i know its my third childbirth and by now I should be over the whole thing but Mother Nature keeps the experience fresh and interesting and -- most importantly -- comical. So I've taken the liberty of sharing Terza's birth story, as well as the considerable risk that this will be, even for you faithful readers, way TMI.
The day after my due date was a Thursday and I had an
appointment for my weekly bio physical sonogram, which oldsters like
me have to undergo every week in the last month of pregnancy, on account of “AMA.” I think they use the acronym not only for speed and convenience but so you won't be insulted every time you hear the term, which stands for Advanced Maternal Age. It didn’t
matter that I’d barely slipped over the breakoff point for AMA, that I was only
a few months into being 35 – I was still such a dried-up old sack of bones the
docs needed thorough, weekly assurance that my dusty old womb could nourish life. I didn’t mind, of course: getting a sonogram
every week was a dream come true, totally enabling my neuroses. Plus, the
Maternal Fetal Medicine Center warmed the sonogram goo, had a Kleurig coffee
maker and always gave me a 3D close up of the baby’s face. Sheer luxury.
Since I'd made the appointment first thing in the morning, David could come with me. We dropped the kid off at school, reminding them again, as we had every day for the past three weeks, that today could be the day I had the baby, so don't be surprised if one of their grandparents showed up at pickup. The kids were over it by now - they'd had so many false alarms, they figured mine was hysterical pregnancy and there'd never be a real baby produced.
I’d had the bio physical sonogram so many times I knew exactly what they
were checking for – heartbeat, signs of practice breathing, signs of movement,
and amniotic fluid levels. This time around, the radiologist noted that my
amniotic fluid levels were a little low, but not to worry, she’d show the
doctor on call and see what they thought.
David and I waited for longer than usual and finally the OB
on call told us to come into her
office, that she had Dr. Malley, from my OB's office on the phone for me.
“Is there a problem?” I asked Dr. Malley.
“Everything is fine,” she assured me, “Its just that your
amniotic fluid is a little low so we’re going to go ahead and induce you.”
“OK,” I said, “When?”
“Today, “ she said.
“Wow,” I replied, surprised. “Is this dangerous? Should I be worried about the
baby?”
“No, no, no need to worry. This is common after 40 weeks of pregnancy,” she replied, “Its not
dangerously low.”
“If it was, then what would happen?” I asked, never at a
loss for worst-case scenario questions.
“Then we’d be doing an emergency C section, and we’re not,”
she said, “Its just that when the amniotic fluid is low it’s a sign that the
placenta is not working as well as it should be to nourish the baby. And as
soon as we see that, we get the baby out. ”
“OK,” I replied, “So should I go home and get my stuff?”
“You could do that,” Dr. Malley said, “Or you could go now.”
“See, that makes me feel like this is dangerous,” I said.
“Its fine. It’s not dangerous. Just go right over to the
hospital, OK?”
The hospital was just a few avenues east of the sonogram center so we walked over, stopping at a Ray's Pizza on the way for a 10:30am slice. Once we'd gotten through all the paperwork and I was situated in the waiting room, just hanging out til a room was ready, left for Brooklyn to get my hospital bag and other necessaries. By the time I'd explained to my grandmother on the phone where and when to pick the kids up from school -- an ordeal which took no less than forty five minutes -- the room was ready.
The doc on call was a very young, very perky doctor from Chicago, Dr. Goldman. When I met her for the first time a few months before, I'd said to David afterwards, “Has she even graduated from college yet? Is she starring in the reloaded series of Doogie Houser?" I have a terrible bias against young people now that I am saddled with AMA, and bitter. On the upside, she was about
the sweetest, kindest and most gentle medical professional I’d ever
encountered. She explained the induction process
in detail to me. It was pretty simple, actually.
The whole induction method relied on a balloon
they’d be sticking in my vajajay.
I am not exaggerating. Its called a cervical foley and it’s
a balloon, filled with sterile water, that they sliiiiiiide into your cervix to
mechanically force it open. It sounds crazy and outdated like bleeding
people with leeches but this is what is done. Apparently, mechanically dilating
the cervix triggers the body to take over and start dilating in earnest
on its own, especially if that body has already been through labor twice
already. The balloon only gets you to 3-4 centimeters and then you do the rest,
sort of like a cervical jumper cable.
While they were waiting for that to take effect, they’d give me a very
low dose of Pitocin just to help things along. And hopefully, it would take.
“Sure,” I said, “Stick the balloon in.”
Dr. Goldman pulled out this plastic tube attached to a
tiny plastic bulb.
“This is what the foley looks like,” she said, “Not so bad,
right?”
I had to agree – it looked pretty harmless. But of course,
what she neglected to tell me was that the balloon she’d shown me had been
empty. Those sly suckers -- they insert it empty and then inflate it once its
inside of you. Then you’re stuck, in all
possible ways.
“Is that comfortable?” she asked once the deal was sealed.
“Ummmm, I don’t really know how to respond to that,” I
replied, “I mean, I have an inflated balloon in my private parts. But I guess,
given that, yes, its OK.”
“Great,” she smiled, nonplussed, “Once you’re dilated 3-4
centimeters, we’ll be able to just give it a gentle tug and it will slip out.
So I’ll come back in a few hours to check on you. Until then, feel free to move
around.”
I figured this was her idea of a joke. I was hooked up to an
IV, a fetal heartrate monitor and one for contractions AND I had an inflated
balloon in my cooch with a tube hanging out so they could tug it sporadically
and see it their insane technique was working. I didn’t plan on leaving that
bed until the baby was out and the whole labor and delivery was behind me. Of
course, I forgot that when they set up the Pitocin, they also started
approximately 500 gallons of water pumping into my veins to hydrate me. Which meant I had to pee about every five minutes.
Walking to the bathroom, which was only ten steps away, was
a total farce. I think it could actually appear as a circus act in a
progressive, avant guard circus. Every time I attempted it, I got tangled and the monitors would get screwed up, causing a nurse to rush in, alarmed, and
then I’d tell her I only had to pee and could she please get a team of experts
to come in and help me do that please and then I’d get up and hobble over to
the bathroom with the nurse wheeling my equipment and THEN I had to figure out
how not to pee on the balloon tube hanging out of me because THAT didn’t seem
hygienic in the least. Fun.
After an eternity, David returned from Brooklyn with my
stuff.
“Finally!” I said, “What, did you stop at a bar on the way?
Pop into a strip club for a few lap dances?”
“The subway is really far away,” he said, “What did I miss?”
“Oh, not much. They inflated a balloon inside my vagina.“
David set up the ipod and we started listening to my Labor
Playlist, which relied heavily on the Beatles and Wilco. Then Dr. Goldman appeared, perky as ever, and with Dr. Malley in tow.
“I’m going now,” said Dr. Goldman, “But Dr. Malley is
taking over and she’ll take good care of you.”
Honestly, I was relieved. Dr. Malley was a respectable age,
mid to late thirties. I wouldn’t be the first delivery of her career.
Before she left, Dr. Goldman checked to see if I was
dilated and still, after about an hour or so, I wasn’t. At all. Not that I was
surprised. Call it whatever fancy name you will, these people were still relying
on a balloon to magically evacuate my baby from the womb she was clearly loathe
to leave. I didn’t see it working.
“Its still early,” said Dr. Goldman, ever the optimist.
“Dr. Malley here will check on you in an hour or two.”
Within a half hour of them leaving the room, however, I started
having labor pains. Real ones. The kind you don’t smile through. The kind that
make you think you were fucking delusional to think those Braxton Hicks
contractions could have possibly been real labor. The kind that make you want
your doctor to come back. ASAP.
“Oooooooo,” I moaned to David, “This hurts. Get the doctor
to check me. I’m sure I’m 3 or 4 centimeters by now.”
“But she was just here and you were still less than one
centimeter,” replied my husband. He hates making a big
deal.
“Ooooo,” I moaned, “oooooooh. I don’t care. Get her.”
David urged me to wait another half hour or so. I lasted five minutes.
“I remember now. I remember the pain. I blocked it out but now I remember and I need that epidural. I need it soon and what if the
anesthesiologist is busy and I have to wait? What if he's doing an emergency C section or two, or three and I have to wait an hour. Or more? David. I need that epidural. I need it.”
“Ok,” he said, “Let’s just wait a little while longer before
we call the doctor back.”
Then I had an idea. A genius idea. We didn’t need the
doctor.
“If I’m 3-4 centimeters dilated they can give me an
epidural. And if you tug on the balloon and it comes out, then I know I’m 3-4
centimeters dilated. So tug on it.”
“Are you crazy?” he asked, horrified, “I am not taking it
out. That is MEDICAL equipment. You need a doctor to take it out!”
“Its just a goddamned balloon!” I cried, “Tug on it!”
“No. No! I am NOT touching that.”
“Fine,” I panted, “Then I’LL take it out.”
“Nicole,” he warned, “Don’t do it.”
“All it needs is a little gentle tug . . . “
“Nicole!” he cried and he was begging now, “Don’t!"
Poor, beleaguered David. Ever steadfast and generous, he
more or less always gives me everything I want, and all he asks in return is sex every so often. Now I threatened to maim
the only part of me that he consistently likes, the only part he never gets mad at, the most critical part, really, the
part keeping the marriage glued together. So I hesitated. And at that moment,
the nurse walked through the door.
“Great,” David sighed, “Can you check her?”
“Sure,” she said, “I’ll just tug on the balloon.”
I gave David a look which said, “See?” as the nurse took
hold of the tube and yanked, hard. Not exactly my interpretation of “gentle.”
As she yanked, the balloon slipped out, fast, all at once, causing her to
recoil slightly. David, too. I just
said, “Whoa.”
“So, you’re dilated now,” she said, dropping the balloon into
the garbage. “Do you want a – “
“Yes,” I cut her off, “I want an epidural. As soon as
possible.”
She left the room to fetch the Drug Lord. David was visibly
shaken by witnessing the balloon extraction.
“Did you see the size of that thing?” he said.
“No,” I replied, “Was it big?”
“Was it big?” he repeated, “I’ll show it to you.”
“Oh, gross, don’t—“ But it was too late. David had walked
over to the surgical room garbage can, reached in and pulled out the balloon.
And then I was glad he did, even if he might contract some infectious disease
from rifling through the hospital garbage. Because that was a sight to behold.
The thing was MAMMOTH.
“Now I have an inferiority complex,” he said.
I laughed, “Allow me to remind you
that that balloon, while massive, is still only a fraction the size of the
human head which will soon be coming out of my vagina.”
And I think we’ll leave the story at that for today. Tune in
tomorrow for the exciting conclusion. Less allusions to balloons in my vag and
more tear-jerking, heartfelt moments.
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