Five in Five Birth Stories: Joaquin

Joaquin, or as many of you know him from the conversion story, The Amazing Baby Who Turned at the Last Minute, is up today.  If you want to go back and reread the heart-pounding action that was Lotus' birth story, go here.


Little known fact- in addition to The Amazing Baby Who Turned at the Last Minute, Joaquin is also known around here as The Baby Who Cost Us $9K Out of Pocket, and So He'd Better Be a Priest When He Grows Up.


No kidding.  $9K.  I still can't talk about it.  It makes my eye twitch spasmodically.

Aaaaaaannnnyway:


So there I was at Bob Evans, and not under the knife, and I couldn't believe my good fortune.
We ate, someone paid the bill, and we went home to wait to meet this new baby when he/she/it decided the time was better.


And we waited.
And we waited.


And in a sort of cosmic joke, this baby whose c-section I skipped out on just wouldn't come.  My doctor, who was one of two OBs I've ever genuinely liked, started getting antsy.


Let me tell you this about my OB at the time- he routinely wore ostrich skin cowboy boots.  And said things like "Whoa Nelly".  This was not the sort of man who struck a person as skittish.  So when he started making noises about how big the baby was and that we really needed to start prepping for an induction, I listened to him.


Plus, I was extra tired of being pregnant.  40 weeks is more than enough.  Anything over that is just cruel and unusual punishment.  Particularly when you walked away from a c-section scheduled at 37 weeks.  That's like an extra month tacked on for bad behavior!


We scheduled an induction; they told me to come in the night before to "prep" me.  


Ok, I'd like to insert a brief disclaimer here- if you'd rather not read about the complex workings of the cervix, you should probably scroll down a little bit.


"Prepping me" consisted entirely of giving me a Cervadil pack to help soften my cervix which was showing no signs whatsoever of effacing.  Fine, says I.  Ok, says them.  Then, years later, when I learn that Cervidil may or may not be derived from pig semen, I procede to wipe the whole incident from my mind.


Pig semen.
Good grief.  The things I never expected to write on a nice little mommy blog.


Next up on the docket of weird is my OB doing battle with the nurses over whether or not I should be allowed food.  My OB sensibly points out that it's only 5 or 6 in the evening- it's entirely possible that I could be without food for 24 hours if the nurses have their way.
The nurses tell him that with an induction, there's always the chance of an emergency c-section, and I have to have an empty stomach should that happen.
The doctor leads the nurses into the hallway, shuts the door, and while I close my eyes and try to find my happy place, I can hear the muffled sounds of an argument.  An audiable "Whoa Nelly!', followed by an open door, and my kick ass ostrich skin cowboy booted OB tells Ken that the nurses won't give me food, but they won't stop him from providing me with some from an outside source.


I loved that OB.


So Ken went home, made me a PB&J, and brought it back to me.


Then the freaky freaks at the hospital give me half a dose of Ambien and told me that if I needed anything to press the button.


Some undetermined amount of time later, I experienced the first and only genuine hallucinations of my life, courtesy of a half dose of Ambien.  I remember getting up to pee, walking into the bathroom and finding that the corners of the room were filled with stacks of champaign colored oval balloons.  As I peed, I watched the balloons slowly slide down the stacks, and idly wondered why they were there.


I left the bathroom, climbed into my bed, and noticed that several disembodied polar bear paws were helping to tuck me in.


Polar bear paws.


Tucking me in.


I didn't even wonder at that one.


What I do wonder is that they prescribe higher doses of this stuff to people.  Holy cow, people.  Holy cow.


Anyway, the night of weird passed, and the nurses came to check on me in the morning to see how effaced my cervix was.


It wasn't.
So much for the magical powers of pig semen.


They started me on Pitocin and left.  They'd come back periodically to check my progress (none), and make sure I wasn't being snuck food by my OB.


The day passed so slowly.  There were contractions, but nothing major.  Since I was on a Pitocin drip, I couldn't walk around to help move things along.  I was strapped to my bed while the nurses continued to up the dosage.


I said to Ken at one point, "This Pitocin stuff is no big deal.  All the women who complain about it must be major wimps."


Then, 12 hours after the Pitocin was started,  my OB broke my waters to speed things along.  He said, "Whoa Nelly!"  as roughly 20 million gallons of amniotic fluid flooded the room, and I sincerely hope that he didn't get any on those ostrich skin boots.


And then, because this is how things work for me, I felt my first real Pitocin contraction.
It was like going from "delicate wings of butterflies on my abdomen" to "a hundred iron fists of death squeezing"-  all within the space of a heartbeat.


It sucked.


Up until this point, Ken, Lotus, and my mother- and father-in-law were sitting around the room, chatting, playing cards, hanging out.  But with this new, extremely unpleasant development, I had to start concentrating my way through each contraction.


I asked my father-in-law to take Lotus out of the room for a while, since I couldn't concentrate on laboring with a verbally advanced 3 year old next to me trying to chat me up.


He took her out, and I got down to the business of laboring.  With a Pitocin drip dialed up to "dosage:  Elephant".


At some point, Lotus and my father-in-law returned.  He had taken her to the gift shop and bought her a stuffed orca.  Lotus loves all things whale.  She was so excited, and kept trying to get me to properly admire her new toy.


Then she squeezed it.
And it began to make sounds.


What it said was "I'm Odella Orca".  That's all.  Six syllables.  But it said it in a voice that was exactly like this sound:

Now imagine trying to breathe your way through Pitocin contractions when you have an extremely excited 3 year old filling the room with the sounds of Screaming Toy of Death.

I asked my in-laws to take Lotus back to their house, a 15 minute ride from the hospital, and we'd call them when the baby came.

Mercifully, they left- taking Odella Orca with them.

At this point, partially because I'd been on a Pitocin drip for over 12 hours, and partially because I was still pissed off at not being able to eat, I started having the nurses check me after every contraction.

7 cm

7 cm

7 cm

What had been, up to that point, a battalion of nurses, finally left me alone.  They stationed the low man on the totem pole- a quiet, thin Filipino nurse to stand guard.  Luckily, the woman was sweet and kind and so quiet that even in the midst of my pain, I couldn't bear to be mean to her.  She probably would have given me a PB&J if I had asked her.

contraction.

check me.

7 cm.

contraction

check me.

7 cm.

This went on for who knows how long.  At some point, I asked for a shot of Stadol, making sure I was actually asking for it out loud, and not telepathically like I had with Lotus.  Ken rubbed my feet and I thought about the Muppets for no particular reason.

contraction

check me.

7 cm

Over and over.

The first shot of Stadol wore off, and like a junkie, I over enunciated my request for another one.  Have to make sure I don't sound stoned, otherwise they'll never let me have more.

The nurse didn't want to give me more, but I must have wrestled her into an intellectual corner with my brilliant argument for more drugs, because another shot was administered.

contraction

check me.

7 cm

Then, not two contractions after my second shot of Stadol, there was an obvious change.  My head still swimming from the drugs, I ran the nurse through the routine with a variation:

"The baby's coming.  I have to push.  Check me."

Surely wishing that she'd taken up some career path that involved fewer cervixes, the best nurse at the entire hospital checked me again.

"Oh!"  she said, then turned to press the button.  Over the intercom, her gentle sweetness managed to bark out, "She's 10cm, it's time to push!"

Duh. 

I was pushing.

Ken and the nurse could try and stop me all they wanted, trying to get me to wait until there was more hands to help, but to hell with it.

Down the hallway, I could actually hear the sounds of the nurses running for my room.

Too late....

I pushed once.

The nurses busted in.  As they started prepping whatever it is they couldn't have prepped in the seven million hours before, one nurse checked me, told me that the baby's head was right there, and the smallest of pushes would be the end.

I didn't need to push yet, but what the hell?

I pushed.

Out came the baby.  Right on the bed because there was no one there to catch.

Someone picked up the tiny body, and through the haze of Pitocin, Stadol, pig semen, and hunger, I am aware of the baby being held up for me to see, and Ken's voice, amused and chuckling,

"Your son is peeing on you, Cari."

A son!

Peeing on me?

The nurses did whatever nurses do with a newborn, my OB finally came in, checked me, checked the baby, said, "Whoa Nelly!" and left.

I got to hold my beautiful new baby while Ken called his parents to deliver the good news.

We had kept the names to ourselves, so everyone he called was learning not only the sex, but also the name for the first time.  Every phone call went like this:

Ken:  The baby's here.  He's a boy.  His name is Joaquin.  (pause)  Joaquin. (pause)  J-O-A-  yes, J.  J-O-A-Q-U  what?  yes, Q.  J-O-A-Q-U-I-N.  Joaquin.  Yup, that's how you say that name.

Every phone call went like that.  It was hilarious.  By the time Ken called his Granny, he had the whole comedy of errors memorized.

Ken:  Hi Granny.  The baby's here.  He's a boy.  His name is Joaquin.  You spell it- (pause)  Yeah.  Yeah that is how you spell it!

Granny, being a die hard Rangers fan, didn't need anyone spelling Joaquin for her.


My in-laws and Lotus arrived, got to meet the newest addition to the Clan, and didn't even have to suffer the indignity of being peed on.


Luckies.


So that's Joaquin Orion Donaldson, born June 17, 2005, 8lbs., 9 oz.
Not exactly the gigantic baby my OB was predicting, but it's ok.
He more than makes up for it in heart.


On a related note, today when I went for my 37 week checkup, the midwife discovered that Donaldson baby lucky no. 6 is currently- you guessed it- breech.

Do you see a head?  Yeah.  Me neither.  I have seen visual proof that this child possesses one, however.  It's just not in the right spot currently.


So if you would spare a prayer for us that we be granted another last minute turning, I would be grateful.