As he was leaving to take the dogs to the field, David noticed my phone was ringing. The doctor called back and I missed it! Who ends up playing phone tag with their doctor while they are in labor?!? In the end, the on call doctor told me to head to the hospital. (I found out later, that the on call doctor told the doctor at the hospital that she would probably end up sending me home, but since I thought my water had broken, she didn’t want to take the chance…) David headed out with the dogs, and I resumed my shower after a contraction.
While shampooing my hair, I realized that something wasn’t quite right. My contractions were supposed to be eight minutes apart, and yet suddenly I was having an awful pain. I should have been able to finish my shower without a contraction. It took a while for my brain to make the connection that my contracting belly was communicating. My blood felt like ice. I HAD BEEN SO WRONG! Not eight minutes–FOUR!!!
Let’s pause here and let me clarify something…. I watched that stupid video. Every. Single. Minute. Of. It. I knew all about timing contractions. And I think I am a relatively smart person–most of the time. But, see, I thought that contractions all stayed the same intensity. And that they only got worse! So while I was dutifully timing the contractions and recording the information in the notes section of my phone. I would have a definite contraction… and several minutes later I would have what I considered “aftershocks.” Unfortunately, they were real, tiny, baby contractions that I DIDN’T COUNT!
Standing there in the shower, reality hit me, and I realized that I might be in a bit of trouble. I rushed out of the shower, threw on some clothes and called David. “Get home. I was wrong. Really wrong.” Only, instead of rushing home to my aide, he tells me that one of the dogs peed on him and he needs a new shirt. He asked me to iron it. Iron a new shirt. While I was in labor. Because it was all about him! So I said, “Okay, just get home.” I threw a shirt on the ironing board. Placed the iron on the shirt (did I mention I never turned the iron on?) put the iron back on the board, picked up the shirt, and headed downstairs. David was smart enough not to say a word when he got the shirt, and we drove the five minutes to the hospital.
I walked into the hospital and to the maternity ward on my own two feet. My contractions were approximately 2 minutes apart at this point. They registered me fairly quickly and did the preliminary check. I was 9 centimeters dilated! When the nurse asked if I had planned on having an epidural and I told her I had, she gave me a half smile, and said “It may not be possible, but we can try,” and left the room.
“We’re going home.” I told my husband. “Do over. I need a do over. We can come back tomorrow, and I can have the epidural, and we can have the baby.” David just blinked at me. Wise man. Then he said, “Why don’t you call your mom.” Very wise man.
“Mom, they said I might not be able to have the epidural. I can’t do this. I need the epidural. I’m going home.”
“You can do this. Besides, I didn’t have an epidural when I had you.”
“You are a stronger woman than I am!”
Luckily, I did get the epidural. It helped. If nothing else, it helped my sanity. And then the contractions slowed down. Not a lot thought. And boy were they intense. Not painful, but heavy. I told David that there was so much pressure. After that, each time I felt one, I had to sing the lyrics to “Under Pressure.” It was a fine moment in my history.
At about 11:45, they did another check and my water broke. I was 10 centimeters and they said I could push. The doctor came in, I really liked her. She had a very calming manner about her, and she puts you at ease quickly. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. A nurse opened it and asked if I was expecting a visitor. I wasn’t, but it turned out to be one of my best friends, Ann. I had always wanted my mom to be there. I kept thinking that she would be able to get there in time and she would be there to keep me calm. I had texted Ann on my way to the hospital, and even though I had told her I was okay, she knew I would be sad that my mom wasn’t here and she just wanted to help out. (She was fantastic, too. My doctor had delivered both of her children, one just six weeks before.)
So, Dave, Ann, and the rest of them helped me deliver Jamie. And much like the rest of my pregnancy, Jamie didn’t plan on anything being easy. He had a big head (no joking here, it was huge, 99th percentile at birth… You can’t be 100th
percentile, people, so it was as big as it gets…) And that is all I will say about that.
Jamie was born at 12:29 on July 15, 2012. He was eight and a half pounds, and 17 days early. And he was mine.