement I was plagued with horrible cramps and extremely irregular menstrual cycles, sometimes not having any break between periods even with birth control.  I finally went to the doctor to find out what was wrong.  It was deemed after many test and procedures that I had a lame ovary, broke down cervix and my uterus was crap!  They found that I had endometriosis.  My left ovary was covered in scar tissue and kept adhering to whatever it came close too, my pelvis was tilted and there was a small tumor that needed to be removed from my cervix and biopsied.  No biggie.

I was shocked because I was only 21.  I had a friggin broke down palace of a femal reproductive system.  Yippee for me.  Thanks genetic makeup of my family...you fuckin rock!

The doctor did the biopsy and began handling the cervical issues.  I was advised that plenty of women can conceive with only 1 cooperating ovary and that changing birth control  would help with the pains of the endometriosis and hopefully get the periods under control.

July 12, 1998 brought our wedding day.  Life as a family of three continued pretty smoothly and seamlessly until October 13, 1998 when while driving home from picking up dinner my car was hit by a jackleg that ran thru a stop sign because he was trying to swat at a bee and smacked into my car while going 45 mph.  Olivia thankfully walked away unscathed.  I was not as lucky.  After being released from the hospital I began a grueling regimen of physical therapy.  Every month I was still following up with my doctors about keeping the pain of the endometriosis in check.  I would have my good months and my really bad ones. 

In November 1998, after a particularly disheartening appointment with my doctor, he advised that having a child sooner than later would be best for us.  My endometriosis was getting worse and not better and there were other issues.  I was having increasing amounts of ovarian cysts and my cycles were bordering on hemorrhages and not just bleeding.  He told Jon and I to discuss a time frame that we would like to get pregnant and then we could all sit down to discuss when it would be a good idea to stop the birth control. 

Jon and I talked.  We hadn't even been married 6 months yet.  Most of which had been spent with me in therapy for the accident or at the doctors for my female issues.  We hadn't even had our honeymoon phase because I threatened to kill Jon if he tried to touch me.  The pain from the injuries from my accident squashed any desires I had to have sex with Jon. It had been a long, long, LONG frustrating month for us.  Now we had the added stress of thinking about a baby.  Or at least trying to get pregnant.  This was too soon.  It was too much to think about.

Deep in our hearts, however, we knew we wanted to have a child together.  Olivia was almost 4 1/2...we figured if we could get pregnant in the next year that would be a good time frame.  What if it was truly now or never?  We decided to go for it.   

The following month's appointment fell on December 11th and it was decided that I should stop the pill immdiately.  With the amount of problems I was having on it the doctor really thought that the "probability of you conceiving in the next 6 months is highly unlikely" he suggested that I would most likely be pregnant by "spring...summer at the earliest".  We should have asked him to be a bit more specific.

I took my last pill on Saturday, December 12, 1998 out of pure habit.  I started a brand new job on Monday, December 14 and on that following Saturday, December 19, Jon and I attended his company Christmas party at a 5 star hotel with open bar.  It was a good week. 

We rung in the New Year of 1999 in the ER with Olivia battling pneumonia.  On January 5, 1999 I was rushed to th hospital in dire abdominal pain and burning up with a fever.  We were only 5 days in at this point, but we deemed that 1999 sucked monkey butt!

Upon being admitted the nurse asked me if there was any chance I could be pregnant.  I wanted to spit at her.  Finally I found my voice and said, "in order to be pregnant you have to have sex".  She didn't find that humorous. 

I, however was dead serious and referring to the fact that since my accident in October the grueling hours of physical therapy in order for me to regain full use of my left arm due to nerve damage and torn rotator cuff I was in so much fucking pain that if Jon even attempted to look at me sexually I would kill him in my mind.  NO we were NOT having sex...thank you very much for bringing that up while I am sure I am dying from god only knows what this is.

They called my gynecologist since he was the only doctor I ever saw.  Sad...very, very sad when you are NOT pregnant but are on a first name basis with your gyno!  Jon tried muttering something in my ear about sex and an open bar but I told him to shut the fuck up unless he was injecting pain meds via osmosis through my ear lobe.  He retreated to the corner of the ER cubicle and attempted to sleep through my crying.

They wheeled me away to ultrasound.  Finally they declared that I was in need of an emergency appendectomy.  They took blood and urine to declare in fact that I was NOT pregnant...surprise...and whisked me away to surgery.  I woke to the joys of a morphine pump and left many a funny drugged up message for my husband who got to sleep unbothered in our bed.  I didn't care because I got to spend my 22nd birthday hooked up to my new best friend and the nurses brought me cake.  Super score!

I returned home to recouperate from surgery but found that every time I tooked the prescribed medication I would vomit.  At first I thought I was having an allergic reaction to them.  I called the nurse at the surgeons office and was advised that if I wasn't itching or breaking out in a rash that it was most likely not an allergic reaction.  She advised me to cut the pills in half and try that.

Two days later I was in a world of pain and puking my guts out.  I called the surgeons office again.  By now I had myself convinced that I was one of those individuals that had a surgical tool or gause sewn up inside me and this was my bodys way of alerting me.  In hindsight I am truly thankful that we didn't have a computer in our house at this time because I would have been googling the shit out of this type of thing.  Instead I was calling the surgeons office every 30 minutes until  I drove the nurse insane and she finally agreed to give me an appointment.

I went in to see my surgeon.  He checked the incision.  Clean.  He felt my belly.  Not swollen.  He asked me my symptoms.  I told him I was exhausted and vomitting.  He looked first perplexed and then concerned.  I thought...ahhh haa...see I'm not crazy...he thinks he may have left something inside me.

He orders an ultrasound.  Immediately.  I'm thinking okay they are gonna send me over to the hospital to have it done...la la la laaa...and then boom next thing I know there is a monitor in the room and they are squirting gel on my belly. 

I was more than just a little freaked out at this point.  I'm thinking oh my god...I'm gonna end up on one of those medical mystery shows.  

Ten minutes later he has me to go and take a urine test.  I mentally get offended thinking...I am NOT crazy or on drugs (hello, did you not hear how I've been puking them up)...but alas I pee into the cup.

His nurse walks in looking confused.  He follows directly behind her and shuts the door.  He sits down solemnly in front of me and says the words you NEVER want to hear from someone who has cut you open, "I don't know how we missed this..." dun dun duunnnnn.

Oh god...oh fuck me god...I'm dying.  I brace myself for what is about to come next.  "Jessica, you're pregnant."

Gulp. 

"I don't know how we missed it but you are pregnant."  Double gulp. 

My mind is racing....ummmm....not possible....I've had NO sex....since, oh...hmmm...god, when exactly WAS the last time....oh was it October...like the 11th maybe...oh god...oh god...this is horrible..I am a married...newly married woman...I am sexy..why am I not having sex. 

This thought reel is interupted by another one.  Nope...he has to be wrong...very, very wrong...I'm not pregnant...the hospital said I wasn't pregnant...I remember....I was in pain they were witholding medication saying that first they had to make sure I wasn't pregnant...I remember wanting to kill the nurse, kill Jon....kill anyone that might refuse me pain meds....they jammed a friggin sonogram rod up into my vajayjay then catherized me because CLEARLY I was NOT in enought gut wrenching pain to take the cleanest of clean urine samples...after which they deemed they would need to draw blood to make "triple" sure that I was indeed NOT pregnant....then finally they gave me the news that yes all test were in fact negative and I could have my reward...pain killers.

Nope, nope, nope...I bet he found surgical scissors or a clamp in there.  Yep, that is what it is...he's trying to save his ass...oh, he's talking again...I guess I should listen and figure out how to sue him later.

Surgeon:  Are you okay?  Should I call your husband??

Me:  Umm...no.  No.  I.  Umm...I.  Are you sure?

Surgeon:  Well I'd like you to follow up with your gynocologist, since it's his specialty...but I'm pretty sure.

Me:  (mind made up that he is obviously smoking crack) Ok...well I will call the office to make an appointment.  Am I ok to go??

Surgeon:  Yes, we will just need to see you in about a week to remove the sutures.  And really, please make sure you make an appointment with the other doctor.  Soon.  Like before your next appointment with me.

I leave the surgeons office and go directly to the drug store.  I purchase a 2 pack of EPT.  I need to see this shit for myself.  I mean...clearly this fool has no idea what he is talking about.  He should stick to removing appendixes and gall bladders.  Unless I have achieved immaculate conception (twice...because my mom still hasn't wrapped her head around the idea that I actually had sex to conceive my first child) there is no way I am pregnant.


I pass a billboard for Jon's work.  And then like a ton of bricks it hits me.  OH MY GOD...the Christmas party.  We had sex after the Christmas party while we were staying the night in that plush, overly expensive, hotel suite.  Oh shit...ohhh, shit, shit, shit!  This guy could be right.

3 hours and 2 pee sticks later I am locked in our 1/2 bathroom.  Jon has come home from work and is standing on the other side of the door trying to negotiate with me to come out.  I yell through the door to run to the store across the street and buy some pregancy test.  He is not aware the I am already holed up with 2 positive reads and the info from the surgeon's office.  About 20 minutes later he returns.  I try to get him to slide them under the door.  I can tell his patience with me is wanning so I shove the two test I've already taken in a drawer.  Open the door.  Snatch the next 2 test from him.  Force a smile and slam the door.  I can hear him shuffle away to the couch in defeat and then television clicks on.  I spend the next few minutes chugging down a cup of juice that I snuck while he was a the store and finally am able to take the final two test. 

I emerge from the bathroom crying.  Jon is clearly distressed and unsure what to make of me.  I hold up all 4 test and declare that he is gonna be a dad.  Joy turns to fear and then worry.  He is thinking the same thing I am.  If I AM pregnant like the multiple pee soaked test have announced, then that means they did surgery and I spent 2 days on a morphine drip all while growing a human.  FUCK!

I called to make an appointment with my gynocologist and was surprised when the office was all "yeah, we've been waiting for your call...your surgeon sent down your file and told us you would be calling...figured we would give you until tomorrow and then we would call you to schedule an appointment".  Double FUCK! 

We went in and I peed in another cup.  Positive.  What a shocker!?!  Didn't really think I'd end up with 4 false positives...5 if you count the one I took the day prior at the surgeons office.

Then they ordered an ultrasound so we could hopefully view the little tadpole.  You could barely see that there was anything there but there was a flutter.  They said it was a heartbeat.  The doctor asked over and over again when the date of my last period was.  It was hard to calculate since I never stopped bleeding.  But I knew for a downright fact the only sex we had since before October 13 had been on the night of the Christmas party.  I knew that was FOR SURE the night this little squiggly dot was conceived.

The doctor tried to be all nonchalant about the fact that it seemed surgery was performed while I was just shy of 2 1/2 weeks pregnant.  He said we would just have to take a "wait and see" attitude and he would want me back in a month or "sooner if there is any signs of distress".  I felt like asking do you mean signs of distress in my womb or just generally with me?  It seemed too broad a question so I kept it to myself.

The journey to motherhood (the second time) was just beginning and I kept thinking...man I had always wanted the next go around to be a bit less dramatic.  I bet this means the pregnancy will be smooooooth sailing....

~JP