I remember telling my mother that I had a "corazonada" (a hunch) that the baby would come early. She was happy to hear this, and I was so sure that my instincts were on target that I started to wrap up all sorts of loose ends (unanswered emails, desk clutter, other acts of random cleaning). But as that two week window before my due date started to narrow, I began to wonder about my instincts.
July 17, the day before my official due date, I woke up feeling more energetic than I had in weeks. That morning I worked on a translation project, walked two miles on the treadmill and caught up on episodes of The Bachelorette (don't judge). David was feeling under the weather, so while he napped later that day, I feverishly scrubbed the oven. I remember thinking, as I wiped down the counter top, that a sudden bout of nesting may signal impending labor, but I brushed off this thought. What were the odds of this baby coming on his due date? As David continued to sleep, I walked to the salon around the corner and got a pedicure. The nail technicians crowded around me, praising my large belly. "That baby is coming tomorrow," one said to me with full confidence.
David was awake and feeling better when I got home, so we headed to a baseball supply store on the Upper East Side and then to dinner at my favorite taquería, Cascabel. I don't remember much of the rest of the evening. I think we listened to baseball games on the radio and surfed the net. I wish I could remember this more clearly but everything now is overshadowed by the fact that at midnight my water broke.
Since it was after hours, my doctor's practice put us through to the doctor on call. David explained what had happened and was advised to bring me to the hospital right away. "No way!" I said. "That's what everyone says you are not supposed to do. We're waiting for contractions, tell her!" David put me on the phone with Dr. R, who understood my concerns but asked that we come in if contractions didn't start 8-10 hours later. "No problem!" I replied chirpily. Fifteen minutes later, contractions started. They were brutal.
I labored at home for about 2 1/2 hours as my contractions became increasingly more painful and regular. By the time I could barely talk through one, David insisted that we go to the hospital. We quickly got dressed, grabbed a few last minute items for the hospital bag, and turned off the A/C units. I turned around and looked into our apartment--it felt like for the last time. I distinctly remember feeling a pang of sadness that we were closing the door on life as "just the two of us." I also remember that David was wearing one of my favorite Threadless t-shirts: Darth Vader pruning a potted plant into the shape of the Death Star.
The first hour in triage was a bit stressful and chaotic, as I expected it to be. A nurse clumsily put in my IV, and I knew looking at it that it would result in a huge bruise (I was right.). The doctor on duty told me that I was 4cm dilated and said very sternly, "you're in labor, which means that you are staying." That's when things got going. I was moved into a separate room and hooked up to a machine that tracked the fetal heart rate and measured my contractions. At first, I didn't mind this but as the contractions quickly got stronger, the probes began to dig uncomfortably into my belly.
And, then, the pain.
Not long after I was settled into my room (an examining table for the soon-to-be-born infant rested in the far right corner), the contractions began to arrive aggressively but I was committed (sort of) to a "natural" labor. "I heard your screams and was wondering if you wanted an epidural," an anesthesiologist politely asked. David and I turned her away. I labored on. At some point, I begged the nurses to disconnect me from the monitors so that I could walk around the room. But by the time they came off, I was in such pain that I didn't want to move or be touched. I remember curling up on the bed and closing my eyes, trying to visualize my way out of the pain. The image that usually gets me there, however, proved to be too fleeting. The pain was seriously bone-crushing. Despite this, I couldn't bring myself to admit that what I wanted more than anything in the world was an epidural. In fact, a good two hours were spent crying over the "defeat" of the epidural option. Then it hit me: no one was going to give me a badge for withstanding this pain. There was absolutely nothing noble or empowering about it. "But you need to say the words, Adriana," Francesca, my nurse, said. So, I said them.
All I recall of the epidural is a few light taps on my back and, then, a wave of relief. I opened my eyes and saw David against the morning skyline of New York City. I was, finally, after several hours, present in my own labor. And then I took a nap.
The epidural numbed me from the pain of the contractions but I could still feel each one, and as they peaked, I imagined the baby slowly getting closer to us. "The baby is doing beautifully," Francesca reassured us. After a few hours, I actually did feel the baby bearing down and told the nurse that it might be time to push. Dr. R confirmed what I already suspected: I was fully dilated.
The pushing stage of labor was frustrating. The baby would move a bit and then recede again. I was getting tired, and after about an hour and a half, I asked if it was possible to turn down the epidural. At this point, I needed some of the pain. We tried again but no luck--the baby just wasn't budging. I had been pushing for almost five hours and Dr. R was very reluctant to let me keep going. Vacuum extraction had failed to move the baby further down, and I was told that his head was beginning to swell. The possibility of a c-section was introduced for the first time. To the credit of the doctors and nurses in the room, I was only given the information that I needed to make one decision at a time, but David knew that things were going downhill. The room was filling with people but all I could see, in those last minutes, was David and Dr. R. "One last push," she said, holding a pair of scissors. I knew that she meant it.
As the contraction started, I told myself, and the baby, that it was time to let go. I pushed. There was pain but also a feeling that, at last, something was happening. It was a matter of seconds but I'll never forget when David leaned in very close to me and said "I see his head. He is beautiful. Push!" That final push, the extra one that I had been granted, brought our little cosmonaut fully into the world. I could feel his feet and legs retreating from inside of me and pulling away. It's a feeling that, when I recall it, still makes me cry. It was truly visceral. And then there he was, hovering over us-- beautiful Lev.
I totally, completely love this story, in a way that makes me wish I had thought to write out my perspective on Annabelle's birth.
And just so you know, I can never get enough photos of Lev on Flickr... he's awesomely cute. :)
Posted by: delfuego | December 30, 2010 at 09:34 AM
This was wonderful to read. The end made me cry!
Posted by: redfox | January 01, 2011 at 08:06 PM
More please. Lovely short.
Posted by: Angrywayne | January 02, 2011 at 04:24 PM