Colson's Birth Story

 

Birth stories are the new baby couture. You can't have one without the other.  From my peer perusal, this colorful, uncensored accessory to parenthood is the new measure of a mom.  Critics (or the weak of heart) might decry this as a macabre memorial: but if reality television has taught us anything, it is that graphic personal disclosure always denotes authenticity- which in this case must be the true test of motherhood. Maybe so.  I don't want to judge.  Honestly. I have enough to vex me in my journey of motherhood since the re-election of President Obama. Anyhow. This is just a brief hormone-induced nod to the social phenomenon that sanctions phraseology such as "mushy cervix," "loss of mucous plug" and "placenta smoothies." With such a trending carte blanche, how could I not recount my own, birth story?

 

Rated: PG.

I had been pregnant forever- Like for every major holiday in 2012.  In fact, I could nary recall a time of not being pregnant.  Furthermore, my "pregnancy plot" was forever thickening (along with my waistline):  After two miscarriage scares and modified bed-rest, the diagnosis of gestational diabetes seemed a fait accompli.  Tragically (for me), there is little in this world that gives me as much pleasure as processed sugar.   Tales of expectant women who had fallen prey to "G.D." had haunted me like campfire ghost stories. There I was, armed with a glucometer in my Kate Spade tote, denying the cravings of an angry pregnant woman.  All I could envision was giving birth to a 14lb turkey- this mental image stayed me through the shaky withdrawal from donuts and Swedish fish.

 

Then, the third-trimester swelling inflated my legs to elephant-like proportions.  Tolerable initially. Maddening eventually.  While a swanky champagne brunch shower at the Oahu Country Club was  thrown by my indulgent friends proved a gratifying diversion,  I was still miserable...  Week 39 arrived with the expediency of dial-up internet, one lone pair of orthotic-shoes remained standing and I was meaner than a snake.  . . which is precisely when I resorted to walking...miles and popping Primrose Oil pills like a expectant junkie.  Meanwhile, my mother attempted to conjure contractions by means of Guantanamo-like inquiry (e.g. "Was that a contraction? How long did it last? Can you speak through it? How painful on a scale of 1-10?) until one crisp December eve, it worked. My contractions finally met the 5-1-1 criterion. For those not fluent in baby jargon, that refers to contractions that occur every five minutes, lasting one minute for the duration of an hour which qualifies you for hospital admission and a free (wheel-chair) ride to Labor and Delivery. 

 

As you might suspect, I clutched several collated copies of my birth plan for distribution as I entered Doylestown Hospital on a windy Thursday night...the summation of which was "give me all available drugs!"  I was fleetingly reluctant to admit this, considering the peer pressure of naturalist moms who liken epidurals to requesting Kool-aid refills from Jim Jones.  Frankly, they just don't know what they're missing.  So, after admission, I put in my epidural order and awaited contractual relief.  .  .

 

To be honest (and when I have not been?), I have only met one anesthesiologist that I liked - which I attributed to his vocal conservatism: He had me at "Hello, I am a  President Bush supporter."  However, this third-baby anesthesiologist was as charming as well, Bill Maher.  Yet, an anesthesiologist doesn't have to be your "BFF" or your "plus one"- he just has to be precise. And this one was not. Apparently, my epidural fell out. So, initially when the waves of contractual pain began to pour over me like liquid acid, I attributed it to my vivid imagination. Surely an epidural would prevent such agony- Didn't they read my birthplan?  I attempted to alert my "labor coach", Jason. However, he was nursing his own gastro-ailment. After devouring a dozen week-old donuts from 7-Eleven at 2am, he was- as they say- much worse for the "sell by" date.  Guess how sympathetic I was to his plight? Not so much.

 

Meanwhile, I was able to rally my maternal doula (my mom) who was engrossed in the -not a little disturbing- Hunger Games movie.  Let me tell you: One movie you do not want to watch while laboring is one that graphically features adolescents fighting eachother to the death. Hunger Games and epidurals will forever be Pavlovian triggers.  Fortunately, my mom did induce the hostile anesthesiologist to take another gander at his (failed) handiwork. And -wow- did that second epidural make up for the first: I couldn't even locate my legs.

 

Previous delivery room experience prepared me for the vaguely indefinable "it's time to push" sensation. Suffice to say, I knew when it was "go" time despite the fact that the baby had not quieted to the typcial calm, stillness before the storm. After two pushes, Colson literally fought his way out- his entrance portending well for a future in cage fighting. At the last moment, the cord pulled taught around his neck, coloring him the dreaded blue which turns OBs to impassive, robot-saviors.

 

As you may imagine, Jason did not get to contribute his (cord) cutlery skills since the baby was in durress. However, perhaps equally monumental (and ornamental) was his careful depressing of the "baby is born" alert button which played Braham's "Lullaby" in joyful celebration of Colson Kai's auspicious arrival at 5:46 am on Friday, December 7th- Pearl Harbor Day (Hawaiian coincidence? I think not).

 

I knew Colson was mine when he began to scream unceasingly and angrily. I knew he was Jason's when he demanded to eat.  He was perfect- wide-eyed, black-haired,  blue-eyed, indignant and gorgeous. His fingers were long, his legs were long, his toes were long. And he was magnificient.

 

It would have all seemed almost effortles, had I not begun to seriously hemorhage just thirty minutes after devouring a breakfast for recovering diabetics. (meaning- I recovered all the sugar I missed for two months in about ten minutes). When I texted Jason while fading out of consciousness during the "Prep the OR-STAT!" drama, he responded "Sorry to hear  you are not feeling well. The kids and I are doing great!" We laugh now at his sympathetic concern.

 

For the sake of the PG-rating, I will reserve the gory particulars for a Facebook posting since everyone knows Facebook is the perfect forum for full disclosure of what is otherwise conversationally crude. (I jest, of course.) Suffice to say, I am quite glad that I elected not to give birth in my jacuzzi bathtub or else, Jason would be updating his "Christian Mingle" profile right now.

 

In close, I did not save my placenta and bury it in the backyard -as I am sure you are relieved to learn.  I did name our child in honor of Chuck Colson. And I do hope this story offered some entertainment because as moms everywhere know- childbirth is nothing if not a laugh a minute.