When I was about six months pregnant, a friend of mine asked me if I was worried about labor. I was worried about everything, of course, but I knew he was asking if I was afraid of the pain. I told him I wasn't, not really.
In my life, my exposure to babies and pregnant women has been limited. I'm a teacher, though, on a faculty that consists almost entirely of women, so my workplace is chock-full of mothers, and all through my pregnancy I'd gotten lots of advice. I knew that the pain I would feel would be like no other pain I'd felt before. But I was pretty sure I could handle it.
I'm no stranger to pain. I competed in a combat sport for over a decade. I've fought at least four different Olympians. I've fought men. I've had countless bruises, scrapes and sprains. I've dislocated my hip. I've had ACL surgery. And I've never been a huge fan of pain medication. I figured, if nothing else, I was just tougher than a lot of other women.
I had initially wanted to go a childbirth class with my husband. I wanted to do this for him, not for me, so he could meet other dads and bond and stuff. My husband pointed out to me that, at 49, he would be twice as old as many of the other men who were becoming fathers for the first time, and he thought trying to bond with them was silly. He had a point.
My mom is a veteran Labor & Delivery nurse, so instead of going to a class, I just asked her lots of questions about what to expect. About a week before I was going to be induced, she brought home some videos for me to watch. I watched clip after clip of these women with their husbands petting their faces and feeding them ice chips, and their midwives and their birthing balls and their doulas and their birth plans. It all looked so ridiculous, and I warned my husband that when I was in labor, there would be zero petting.
I was delivering at the hospital at which my mom used to work, so many of the nurses there knew her, and therefore knew who I was. My husband and I checked in at 6 pm to the chorus of, "Oh, it's little Sharbo!" My mom arrived shortly after, and asked me loudly in front of the nurse, who was an old friend of hers, if I'd already handed out copies of my birth plan. The nurse looked at both of us, determined we were joking, and looked vastly relieved.
And so it began. The first night was uneventful, and incredibly boring -- one can watch only so many episodes of "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" on late-night TBS, after all. I was strapped up to so many monitors and IVs that getting up and walking around was not an option. All I could do was sit and wait -- and Facebook! A tray table, my laptop, and the hospital's wifi were my best friends, and through Facebook, friends and relatives all over the country were receiving updates from me like "Sharon hopes she doesn't deliver during American Idol" and pictures of my husband sleeping on the uncomfortable little cot.
It wasn't until the following afternoon that things really got rolling, and I was tough, just like I hoped I'd be. Oh, I was grumpy because I hadn't eaten in over 24 hours, but I never complained about the pain. As it turned out, I was a little too tough. Whenever I had a contraction, I'd just close my eyes and take deep breaths and wait for it to pass -- because I knew it would pass. After this had gone on a while, a nurse asked me what my level of pain was on a scale of 1 to 10, and was shocked when I told her, "Oh, seven or eight." Meds were ordered up, but after the first dose, I realized that all they did was give me that foggy, blurry feeling that I hate about pain meds, and I vowed I wouldn't have any more.
That evening, the anesthesiologist arrived to give me my epidural. I can see why people consider that a godsend, but in the end I decided I didn't like that either. I hated not being able to move my legs, or feel whether my injured knee was supported properly. Most of all, I hated having to wear the oxygen mask because the epidural was so strong I had to work hard just to breathe.
So when the epidural started to wear off, I wasn't sure whether I ought to tell anybody -- and again, because I wasn't crying and carrying on, the nurses had no clue. Then suddenly, I was informed it was time to push. I'd been told that pushing usually lasted about 3 hours, but since at this point I was essentially "natural" and could actually feel to push, it only took me about 35 minutes. I don't remember too much about those 35 minutes. I remember that yes, it was indeed the worse pain I'd ever been in. I remember being embarrassed because I thought I might throw up, and my husband had to hold a little pink tray under my chin in case I did (I didn't). I don't remember telling the nurse in no uncertain terms that I didn't want her mopping my face with a cool washcloth, but apparently I did.
My doctor made it there for about two contractions before my son was born -- he spent more time stitching me up than he did delivering Alex. By that time, I so wanted to be done that I didn't bother telling him that I could feel the stitches, too.
In my life, my exposure to babies and pregnant women has been limited. I'm a teacher, though, on a faculty that consists almost entirely of women, so my workplace is chock-full of mothers, and all through my pregnancy I'd gotten lots of advice. I knew that the pain I would feel would be like no other pain I'd felt before. But I was pretty sure I could handle it.
I'm no stranger to pain. I competed in a combat sport for over a decade. I've fought at least four different Olympians. I've fought men. I've had countless bruises, scrapes and sprains. I've dislocated my hip. I've had ACL surgery. And I've never been a huge fan of pain medication. I figured, if nothing else, I was just tougher than a lot of other women.
I had initially wanted to go a childbirth class with my husband. I wanted to do this for him, not for me, so he could meet other dads and bond and stuff. My husband pointed out to me that, at 49, he would be twice as old as many of the other men who were becoming fathers for the first time, and he thought trying to bond with them was silly. He had a point.
My mom is a veteran Labor & Delivery nurse, so instead of going to a class, I just asked her lots of questions about what to expect. About a week before I was going to be induced, she brought home some videos for me to watch. I watched clip after clip of these women with their husbands petting their faces and feeding them ice chips, and their midwives and their birthing balls and their doulas and their birth plans. It all looked so ridiculous, and I warned my husband that when I was in labor, there would be zero petting.
I was delivering at the hospital at which my mom used to work, so many of the nurses there knew her, and therefore knew who I was. My husband and I checked in at 6 pm to the chorus of, "Oh, it's little Sharbo!" My mom arrived shortly after, and asked me loudly in front of the nurse, who was an old friend of hers, if I'd already handed out copies of my birth plan. The nurse looked at both of us, determined we were joking, and looked vastly relieved.
And so it began. The first night was uneventful, and incredibly boring -- one can watch only so many episodes of "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" on late-night TBS, after all. I was strapped up to so many monitors and IVs that getting up and walking around was not an option. All I could do was sit and wait -- and Facebook! A tray table, my laptop, and the hospital's wifi were my best friends, and through Facebook, friends and relatives all over the country were receiving updates from me like "Sharon hopes she doesn't deliver during American Idol" and pictures of my husband sleeping on the uncomfortable little cot.
It wasn't until the following afternoon that things really got rolling, and I was tough, just like I hoped I'd be. Oh, I was grumpy because I hadn't eaten in over 24 hours, but I never complained about the pain. As it turned out, I was a little too tough. Whenever I had a contraction, I'd just close my eyes and take deep breaths and wait for it to pass -- because I knew it would pass. After this had gone on a while, a nurse asked me what my level of pain was on a scale of 1 to 10, and was shocked when I told her, "Oh, seven or eight." Meds were ordered up, but after the first dose, I realized that all they did was give me that foggy, blurry feeling that I hate about pain meds, and I vowed I wouldn't have any more.
That evening, the anesthesiologist arrived to give me my epidural. I can see why people consider that a godsend, but in the end I decided I didn't like that either. I hated not being able to move my legs, or feel whether my injured knee was supported properly. Most of all, I hated having to wear the oxygen mask because the epidural was so strong I had to work hard just to breathe.
So when the epidural started to wear off, I wasn't sure whether I ought to tell anybody -- and again, because I wasn't crying and carrying on, the nurses had no clue. Then suddenly, I was informed it was time to push. I'd been told that pushing usually lasted about 3 hours, but since at this point I was essentially "natural" and could actually feel to push, it only took me about 35 minutes. I don't remember too much about those 35 minutes. I remember that yes, it was indeed the worse pain I'd ever been in. I remember being embarrassed because I thought I might throw up, and my husband had to hold a little pink tray under my chin in case I did (I didn't). I don't remember telling the nurse in no uncertain terms that I didn't want her mopping my face with a cool washcloth, but apparently I did.
My doctor made it there for about two contractions before my son was born -- he spent more time stitching me up than he did delivering Alex. By that time, I so wanted to be done that I didn't bother telling him that I could feel the stitches, too.
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