Final Chapter

Ok--I'm really going to have to type fast this time. We're packing to move on Friday (YIKES!), the baby is sleeping and the boys are playing Wii. I'm seriously on the clock.


And so I present to you the hastily written final chapter:

"Where the Hell is that Epidural Guy?"


Soooo, I'm at the hospital, and the nurse is sufficiently apologetic for sending me home earlier (even though I was IN LABOR!!). George leaves to take the boys to our sainted friend and babysitter (it's 4 o'clock in the morning here, people. That's freakin' EARLY. That's freakin' FRIENDSHIP.).

As George is leaving, I pull him in close to my face and say (in between contractions), "If you don't get back before this baby is born...I really don't care. --I do not care if you get back in time for the birth. Just please don't drive too fast, and do not crash, and do not die. --DO NOT DIE."

A look of huge relief washes over George's face and he says, "Thank you for telling me that. That will make the drive a lot easier."

And then I said, as a new contraction arrived, "Do not crash and DO. NOT. DIE."

So then he leaves.

Meanwhile, I sit my miserable self (freshly attired in my demoralizing hospital gown. I haaate hospital gowns) on the nearest seat, which happens to be a wooden rocking chair. And when another contraction arrives, I start rhythmically rocking like it's the only thing that's going to save me. And I also start cussing. Very softly, but again, very, very profanely.

At this point, the nurse walks back into the room and notices that I'm pretty much not going to move from that chair. Wisely, she says, "If you want, you can stay in that chair." She then manages to scootch it closer to the monitoring computer doo-hickey and hooks me up to it, all while I'm still in the chair, rocking and cussing.

I then politely grunt, "So, where's the epidural guy? Is he going to be here soon?"

"Yes. He should be here in, oh, about 30 minutes."

"Whaaaaaat? Noooo. --Whaaat?"

"Oh, it's just 30 minutes, hon. That's like ten more contractions."

"Whaaaaaat? Noooo. Nooo. Can't he come now?"

"No. Sorry. We've got to run this labwork...blah, blah, nursetalk, medical blah, blah..." (at this point, my brain has shut down and I'm mentally curling up into a ball and dying.)

But then I invent a clever new labor coping technique I like to call "Counting." --I just start counting, and counting, and counting. (Yeah, I'm going to write a book and be very famous. Lamaze, eat your heart out.)

So, now, instead of cussing (which I was feeling kind of bad about, given that a new innocent life was coming closer and closer to meeting his shockingly foul-mouthed mother), I relied on Counting.

It went a little something like this: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13...ooohhhh....12345,12347, 19... 20,8, 10, 5, 7, 1234567, 13, 9, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5...FIVE...1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8..."

BRILLIANT!

So, anywhooo...I do this for waaaaaay more than 30 minutes because the nurse had told me a big fat LIE. Or if not a lie, she at least didn't have all the facts before she told me something that I was counting (ha) on with my entire existence.

I don't know when the hell that epidural guy got there, but I'm pretty sure it was somewhere around 7 am. And since I arrived at the hospital sometime in the 4 am department...I think it was a really long-ass time.

Eventually, my husband returned, huffing and puffing, but not crashed and not dead. So that was good. He did make the mistake of touching me on the shoulder when he walked in the room and saying something like, "I'm back, honey."

And, again, Beezlebub jumped out of my voicebox and said, "DO NOT TOUCH ME."

And George stepped back quickly and said, "Ohhh...ok."

He later told me that since making physical contact with me wasn't going to work, he thought he'd try to count along with me in a supportive way, but quickly realized that my "counting" made no logical sense to anyone in the outside world, and so thought maybe I should just keep doing it by my own self.

That's a wise man.

Let's see, at some point the assistant to the Epidural Guy arrived and started doing whatever she needed to do to prep me for the blessed epidural. And then she paced around the room wondering where that guy was. And he still didn't show. And then she said he was on his way, but in the meantime, would it be ok if two interns came in and watched?

And I said through clenched teeth, "Sure. But they must be QUIET. Very, very, very quiet."

Sooo, now we have two dudes standing in my room, also waiting for Epidural Guy.

And then Epidural Guy finally shows up in his godlike wondrousness (because, let's face it, they knoooow. They know the amazing power they wield). He then starts to tell me something about the epidural and how he's gonna proceed, and I tell him (through clenched teeth) that he has about two minutes to get it done, and I will tell him when to start because we're not doing this during a contraction, so he just better wait for my signal.

Ok....NOW.

Whether he was irritated about this Miss Bossykins or not, I do not know. I do not care. But he hopped to it, and soon I heard him mumbling to the interns about what he was doing back there, and as I was hunched over and not even caring if he messed up and killed me by accident, I suddenly thought, "All of those people back there can see my butt crack."

Nice.

Finally, the wonder drugs started coursing through my system, and I could breathe again. And my eyes opened as if from a bad, bad dream, and I looked around at all these people...and I smiled.

I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. "Why...it's you, Intern Twins. Thank you for being so quiet when I thought I might have to murder you." "Oh, and Dr. Epidural Guy and Epidural Helper Lady...Hello...Sorry for the evil looks and general snippiness." "Oh, and my nurse. I think I was the most cranky with you of all..."

Of course, I didn't really say any of these things. But I did say, smiling to my nurse, "I bet you see some major personality transformations in here, huh?"

"Oh, yeah. We definitely do."

Now, I thought about writing in this blog entry about non-medicated vs. medicated labor, but I don't really have time now. (Baby is awake and on my lap, so we're wrapping this thing up...) --I will say that once upon a time, I was the sort of person who thought I'd like to labor without drugs. But then, around Hour Number Twelve of unmedicated labor with my first baby, I changed my mind. And I have not changed it back. But I will say that I greatly respect those who manage to do it without the drugs. I respect, but cannot figure out how they do it without murdering anyone.

Anywhoo...drugs are working. I actually manage to fall aSLEEP because I was so flippin' tired.

At some point, the nurse comes in and says, "Ok, let's do this."

And, astonishingly enough, we do.

Five pushes later, out comes beautiful, beautiful Finley, crying his little squeaky-toy sounding cries, and I'm waving my hands around in amazement because I can't quite believe there is a new little PERSON here, and George is crying and the nurses are wrapping up the baby and putting him on my chest...and it's just the most incredible experience you could imagine.

--And suddenly I don't remember anything about the last 24 hours, or even the last 9 months.

It's just me and George and this baby...and all is right in the world.

The End

(Actually, The Beginning...)