Category Archives: Grammy

Bubba McTiny’s Birth Story

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Hank was born four weeks early at just five pounds, and we called him “Teeny McTiny” for  the first six months of his life (until he experienced a massive growth spurt and shot from the bottom 10th-percentile on the pediatric growth charts to the top 15th-percentile). His little brother (whom we shall call Ollie here, to protect his privacy), arrived two weeks early, already weighing eight and a half pounds. He’s a big boy, yet one forgets how small and helpless all newborns are (even the big ones), and so we’re calling him “Bubba McTiny” for now.

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Thankfully, the pregnancy induced hypertension (PIH) for which I was being so closely monitored for the last month of my pregnancy never developed, though I continued to have  proteinuria until the end. I submitted to weekly blood tests, urine tests, ultrasounds, doctor’s visits, and twice weekly non stress tests at the childbirth center until my water broke, unexpectedly, the morning of March 10, when I was exactly 38 weeks pregnant. I was giving Hank a bath, squatting beside the tub, and when I got up to get his towel I noticed I’d left a small, pink puddle on the bathroom floor. (My mother also went into labor with my little sister while giving 4-year-old me a bath, so maybe there’s something to squatting by the tub as a labor trigger, at least in our family. My sister and sister-in-law have taken note.)

I called Dr. Dalton while Penelope helped Hank out of the tub, got him ready for the day, and told Grammy (who lives with us and who would watch Hank while we were in the hospital) what was happening. Dr. Dalton was already at the birth center with another patient, so she had us meet her there. They quickly confirmed that my water had indeed broken, but I wasn’t yet having contractions. Dr. Dalton didn’t want to send me home because she was still concerned about PIH, so we spent much of the day walking around the hospital and its grounds (it was a lovely, sunny, unseasonably warm day), trying to get things started. Penelope also had a IEP (Individualized Education Plan) to write for work, so she did that on her laptop while I did yoga in our birthing suite.

Unfortunately, I never had more than a few painless contractions all day, and once water breaks, there is increased risk of infection if labor doesn’t start reasonably quickly, so at 6:00 PM, we started to induce labor with pitocin. The first problem with pitocin is that it is delivered by IV and requires constant fetal monitoring, so even though they let me wear the wireless monitors, I couldn’t walk beyond the very small birthing ward, and I had to tote the IV around with me. The second problem with pitocin is that it creates very strong, very fast contractions in a short amount of time, before one’s body has a chance to acclimate. (At least for me: my sister also had a pitocin induced labor, and she says she contracted every two minutes for three hours before she felt any pain. I, on the other hand, was getting pretty uncomfortable by 9:00 PM, when my contractions were still more than three minutes apart and I had not dilated more than a fingertip.)

Around 10:00, I was miserable enough to request pain meds (a decision we’d left for “Game Day”), and we started with the IV narcotic Stadol. This made me dizzy, disoriented, and pretty loopy, but only provided pain relief for about an hour. My contractions increased in frequency, strength, and duration, and I began to shake and vomit, which made me hopeful I was progressing… but an exam at about 1:00 AM revealed I was still only dilated to 2 cm. That was a crushing blow to my morale and motivation, as I was already in serious, unremitting pain from back labor (with almost no break between contractions). I got another dose of Stadol, but this time the pain relieving effects wore off within about fifteen minutes.

At 2:30 AM, when I was begging for Penelope to make it stop and let me go home, I asked for an epidural. I wasn’t philosophically opposed to an epidural, but I was afraid it was too early to get one and that it would slow the already interminable labor process, but the nurses suggested it might give me relief enough to rest and let my body do the work while I got some sleep. That sounded good to me. They had to call in the anesthesiologist, who didn’t arrive for another hour (probably the longest hour of my life to date), but a little after 3:30 I got the epidural. Penelope got light headed (having not eaten in about eight hours) while trying to hold me up while the epidural was inserted, so she had to sit and I held on to the nurse instead. I remember apologizing, embarrassed because I wrapped my legs around her hips during a contraction, a very intimate thing to do to a total stranger!

The epidural worked quickly, and I did get to doze, fitfully, after that — but only for about an hour. Around 4:30 (I think, I was kind of out of it), the nurse came in and put an oxygen mask on me. She told me the baby was having late decelerations with each contraction, a sign of fetal distress, and they were putting me on oxygen to see if it would help. I think she also urged me to turn onto my left side, but I can’t remember. (Penelope slept through this, so she doesn’t remember, either.)

I continued in a confused, half-asleep, half-aware haze for another hour until Dr. Dalton came in and did another pelvic exam. I had dilated to 4 cm, which was finally some progress, but not enough: the baby was still having late decelerations, and I was not progressing fast enough to risk continuing with labor. Dr. Dalton recommended a caesarian section. (I think she’d already called in the surgical team, so I don’t know what would have happened if I’d disagreed — but I didn’t. I was ready to be done, one way or another.)

It took another forty-five minutes for the surgical team to arrive and set up, but that time moved quickly, filled with consent forms and other preparations. I remember the nurse handing me a consent form and showing me where to sign. I took the clipboard from her and said, “I’m a lawyer, I have to read it,” which made everyone laugh (except me). Dr. Dalton said, “As a lawyer, you probably know that they always tell us consent forms are unenforceable anyway,” and I retorted, “Well, yeah: how many drugs have you given me tonight? Do I look like I’m in my right frame of mind?” which made everyone laugh again (again, except me).

In the OR, they gave me a spinal and draped me for surgery. I cannot describe, and frankly don’t care to think much about, the actual c-section itself. Even with the spinal and a local anesthetic “gap” medication, I felt a lot more of the surgery than I expected to. The anesthesiologist kept asking if it hurt or was just uncomfortable, and I couldn’t answer her: of course it hurt, but it was also intensely uncomfortable. Penelope was sitting next to me, trying to talk me through it, but I can’t recall a thing she said.

The anesthesiologist told Penelope when they were lifting the baby out, and she looked over the drape (something I was afraid to do, being a blood fainter, when Hank was born). She says it wasn’t gory: it just looked like they lifted a baby out of a funny red hole in the drape. (“Red hole” = gory, to my lights.) I remember everyone talking about what a big baby he was, and then I was pretty distracted by pain/discomfort as they worked to remove the placenta.

Penelope went with the baby to watch as they cleaned him up and did his APGAR tests. (He scored a 7 first, and then a 9, which is about as well as c-section babies ever do.) She says the nurses were taking bets as to how big he was (8 pounds, 7 ounces). I could hear him yelling and yelling: he was soooo loud.

Penelope carried him over to me as they were still putting me back together. I didn’t know what to say, but knew I had to say something, so I started (in my narcotic haze) reciting “The Owl and the Pussycat.”

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea green boat. They took some   honey, and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five pound note…

They gave me another dose of something because I was in a lot of pain, and Penelope says I went into a narcotic nod for about 5-10 minutes. I don’t remember that. I remember them driving my gurney back to a recovery room, being greeted by the dayshift nurses (shifts changed during my surgery), and then promptly throwing up on myself and one of the nurses. After that, though, I felt much better.

They brought Ollie to me and laid him on my chest. Paula (one of the day nurses, who we remembered from our hospital stay when Penelope had Hank, and who I’d also become re-acquainted with during the many non stress tests over the last few weeks) encouraged me to try breastfeeding. Ollie latched on immediately and nursed for a long time, probably 45 minutes, despite the fact that I couldn’t yet sit up or really even hold him, being still quite numb from my chest to my feet.

I hated that total sense of helplessness and was glad when the spinal started to wear off. I didn’t need much for pain management: just Motrin. I got up on my feet about eight hours after surgery and walked back and forth across the small room. It was still very uncomfortable sitting up and standing, but I was glad to be able to move.

Hank and both of his grandmothers came to visit that evening. Hank is an excellent, proud, gentle big brother. “The baby person is finally out of Mumma’s belly!” he says.

-C.

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Swimming in the Sea of Uncertainty

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Last month, when Penelope and I put an offer on a new house in the middle of the two week wait after my IUI, we had in the back of our minds the idea that buying a house might prove a good and necessary distraction from the interminable wait to see if I’d get pregnant. And yes, when my period arrived several days early (indicating it probably had been a bum cycle from the get go), the fact that we had a new house under contract softened the blow a bit. I wasn’t pregnant, but we had good things happening in our lives. I didn’t have much time to dwell on my disappointment: I had to schedule the home inspection and gather the mountains of documents required by the bank for financing.

The yard that may soon be ours: +/- one acre, level lot, with fruit trees and plenty of room and sun for a garden.

This month, though, all the uncertainty is dragging on me. I am drawing near the end of another two week wait. Gut instinct tells me I have had no better luck this month, but then again, Penelope was dead certain she’d just gotten her period when the nurse called with the news that her second IVF transfer had worked. (She’d had some bleeding that morning — in retrospect, it was probably implantation spotting.) UPDATE 6/18/12 – My gut instinct was not wrong. No luck this month — harrumph!

Porch #1 (open). The house is a 2,900 square foot New England farmhouse, circa 1850ish, with attached garage/barn. 14 rooms, including 4 bedrooms and 2 baths. (Yes, that’s a lot of space for the three of us, but there will be a mother-in-law apartment for Penelope’s mom, and besides, it might not be “just the three of us” for long!)

As for the new house, the inspection went fine. It needs some insulation and the barn roof needs patching, and there are plenty of cosmetic changes we’ll want to make, but for a 160+ year old house, it’s in great shape.

Porch #2 (enclosed) — hot tub not included in sale, which is fine with us: Penelope and I both think hot tubs are a bit skeevy.

Here’s the hitch: the sellers agreed to have the septic cleaned before the closing, and when they did that, they learned that the leach field was failing. They (the sellers) have some relative who they thought would be able to do some kind of ‘quick fix’ for just $1,000, but we didn’t think that would fly with our bank, and we didn’t want to wind up buying the house and having to replace the leach field two weeks later when the ‘quick fix’ failed. For a while, it seemed like this would derail the whole deal, but eventually we negotiated a new agreement: they will put in a new leach field, designed by a real engineer, and we will pay half the cost (but only if the sale goes through).

Nice, bright kitchen that might be ours. The cabinets aren’t even ugly! (Every house we’ve looked at — and we’ve looked a lot — has had ugly cabinets.)

Now that we’ve settled that, we still have to wait for the results of the bank appraisal (which was done on Thursday), which is the last hurdle we need to clear in order to get our mortgage.

Dining room that might be ours. I’m a sucker for French doors.

What about the house we already own, you ask? Good question. It’s been on the market forever, with very little interest — not because it’s not a nice house, but because the housing market in our present town is one of the most depressed markets in the whole state. But the rental market is booming, and we’ve had a lot of interest in our Craigslist ad, so that’s the plan: to rent it until the market improves enough to sell it. We’ve had a few prospective tenants in to see it, and we have two more families coming on Tuesday, so we’re confident we’ll be able to find tenants.

Enormous living room. The fireplace is in the middle of the room, so this photo only shows about 2/3 of the space.

Here’s the other big hitch: We want this move to disrupt Hank’s life a little as possible. That means not starting to pack until we are 100% certain it’s actually going to happen. Initially, we thought the inspection would be the decision point, and that was scheduled within 14 days of going under contract, but we extended that deadline when the leach field problem was discovered.

Wide center hallway between the living room and dining room. Not the best use of space, but definitely period appropriate. We’re thinking we’ll put the piano in here, and maybe a big ol’ antique hall stand, if we can find one. Plus, we always need space for our many, many bookshelves.

Now here’s what I’m worrying about: the contracted closing date, while not set in stone, is on-or-before July 13. That is now less than a month away. UPDATE 6/18/12 – It’s going to take longer to get the new septic system than anticipated, so it looks like the closing will be pushed back by about 2 weeks.

One of three upstairs bedrooms. (One, not pictured, is a terrible pink that is sort of cross between Pepto-Bismol and that dreadful “dusty rose” that dominated grandmotherly decor in the mid-late 1980s.)

Tonight at dinner, I made lists of things that need to be done in our present house before we move out, and things that will need to be done in the new house before (or shortly after) we move in. (Hank sometimes takes a long, long time to eat, and we try to stay at the table with him until he finishes, so it’s good to have something to do to pass the time.) Both lists were intimidatingly lengthy, and the tasks on each list were both time-consuming and expensive.

Downstairs bedroom. This room, the attached bath, and several other of the downstairs rooms will be a mother-in-law apartment for Grammy, if all goes well. It will be so great to have Hank’s babysitter under the same roof.

Here’s my fear: All the stars will align, the septic system will get fixed, the appraisal report won’t make the bank balk, we will get our official closing date, and we will have a mere two weeks to get everything done. Penelope and I moved seven times in the first decade of our relationship, so we have packing down to a science… but that was before we had a baby. As every parent knows, it’s hard to get anything done with a toddler nearby, especially if the task in question involves putting things into boxes: toddlers like nothing better than to pull things out of boxes so that they can look at them, play with them, carry them around, and hide them/flush them/break them/eat them.

And if my gut instinct is wrong, and ALL the stars align, toddler-patrol might be the only job I can do, since many of the things on the lists (painting, insulating, heavy lifting) are not safe for pregnancy. I should be so lucky, right? But if I am, will Penelope ever forgive me?

-C.

Sickie

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Grammy e-mailed me this afternoon to say Hank seemed a little under the weather. He hadn’t eaten much, was restless during his nap, was a little bit fussy, a little bit warm, and he once pointed to his belly and said, “tummy” in a way that might have been a complaint and might have been, you know, a mere statement of fact, as in, “Here’s my…”

The thing about Hank is that he’s such a good natured kid that even when he’s really feeling crummy, he’s still fairly chipper and active and raring to go outside and romp around. It’s only obvious he’s sick when he spikes a fever or when night falls and he’s too uncomfortable to sleep. Otherwise, we’re looking for more subtle cues, like being a little bit cranky, a little bit restless, not as hungry as usual, especially in combination. One of these things alone may be nothing, but a little bit ‘off’ in a few different ways generally means Hank is feeling quite a bit ‘off.’

So, in today’s recounting of blessings, I am so grateful for Grammy, who is able to watch Hank while we are at work and be attuned enough to these subtle signs in order to alert us. I’m sure most daycare placements would never be able to be so alert to such barely-perceptible hints of illness in an uncomplaining toddler. I am grateful that my job is flexible enough (unless I am in the middle of trial) that I can leave early to take care of Hank when he needs it (though he’s in great hands with Grammy when I can’t get away). I am grateful that Hank has such a sunny disposition that, even when he feels crummy, he remains cheerful and affectionate. Finally, I am grateful to infant’s acetaminophen, which will hopefully help him sleep well and wake tomorrow feeling all better.

-C.

The Jellybean Mystery

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Among my bad habits is my practice of eating junk in the car during my afternoon commute home. I think this routine is so hard to break because it’s one of the last vestiges of my life as a smoker. (Yes, Mom, if you’re reading this, I used to smoke cigarettes — off and on for about twelve years in college, law school, and beyond. Moving on.) When I quit five years ago, like many smokers, I substituted food for cigarettes, and rather than chain-smoking during my commute, I snacked. When I am trying to slim down, the afternoon car-munchies are the hardest craving to resist, because it’s not a rational hunger based in the need for calories or nutrients, but a psychological compulsion.

All of this by way of explanation that sometimes, more often than I ought, I eat potato chips or pretzels in the car. So it is not surprising that Hank has started to pipe up from his car seat, “chip! chip!,” like a baby bird chirping for food from its mother. (He does this even when I’m not snacking, which makes it that much harder to resist the urge to pull into the nearest quick stop and stock up on junk.)

A few days ago, Hank called, “Chip!” and I told him I didn’t have any. His next request demand came out of the blue. “Jellybean! Need it!”

I don’t know where he got that. I’ll own his addiction to potato chips, but I have never fed him jellybeans. I asked his Grammy, who watches him during the day, and she swore she’d never given him candy. (Well, except M&Ms, occasionally, but chocolate doesn’t count.) I tried to think if jellybeans feature in any of his story books, but I don’t think so.

This is not the first time Hank has expressed an uncomfortable familiarity with adult vices. Penelope and I rarely drink, but several months ago my mother came to visit and brought a bottle of wine. We served it with dinner, and he pointed to the glasses and said, clearly, “wine,” though we don’t think he’d ever seen it before and we didn’t remember saying the word out loud for him to mimic. Also, he calls out “Coffee!” every time we pull into the convenience store/gas station that also houses our local Dunkin’ Donuts, even if we’re just there to get gas.

He is such a little sponge. I shudder to think what he’ll soak up next.

-C.