Feb
11
I don’t imagine the majority of you are terribly concerned with what my boobs are doing these days, but for those who have asked: I’m not breastfeeding Dylan. This is not a personal choice I made, but rather a sort of crappy and ongoing medical issue that prevents me from doing so.
I knew it wasn’t a possibility for me to breastfeed before I got pregnant, and I hope you’ll understand when I say I didn’t find that a big enough deterrent to avoid having another baby. I’ve had well-meaning friends ask if I planned to breastfeed this time around and I found myself flat-out lying (“Well, I’m definitely going to try . . .”) instead of just telling the truth, because it makes me feel — well, ashamed, I guess. I feel shitty admitting I can’t do something that nearly every other mother on earth can do; it’s all wrapped up in a weird package of guilt and inadequacy for not having “normal” births or being able to feed my child without my good friend Similac and around and around it goes.
I don’t feel concerned that giving him formula will cause him problems, but I do feel sad that the positive benefits of breastfeeding will never be part of my parenting experience. It is what it is, though, and as long as my boys are healthy and happy the details of how they made their exit from my body and what they ate in their first six months aren’t worth dwelling over. So I tell myself, anyway, but of course it’s often hard to follow your own best advice.
At any rate, he’s eating like a champ (seriously, it’s unreal: at this rate those spindly appendages will be Michelin-sized in no time) and it’s nice that JB is able to feed him too and, you know, silver linings.
To address another recent FAQ, if you’ve made a baby-related purchase lately (from Motherhood Maternity, say), you may have received a coupon brochure from a Large Purveyor of Consumer Goods sporting some familiar images. Specifically, images of your intrepid author shamelessly flaunting her stretched-beyond-belief pink underwear for all the world to see:
That’s right, people, it’s MY ASS on the Huggies brochure. Dear god. Anyway, in case you were concerned they ripped me off Sweetney-style, never fear, the good people at Kimberly-Clark licensed those images fair and square. My butt is officially a marketing vehicle for The Man.
Lastly, BEHOLD:
The scary thing? I still think he’s cute when he’s doing this. Biological programming cannot be denied, even when your child looks like an angry, crumpled-up newspaper.
Feb
9
Here it is: long, kind of boring, and bereft of any of the more thrilling labor details that typically make up a good birth story — but I’m glad to have written it down so it’s not lost to my untrustworthy memory in the years to come.
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First of all, let me just tell you that an alarm going off at 5 AM on the morning you’re supposed to have major surgery resulting in the birth of your second child is one hell of a nerve-wracking sound. I was a nervous wreck and the fact that I was not allowed to immediately plunge my head into my usual morning feedbag (Cinnamon Life, and LOTS OF IT PLZ) was depressing, plus I had to shower with this stinky antibacterial soap that made me dwell on the fact that in a matter of hours someone’s scalpel would be hacking into my flesh.
We arrived at the hospital at 6, and were immediately ushered into a labor and delivery room and attended to by a very nice nurse, who despite her friendliness wasted no time in spiking the world’s gnarliest-looking IV into my arm. I was hooked up to some sugar/saline solution and a bag of medication (this wouldn’t normally be necessary, by the way, the drugs were for my own medical situation), a fetal monitor was strapped on my belly, and we were left to wait. And wait.
I spent nearly the entire time reading your comments and I cannot tell you how grateful I was to have them. They cheered me, distracted me, and provided lots of conversation fodder for JB and I. Thank you so much for that, guys.
We were visited by the nurses who were going to attend the surgery, and two of the doctors who would perform the surgery (trivia: the lead surgeon was one of Mike Holmgren’s daughters). Then one of the anesthesiologists came to visit, which was disconcerting because he was not only our age, but also . . . well, um . . . he was sort of cute, okay? Blue eyes, goatee, bearing mood-altering drugs — what’s not to like?
He proceeded to freak me right the hell out by covering many of the potential side effects of the surgery, including a little thing they call DEATH. I told him that I was less worried about death than I was about barfing during the operation, and he mentioned that they would try and help mitigate any nausea and also that the surgeons would keep my uterus inside my body if that was possible. “Sometimes they just have to take it out for a while,” he said, shrugging. “The manipulation can make people sick.” I nodded sagely, like I totally knew what he was talking about, while desperately trying not to picture ANY of my organs being outside of my body.
At around 12 — at which point I could have eaten a LIVE HORSE, despite the nerves — they finally brought me into the OR. The nurses had me sit on the side of a table with my surgical gown wide open in the back so the anesthesiologists could start working on the epidural. At that point all I could think about was how my ass probably looked: squashed, dimply, totally white and gross. It didn’t help that Hottie Anesthesiologist was back there murmuring in my ear about how I was going to feel something cold now, Linda, we’re just swabbing your back.
They had me bend forward over a pillow for several minutes while the anesthesiologists — there were two, Mr. Hottie and an older man with a wonderfully soothing voice; I think Hottie was interning under him — inserted the epidural. There was some discomfort, a little stinging, but overall this didn’t hurt at all. After the epidural was in, they started the meds, and I felt the familiar sensation of warmth running through my lower body. My legs began to tingle, then go dead.
The nurses helped move me onto the operating table, and someone covered my chest with a warm blanket. They neglected to cover any other part of my body, though, so when the nurses then began to get the catheter in place I realized I was completely naked and spread apart like a frog. On the table. Under the bright lights. Visible to everyone in the room.
I must have been squirming and wincing, because the older anesthesiologist asked me if I was feeling any discomfort. “Um, just MENTALLY,” I said, and earned a hearty chuckle from the room. The roomful of people next to my naked body, that is.
They got the catheter in and covered me up, and the anesthesiologists began the process of checking my progress with the medication. They would prick my upper body with a safety pin, then ask me to tell when I felt the same sharp sensation in my lower body — then they’d begin pricking my skin from around mid-thigh on up. They did the same sort of sensation test with an alcohol swab and eventually ice cubes, asking me to say when it felt cold. As the numbness crept up my body, they adjusted the drip until they were satisfied that I was in the right state, at which point they told the surgeons we were good to go.
It was at that moment that I officially began to feel very scared, partially because I was paranoid that I wasn’t a good enough judge of how well the epidural was working and oh my god what if I said the wrong thing and now I’m going to feel EVERY SINGLE CUT, etc. They brought JB in, who sat next to my head and held my hand and told me I was doing really, really good, even though my teeth were chattering like maracas.
Things seemed to be happening very fast at that point. A nurse strapped one of my arms to the table, JB held the other. Someone put a drape in front of my chest so I couldn’t see anything. The anesthesiologists told me what sorts of things I should be feeling (pressure, and weirdest of all, a cold sensation of running water that slid down my back from the inside).
The surgeons began their work. Music was playing in the background, something classical. I could feel my belly being moved around, and I could hear a wet suctioning sound. The anesthesiologists talked to themselves behind my head. I took deep, frightened breaths and JB rubbed my head until I finally told him I felt like he was Lenny and I was one of the puppies.
One of the anesthesiologists suddenly said something like, “Okay, here he comes!”. One of the surgeons peeped over the drape to tell me the baby was almost out, and asked JB if he wanted to see. “Um,” JB said, looking totally freaked out, and I whispered, “Do it!” So he did, he stood up and looked over the drape and then there was a lot of movement and the unbelievable, indescribable sound of a baby crying.
Dylan was crying in big lustful wet gasps and so was I, the tears ran straight down my face and puddled in my ears and I was sobbing and asking if he was okay and one of the anesthesiologists said he was fine, they were just taking him to be suctioned and checked on. JB stayed with me for a few moments, then he was allowed to go over to the pediatrician’s station where Dylan was being attended to.
JB was gone for a couple minutes and I craned my neck to see, while simultaneously trying not to pay too much attention to the disturbing movements happening below the drape but inside my body (I did feel some nausea but nothing too overwhelming, I credit the kindness of the anesthesiologists for helping to prevent the dreaded Operation Barf). Soon JB was back, holding Dylan close to me, and Dylan was crying and still sort of goo-covered and absolutely beautiful. A wonderful nurse offered to get our camera and she took this photo:
Soon everyone was done, they all told me I did great (I was filled with an absurd pride at this, which is so ridiculous because really, what else would they say? “You did really shitty, you big giant pussy”?) and one by one they left the room. The nurses loaded me onto a rolling table, put Dylan in my arms, and pushed me back to the L&D room, comically ramming into 1) a wall, 2) a laundry cart, and 3) a doorway on the way.
We hung out in the L&D room for a while and Dylan was bathed and poked at a bit. Hottie Anesthesiologist checked on me one more time to see how the epidural was wearing off (which was not at ALL, it took a long-ass time before I could move my legs or wiggle my toes). Eventually, we were moved downstairs to the recovery floor, whamming into the sides of the elevator and at least two doorways as we arrived.
And that’s where we stayed for the next two days, while I recuperated. (JB’s parents had arrived at our house last Friday night in order to stay with Riley while we were off producing his sibling.) The evening of the surgery I was allowed to eat, which would have been awesome if the hospital food didn’t suck so much, and I astounded everyone by easily walking around the floor at 9 PM (sadly, it would turn out this was just the magical effects of the drugs wearing off, because it was MUCH harder to walk the next day). We spent a lot of time holding Dylan, trying to sleep, and wishing mightily for an internet connection.
Now that we’ve been home for a while, I can say that recovering from this surgery was initially much better/faster than the first time and now is probably about the same. It hurts to get up, and my scar area is very tender, but I’m definitely able to get around. They tell you not to lift anything but that’s pretty hard to avoid, I’m able to lift Riley out of his highchair and I’m obviously picking up the baby all day long. They gave me a pile of Dilaudid but I’m only taking it at night, otherwise it makes me all woozy and crappy-feeling.
All in all, it went as well as I could have hoped. Easy enough procedure, not too hard of a recovery, and a perfect, perfect outcome:
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