Saturday – Part One

After much debate with hubby Vince, I get his “permission” to keep my hair appointment. (Like I wouldn’t have left the house after he left for his errands – HE HE!). I need this appointment. Yeah, the hair is long and ready for low-lights, but I also need the pampering. Besides, I am feeling a little “off.”

I grab my lunch and head home. After eating I start feeling a little worse. Great. Taco Bell’s revenge. I finally doze off while watching television. Maybe bed rest isn’t so bad after all.

Vince and Jake get home around 4:00 p.m. and wake me. I hate being awakened during a great nap. It makes me mean. During that time my husband informs me that he is going to a friend’s house to hang out. I am NOT happy. After all, this could be my last weekend before Victoria arrives. Doesn’t he want to spend it with me? And, I did have a non-stress test yesterday . . . and I am on bed rest and need to be waited on hand and foot . . . what is he thinking?

We try to calmly discuss the situation, (i.e. we are trying to figure out if it is okay for him to go or not go without me sounding like a whinny, nagging wife and him not coming off like an uncaring oaf.) I want to say “don’t go,” but I don’t want to be the wife that says “don’t go.” Ladies, I know you understand what I mean.

A few minutes into the discussion I realize that I am feeling more “off” than I have all day. In fact, it appears that I might be having contractions. I very calmly inform Vince that I need to take a break and rest as the baby may be coming. The discussion ends. (We are determined that we will not have a fight before Victoria comes, unlike Jacob’s birth.)

I move to the bedroom and get a piece of paper, pen and my Nike runner’s watch. I start timing my contractions while trying to read a magazine. After about 20 minutes it becomes obvious that they are five minutes apart.

I have Jake bring me the discharge papers from the day before. It says that if the contractions are five minutes or less apart for an hour or more to come back to the hospital. I decide to sit there for another 20 minutes.

At some point Vince comes into the bedroom to check on me. He reviews the paper.

“Crap,” he says.

“Yep,” I say, “crap.”

We cannot believe the baby is coming today. Just the day before I was ready and rearing to go. Not true of this day.

Vince goes to get a shower. I remain in bed and continue to watch the clock.  

After Vince gets out of the shower I inform him that we are indeed going to the hospital. We pack the last few items for me, (I learned my lesson from Jacob’s birth, but that’s another funny story). We also pack an overnight back for Vince and one for Jake.

Jake.

Crap.

My mom isn’t due to arrive until 9/30. We have no Plan B for Jacob.

Vince calls his friend . . . you know . . . the one with whom he was going to hang out . . . and asks if he and his wife could put Jake up for the night. They agree. (We knew they would. Jeff and Melissa ROCK and we love them to pieces.) We load up the car and drive to their house. They live about 20 minutes away from us – in the opposite direction of the hospital – which is about 40 minutes away.

We drop Jake off and head to the hospital. I notice my contractions are now coming about 3.5 – 4 minutes apart. I start talking about some show I saw on t.v. Something about a diet experiment where the subjects were eating like monkeys for a week or something. As I am relaying this information, Vince interrupts me and asks why we are talking about monkeys and weight loss. I tell him to shut up as it is keeping my mind off the fact that I am about to be sawn in half for my c-section by a complete stranger since my doctor is out of town for a convention.

We ramble some more about monkeys and what it would be like to live in a zoo. As we get closer to the hospital my hubby informs me that he is hungry. This makes perfect sense since he has not eaten all day. I suggest he whip into a McDonald’s or Wendy’s so he can eat on the way. He informs me that he isn’t in a McDonald’s or Wendy’s mood.

At this point I’m thinking that he should be a little more worried about me than about his “food mood” but a contraction strikes and I keep my mouth shut.

We find a Griff’s burger joint on the way and pull in.

“Shall we go in?” he asks.

“What do YOU think?” I reply.

“I think we have time to go in,” he says.

“I think we do NOT have time to go in,” I say.

So, we pull up to the drive-in. Imagine my horror when my hubby orders a bar-b-que, bacon, cheeseburger. Um, yeah, that will work out nicely when trying to eat while driving. Again, a well-timed contraction keeps me from opening mouth and inserting foot.

“Honey, what would you like,” he asks.

“Nothing for me, thanks,” I reply.

We get his dinner and pull away from the drive in. I’m relived we are on our way again. He pulls into a parking space and parks the car.

“Um, Sharpin, what are we doing?” I ask.

“Well, this is way too messy to eat while driving,” he informs me.

“Well, dear, I am in labor and it may be a good idea for me to get to the hospital soon,” I remind him.

“It will only take me three minutes to eat this,” he says. “Surely you can wait three minutes?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Vince inhales his burger while I try hard to not get nauseated. The smell is overpowering. I’m literally telling myself I don’t have time to vomit, so suck it up, buttercup. He finishes his burger and informs me that he would like another one.

“Sharpin,” I say, “we need to go to the hospital. I have snacks in my suitcase if you are still hungry. Perhaps you can eat a granola bar or some fig newtons while they are examining me.”

“Okay,” he replies.

He pulls out of the parking lot and we are once again on our way, (thank God!) We arrive at Baylor’s Women’s Center and we park the car. We walk in and go straight to Labor & Delivery. Surprisingly, we are the only ones around.

I walk up to the nurse’s station and ask the two ladies there if they are bored and need something to do. They smile and ask me what I need. I ask if this is the place I trade in my belly for my baby. They inform me that it is and lead me to an examination room. (Actually, now that I think of it, I would call it more of an examination cubical. It’s a three-sided room with a curtain that, when drawn, is just beyond my feet. There’s room for the bed, the monitor and one chair.)

I go into the bathroom to change out of my clothes and provide a urine sample. Vince follows me into the bathroom. Okay, this is a new one. I typically fly solo on my bathroom visits. I stand there for a moment thinking he’ll leave, but he says he needs to pee. I ask if I can pee first. He says sure and just stands there. Okay, I guess you’ll experience the ENTIRE birth process.

I sit on the toilet to provide my urine sample. My husband is amazed that I can pee in a cup with such accuracy.

“It’s one of my many talents,” I inform him. I then ask if we should provide a urine sample from him – you know, see if we can get the nurses something to talk about? Vince declines.

I finish undressing and put on my belly band and highly-fashionable hospital gown. Vince and I walk over to our designated cube where I get hooked up to monitors. Vince goes and sits in a chair about 10 feet away from me.

“Honey, why don’t you move the chair up here next to me,” I suggest.

“Nope,” he replies.

The L&D nurse starts asking me a bunch of questions. It occurs to me that, if I were a stand-up comedian, I’d do a bit about how you are asked tons of questions that could jeopardize your life if answered incorrectly while there’s all this beeping and whirling and buzzing in your ears and painful contractions every three minutes.

I answer all her questions (correctly, I hope) and she goes to check me. This is the part I hate. I’d rather get two IV lines that get “checked.” It freaking hurts.

The nurse informed me that, while I’m fully effaced, I’m only slightly dilated. I remind her that I’m supposed to have a c-section. She says she will call my doctor and see what he wants to do.

Now, the second part of my comedic act will be about this. Why does my doc, who is in Seattle, get to decide? I’m going on three straight hours of contractions and I signed up for a c-section. (I had a c-section with my first. After 13 hours of hard labor they realized I would not open up enough to deliver a baby due to a surgery I had in my 20s). First of all, I should NOT be laying here having contractions. Second of all, I WAS PROMISED A C-SECTION.

So help me, if they send me home . . . .

At this point Vince moves his chair next to me. I later learned that he just can’t handle the “checking” part. Hmmm . . . neither can I . . .

The nurse returns and informs me that my doc will allow the c-section to proceed. I’m not sure if I should say “thank you” or “no duh.”

At this point a whirl of activity starts around me. A doctor pops his head into my cubicle.

“Hi. I’m Dr. McNabb. I’ll b delivering your baby today,” he says. There’s something kind of weird about meeting the guy who’s going to saw you in half for the first time. I mean, at least with my doc he had already done it before. Oh well. At this point I don’t care. Just let this be over, please.

“Nice to meet you,” I reply. "Please remember to tie my tubes and flatten my stomach while you’re in there.” He laughs.

Guess he didn’t think I was serious.

I remind my wonderful husband that, if my tubal is not taken care of, that I will schedule a vasectomy appointment for him next week. He assures me that he is on top of it.

A new nurse comes in to prep me while the first nurse goes to set up the operating room. She leaves and Vince and I are left to watch some t.v. Nothing is on.

I start shaking. I’m scared. I’m nervous. I sort of know what to expect but not really. With Jacob I was under general anesthesia so I have no memory of what happened after being placed on the operating table. I do remember all the bad stuff that happened during recovery. I’m dreading that. My mind is starting to play back some horrible footage so I decide we need to make some phone calls. Vince calls his parents. I call my mom and leave a message. I’m about to call my dad when they come to take me away.

Vince is handed a stack of protective gear, told to put it on and wait outside the door. They will come get him when ready.