Dear Scotty,
So, I put your plate out tonight. According to my beliefs, you're traveling to everywhere you've ever been right now. I made cookies tonight, so I put two of them out for you, along with a little tin foil heart and the requisite tobacco.
It isn't getting any easier, but it isn't any harder either, if that makes any sense. I'm not sure. It's still fairly unreal to me, I guess. I made myself get dressed today. I needed a stamp so I could mail my state taxes, and Jeremy thought it would be good for me to get out of the house. I hadn't left since Saturday. Actually, I hadn't gotten dressed since Sunday. I was getting ready to throw on a huge tee shirt and a pair of sweats, but I stopped myself. I remembered I'd promised you I'd start trying to dress a little more girly for you. So I brushed my hair, put on some eye makeup, jeans (but ones that fit), and a v neck fitted shirt. I made an effort to smile at the clerk when I bought the stamp, and I let people go ahead of me at the four-way stops.
I don't know, kiddo. It's shitty, you know? I hope you met up with Matt and Corey - maybe you're schooling Corey at DDR or something while Matt laughs? Or maybe you and Matt are comparing your writing or drawing? Or maybe you've just got your back against a tree and are relaxing - God knows you never did enough of that.
I miss you so much. I keep clicking over to view my own profile on Facebook, because I know which of my statuses you commented on. I tweeted about you tonight to another artist, and I think I might go back on my meds for a little while. I want it to hurt that you're gone. I need it to hurt. But I've gotta take care of these kids too, and I know if anyone would understand that it's you.
I wish you could have seen Jonah dance. I know you would have enjoyed it, and maybe you would have taught him a couple different moves other than his current bounce up and down, spin in a circle, and shake his non-existent butt. Or maybe you just would have laughed.
I'm getting a tattoo for you. Or rather, I guess it's for me, but it's representative of you. You know, like my cook free or die tattoo is representative of me. Anyway, it's got rainbow stars in it. You'll like it.
I better get to bed now. I keep hoping I'll wake up and this will be a nightmare, but every day that hope gets a little fainter.
I love you,
Megan
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Dear Scotty
Dear Scotty,
Today I posted the following as my Facebook status: "We lost a beautiful person yesterday, my brother Scott Dixon. In his honor, I would ask that you all do something to make the world more beautiful, the way he did everyday. Try to see something good in someone you can't stand. Refrain from using the words "gay, fag, homo," etc as derogatory terms or hate speech. Hug your dear ones, and tell them you love them. He would want that."
I've been trying to think of tributes to you. It still doesn't seem real to me on one level. On another level, it's too real. I know that you would want me to be happy and strong, and I swear I will try. It just isn't fair. I should have gotten to talk to you, to give you one more hug. I can still feel the way you always kept one arm around my shoulder and petted my head with your free hand every time I saw you.
I have shared so many of my favorite memories of you with Jeni, with Sierra, with Jeremy, with everyone I'm friends with on Facebook. It's a bittersweet thing, this sharing.
In your honor, I am making the following vows:
I will tell my loved ones that I love them more often.
I will do something every day to brighten this world you had to leave behind so soon.
I will tell my boys often about their uncle Scotty-love, why I always called you that, and how wonderful you were.
I'll do my best to start dressing more like a girl, since you always yelled at me about that.
I'll plant flowers for you, take more walks at dark, and every time I sing, whether a lullaby to Matthew and Jonah, or in the shower, or in the car, I'll think of you.
For very tear I shed when your face pops up in my mind, I'll try for a smile to match it.
I love you, kiddo, and I miss you so much.
Love,
Megan
Today I posted the following as my Facebook status: "We lost a beautiful person yesterday, my brother Scott Dixon. In his honor, I would ask that you all do something to make the world more beautiful, the way he did everyday. Try to see something good in someone you can't stand. Refrain from using the words "gay, fag, homo," etc as derogatory terms or hate speech. Hug your dear ones, and tell them you love them. He would want that."
I've been trying to think of tributes to you. It still doesn't seem real to me on one level. On another level, it's too real. I know that you would want me to be happy and strong, and I swear I will try. It just isn't fair. I should have gotten to talk to you, to give you one more hug. I can still feel the way you always kept one arm around my shoulder and petted my head with your free hand every time I saw you.
I have shared so many of my favorite memories of you with Jeni, with Sierra, with Jeremy, with everyone I'm friends with on Facebook. It's a bittersweet thing, this sharing.
In your honor, I am making the following vows:
I will tell my loved ones that I love them more often.
I will do something every day to brighten this world you had to leave behind so soon.
I will tell my boys often about their uncle Scotty-love, why I always called you that, and how wonderful you were.
I'll do my best to start dressing more like a girl, since you always yelled at me about that.
I'll plant flowers for you, take more walks at dark, and every time I sing, whether a lullaby to Matthew and Jonah, or in the shower, or in the car, I'll think of you.
For very tear I shed when your face pops up in my mind, I'll try for a smile to match it.
I love you, kiddo, and I miss you so much.
Love,
Megan
Sunday, February 20, 2011
My Scotty
To my brother Scotty
Dear Scotty,
I am alternating between shock, grief, and denial. Part of my brain keeps coughing up trite understatements like "he was too beautiful for this world" and "the brightest stars burn out the fastest." Another part keeps saying the doctors made a mistake, that there's no way this happened. And the rest of me just wants to kick and scream, punch holes through walls, set something on fire to watch it burn and hope the smoke carries my words to you, or an echo of your voice to my ears.
I had a dream last night that I was standing in your hospital room. You sat up and smiled at me and told me I'd been worrying over nothing. Were you telling me goodbye? I woke up, convinced of the dream's reality, only to get the voicemail notification that you were gone.
Scotty-love, I know you're watching me write this. I know you'd never cause anyone deliberate pain. I wonder if you know just how big the hole is that your loss has created. The edges are ragged and burnt, a wound beyond mending, beyond healing.
I remember camping on the beach with you. Drinking cheap wine coolers in my apartment in Mullet Lake, when you complimented the roses on my rug, directly addressing them, then curling up on the foot of my bed to sleep. I remember the hip-check dance we used to do when we fried chicken together at the Dam Site. I remember the night of candy and cheesecake after Eddie dumped me, the way you rushed offstage mid-performance to answer your phone when I called to tell you you had a new nephew. I remember how you choked up when we made you Jonah's godfather. I remember the night we snuck through Bay View in the dark, on foot, for the hell of it, the way we could never find your car when we walked out of WalMart after shopping. I remember the way you always glowed. I told everyone you were my sunshine, and it was true.
I was a fat, bitter, angry girl when I met you. You coaxed me out of that, convinced me to start dressing in something other than oversized tee shirts and baggy cargo pants, made me go shopping with you, refused to let me buy anything other than "girl clothes," and told me I was beautiful so many times I had no choice but to believe you. I could be in the foulest mood, or in the depths of the blackest depression, and the mere fact of your presence would make it a good day again.
Just by being you, you showed me and everyone else in your life the ideal of what a man should be. True, honest, faithful, loyal, an innate talent for seeing and bringing out the best in everyone. You had a trick of texting me at random, somehow sensing something in my life wasn't right. Usually the texts would read "I love you!!" but once, on a particularly rotten day, "I don't know if I've told you this, Meg, but you're one of the best sisters a guy could have. Much love."
You gave me so much, sweetie. Laughter, love, and the courage to be myself. You were as much my brother as if Mom had given birth to you. To hear you sing, to watch you dance was to experience pure joy, to feel my heart soar.
I've been watching your YouTube channel all day, alternating it with "Light and Day" by the Polyphonic Spree, because that song - the feel of it, the joy in the music and the way it soars with ease - has never failed to remind me of you.
You were light and peace, happiness, the sun after the rain, the epitome of light and joy and spirit in its purest form. The world is a cruel, cold, dark and lonely place without you. You burned like a star, and I miss you, o my brother.
With love forever,
Megan
I am alternating between shock, grief, and denial. Part of my brain keeps coughing up trite understatements like "he was too beautiful for this world" and "the brightest stars burn out the fastest." Another part keeps saying the doctors made a mistake, that there's no way this happened. And the rest of me just wants to kick and scream, punch holes through walls, set something on fire to watch it burn and hope the smoke carries my words to you, or an echo of your voice to my ears.
I had a dream last night that I was standing in your hospital room. You sat up and smiled at me and told me I'd been worrying over nothing. Were you telling me goodbye? I woke up, convinced of the dream's reality, only to get the voicemail notification that you were gone.
Scotty-love, I know you're watching me write this. I know you'd never cause anyone deliberate pain. I wonder if you know just how big the hole is that your loss has created. The edges are ragged and burnt, a wound beyond mending, beyond healing.
I remember camping on the beach with you. Drinking cheap wine coolers in my apartment in Mullet Lake, when you complimented the roses on my rug, directly addressing them, then curling up on the foot of my bed to sleep. I remember the hip-check dance we used to do when we fried chicken together at the Dam Site. I remember the night of candy and cheesecake after Eddie dumped me, the way you rushed offstage mid-performance to answer your phone when I called to tell you you had a new nephew. I remember how you choked up when we made you Jonah's godfather. I remember the night we snuck through Bay View in the dark, on foot, for the hell of it, the way we could never find your car when we walked out of WalMart after shopping. I remember the way you always glowed. I told everyone you were my sunshine, and it was true.
I was a fat, bitter, angry girl when I met you. You coaxed me out of that, convinced me to start dressing in something other than oversized tee shirts and baggy cargo pants, made me go shopping with you, refused to let me buy anything other than "girl clothes," and told me I was beautiful so many times I had no choice but to believe you. I could be in the foulest mood, or in the depths of the blackest depression, and the mere fact of your presence would make it a good day again.
Just by being you, you showed me and everyone else in your life the ideal of what a man should be. True, honest, faithful, loyal, an innate talent for seeing and bringing out the best in everyone. You had a trick of texting me at random, somehow sensing something in my life wasn't right. Usually the texts would read "I love you!!" but once, on a particularly rotten day, "I don't know if I've told you this, Meg, but you're one of the best sisters a guy could have. Much love."
You gave me so much, sweetie. Laughter, love, and the courage to be myself. You were as much my brother as if Mom had given birth to you. To hear you sing, to watch you dance was to experience pure joy, to feel my heart soar.
I've been watching your YouTube channel all day, alternating it with "Light and Day" by the Polyphonic Spree, because that song - the feel of it, the joy in the music and the way it soars with ease - has never failed to remind me of you.
You were light and peace, happiness, the sun after the rain, the epitome of light and joy and spirit in its purest form. The world is a cruel, cold, dark and lonely place without you. You burned like a star, and I miss you, o my brother.
With love forever,
Megan
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Rant
I don't believe you.
There is a creepy feeling in my gut that you lied. "Devil's advocate" is a story that just doesn't wash with me. And after 7 hours that's the best you could come up with?
If you'd just been honest, I would have forgiven and attempted to forget. I mean, everyone fucks up at least once, although in the course of this, I haven't made your mistake yet.
So for now, I watch. I wait. I try to decide what I will do, if anything.
If it happens again, I'm done. And while I may not be a rocket scientist, I am smart enough to find out if it does.
There is a creepy feeling in my gut that you lied. "Devil's advocate" is a story that just doesn't wash with me. And after 7 hours that's the best you could come up with?
If you'd just been honest, I would have forgiven and attempted to forget. I mean, everyone fucks up at least once, although in the course of this, I haven't made your mistake yet.
So for now, I watch. I wait. I try to decide what I will do, if anything.
If it happens again, I'm done. And while I may not be a rocket scientist, I am smart enough to find out if it does.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Jonah's Birth Story
On August 21, 2008, I was (I thought) 39 weeks and 3 days pregnant, huge, and waddling my way around the house. My Braxton-Hicks contractions were getting longer and more intense, and, in the hopes that I'd be going into labor soon, I had Jeremy take Matthew to the petting zoo at the county fair so that I could do some housework. I actually wanted to go to the fair with them, but my hips hurt when I took more than five steps in any direction, and I had a nightmare vision of my water breaking on the midway, traffic being terrible, and being forced to deliver in the first-aid tent. Funny, the things a pregnant woman's mind can conjure.
By 6:03 pm, the Braxton-Hicks were starting to feel like the real thing, so I started timing them. I was so ready to finally meet my little Jonah! At my last appointment, they'd suggested that I pick a birthday for him, since I was running the risk of needing an induction - I was only three cm dilated, not effaced at all, and Jonah hadn't dropped, not really. I remembered how painful Pitocin-aided contractions were (I was hooked up to a Pitocin drip for five hours with Matthew) and was eager to avoid that. So, since the appointment on Tuesday, I'd climbed up and down my basement stairs a minimum of sixteen times a day, had eaten a huge can of pineapple chunks, and had even attempted massaging that acupressure point on my ankle. So it was in desperation that I decided to get dinner for Jeremy, Matthew, and myself via the drive-thru at Wendy's. (If that last statement doesn't make sense, go back through my blog and read Matthew's birth story.)
I made it home with our food, with no trouble except a little disappointment. However, I noticed around nine pm that my contractions had settled into a regular pattern. I started re-doing all the housework I'd done over the past week, went up and down the basement stairs a few more times, and went up to the grocery store for milk for Matthew, since we were running low. By the time I got back from the store (a 2 minute drive from my house), my contractions were seven-eight minutes apart. I decided to take a shower. If it was false labor, the shower would make them stop and I wouldn't end up going to the hospital and embarrassing myself.
When I got out of the shower, the contractions had indeed slowed down and lessened in intensity. I felt like crying. Instead, I took a Tylenol PM and went to bed. I couldn't get comfortable - my hips were killing me, and I kept thinking about getting up and finding some uncleaned corner of the bathtub to scrub. Jonah was squirming inside me, and whatever he was doing, it certainly felt like he was trying to use his fingernails to dig his way to freedom. I finally fell asleep around two am . . . .
. . . . And woke up at 4:41 with the first real contraction. I immediately got up, went into the bathroom, dropped the lid on the toilet, and sat there, cell phone in hand, waiting for the next two. They came at 4:51 and 5:03. Okay. Not bad. Then the next three hit at 5:10, 5:17, and 5:24, respectively. The pain in my hips centered and strengthened. I hoped that that meant that he was engaging in the birth canal. Remembering my labor experience with Matthew, and everything I'd read over the course of both pregnancies, I started pacing the living room, stopping to squat each time a contraction hit, then recording the time. In between, I made a pot of coffee. By the time the alarm went off at 7:30, the contractions were 5-6 minutes apart. Jeremy seemed to be sleeping through the beeping, and I didn't want the alarm to wake Matthew up, so I went into the bedroom, shut it off, shook Jeremy, and said, "We're having a baby today."
Once Jeremy was up, I used my cell phone to call my parents - my dad had agreed to stay with Matthew while I was in labor, and my mom wanted to be there through the labor and delivery - while Jeremy used the land line to try to call Chef John and let him know he wouldn't be in to work for a while. I was able to get in touch with my parents fairly easily - they'd been waiting for a call like that for a few weeks. Chef was a challenge though. Jeremy told his roommate, and finally was able to get through to Chef down at City Park around 8:30. Chef's roomie had already called him, though, so he knew what was going on.
My parents arrived at 8:45 am. I called my doctor's office and told them what was going on. They asked me to come into the office instead of heading to the ER. I ran down my pre-written copy of Matthew's schedule with Dad, asked Mom to follow us in her car, gave Matthew several kisses and hugs, passed the keys to Jeremy, and we were off.
Mom told me she had to run to the grocery store to get Dad some root beer, and that she'd meet up with us. So, Jeremy dropped me off at the front door of Burns Clinic. I waited for him while he parked the van, and we went in together.
Dr. Wilder, my regular doctor, was on vacation, so I ended up seeing Dr. Wilcox. The nurse escorted Jeremy and I to one of his exam rooms. I removed my grey lounge shorts and undies, covered my laps with the giant paper drape, and began praying that this was it. Although Jonah wasn't technically due for three more days, the fact that they'd predicted his birth weight to be around 7 lbs had me scared. Matthew had weighed just under 6 lbs, and it had still taken me 22 hours to have him. Would I be able to birth Jonah too?
Dr. Wilcox finally came in. I told him how frequent the contractions were, and that I had super-intense pelvic pressure. He gave me a quick internal exam and told me that I was 75% effaced, dilated to a 4, and that they were going to send me up to labor and delivery. However, despite my belly looking like he had, Jonah still hadn't dropped past -1 station. I wasn't too concerned - Matthew had been at 0 station when my water broke with him.
My labor room was 179. They got me settled into bed, and Jeremy went downstairs to meet Mom and have a smoke. While he was gone, Dr. Wilcox and my nurse, Sarah, came in, hooked me up to the monitors, and broke my water. I looked at the clock when I felt the first gush of amniotic fluid - 9:50 am. I wondered if things would happen as quickly this time as they did for my sister - she gave birth to Jessica within an hour of having her water broken.
It didn't go that quickly.
The contractions were more intense than I remembered. And for some reason, it felt like Jonah was headbutting me in between contractions.
While they were still about 45 seconds long and 4 minutes apart, Travis stopped by with his girlfriend Robin. They were on their way to Marquette to take her back to school, so it was nice of Trav to stop in. They visited for a little while. I told Travis that I was having my tubes tied after Jonah was born, and he made a sad face and said "No, you can't! You're my nephew factory!"
Jeremy's dad, Big Al, and his younger brother, Little Al, arrived shortly after. They arrived in the middle of another internal exam. I'd dilated to 7 and was fully effaced, but Jonah was still hanging out in the same position he'd been in when I was admitted. Sarah decided to put me in the jacuzzi to see if that helped. She was getting concerned, especially when I told her that I really felt like I needed to push.
The contractions kept getting longer, stronger, and closer. I remembered how much the whirlpool bath had helped with Matthew, and I was anxious for the tub to finish filling; at this point I was writhing in pain and moaning my way through each contraction.
Jeremy came in and sat next to the tub once I lowered myself into the water. It hurt so badly to sit. I couldn't find a position that hurt less than any other. I gave it about 15-20 minutes, and nearly cried when I realized it wasn't going to help.
Back when I'd hit 5 cm, I'd asked about getting a walking epidural, and had been told that I couldn't have it until "labor was steadily progressing," because of the risk that it could cause labor to stall. Now, as I got out of the tub with Jeremy's assistance, dried off, and re-dressed myself, I wondered exactly what they had meant by "steadily progressing." My new fear was that they would let me labor for too long, that I'd miss my window, and that I'd end up delivering with no pain relief, the way that I'd birthed Matthew. At this point, I was exhausted and just wanted the pain to stop.
I got back to my bed. They hooked me up to Pitocin and a regular IV. Time ceased to have meaning. My body thrashed around on its own and I heard strange noises coming from my mouth. Jeremy tells me that at one point, I was making a sound like Matthew's jargoning. There was no break. Each contraction hit at least 150 on the monitor, coming every 90 seconds and lasting a full 60 seconds, the kind that indicate the end of transition and the readiness to push, and in the 30 seconds between the end of one and beginning of the next, I could feel Jonah headbutting me.
Sarah came and gave me a shot of Stadol. It didn't help. I wanted an epidural, morphine, ibuprofen, Tylenol, Midol, anything. Barring drugs, all I wanted was to push. She checked me again after saying that the way I was laboring, I should be at a 9 or 10 and ready to go. Nope. Still at a 7 - bad. Jonah still hadn't dropped any further - very bad. I'd stalled, despite what my body was doing.
Sarah went back over my chart, and paused in the middle of reading one of the pages. She asked, "How much did your older son weigh at birth?" I managed to gasp out that he'd weighed 5 lbs, 15.9 oz.
"And they had to use the vacuum extractor on him?"
"Yeah, cord . . . around . . . leg . . . bungee-jumped for hours," I gasped out.
Sarah shook her head. "I'm going to go check on your epidural. I'll be right back."
She returned five minutes later with Dr. Wilcox in tow. He told me that it was up to me, that I could keep on the way I was going and hope that labor began progressing again, or that - and that he recommended - I could consent to a C-section. I agreed to the C-section.
Everything blurs again here, a little. I remember signing consent forms. I remember Sarah coming in to prep me for surgery as much as possible. I remember begging Mom to bring Matthew up to the hospital to see me as soon as I got out of surgery, and crying because I missed him already. I remember being terrified about the surgery - I'd never really contemplated the possibility of a c-section once I'd hit 30 weeks and it had become obvious that my low-lying placenta had moved up - and at the same time, feeling a vast sense of relief that an end to this pain, so much worse than the pain of my previous delivery, was in sight. I remember thrashing around more. At some point, I contorted the wrong way and severely strained a couple muscles in my lower back. I remember Sarah telling me that they were setting up the OR for me, but that the anesthesiologist was held up somehow.
And then, finally, two new people entered the room. They moved me from the bed to a gurney, which, oddly enough, was more comfortable than the bed had been. I told them so, and they laughed and said that they were used to hearing the opposite. They wheeled me through the OR doors, pausing to let Dr. Wilcox run by, and parked my gurney in a dimly-lit area, then pulled a set of curtains around it.
Someone brought Jeremy a set of surgical cover-ups (hat and gown) and a hat for me. Although I was allowed to keep my glasses, they made me remove my nose ring. I heard people talking and the moans of another woman in labor. Sarah came in and gave me a shot which was supposed to stop my contractions. I think it was her who explained that there was an emergency patient who had to go before me. I was reassured that Dr. Wilcox was quick though, and that once the surgery had begun, the baby would be delivered in fifteen minutes. I laid there and waited. For some reason, the shot she'd given me didn't work.
Finally, they came for me. One more internal exam - still stuck at 7 cm, Jonah still in his original position - and they explained what was going to happen. They were going to take me in by myself, finish prepping me for surgery, and then bring Jeremy in. I told Jeremy "I love you" as they wheeled me away.
The OR was large and brightly-lit. After the near dark they'd had me in for an hour, the lights made me wince a little. They transferred me from the gurney to the table, which was even more comfortable. I had to lean forward as far as I could so that they could administer my epidural. While they were doing it, they explained why they'd made me wait for it for so long.
As I mentioned earlier, I'd requested an epidural. They had intended to do an intrathecal, aka a "walking epidural" - a much lower dose of medication that's delivered through an IV continually. It allows use of the legs, and allows you to retain some sensation of pain and enough abdominal muscular control to push. However, with me needing a cesarean, they were going to have to do a regular epidural. Sarah had inserted a Foley catheter when she prepped me for surgery, so that all that was left to do was numb me, hang the curtain, add iodine, and begin.
I leaned forward and asked how much the epidural would hurt. The anesthesiologist told me it wouldn't hurt at all. He gave me three injections of a local anesthetic first. It felt like someone had sprayed my back with hot cooking oil, then it turned ice-cold almost immediately. I didn't even feel pressure from the actual epidural, I just noticed that all of a sudden, my toes and the top half of my feet were completely numb. The sensation spread rapidly. The only basis of comparison I can come up with is that it's similar to the Novocaine you get from the dentist, only instead of my mouth, it went from just under my breasts all the way to the ends of my toes. I couldn't feel anything. It felt so good to be numb that I wanted to cry from relief, but didn't. I did thank the anesthesiologist several times, though. He asked me to tell him if I felt any tingling in my toes. I remember saying, "No, I don't feel anything, and it feels so good. If I didn't have a boyfriend I'd make out with you right now."
By 6:03 pm, the Braxton-Hicks were starting to feel like the real thing, so I started timing them. I was so ready to finally meet my little Jonah! At my last appointment, they'd suggested that I pick a birthday for him, since I was running the risk of needing an induction - I was only three cm dilated, not effaced at all, and Jonah hadn't dropped, not really. I remembered how painful Pitocin-aided contractions were (I was hooked up to a Pitocin drip for five hours with Matthew) and was eager to avoid that. So, since the appointment on Tuesday, I'd climbed up and down my basement stairs a minimum of sixteen times a day, had eaten a huge can of pineapple chunks, and had even attempted massaging that acupressure point on my ankle. So it was in desperation that I decided to get dinner for Jeremy, Matthew, and myself via the drive-thru at Wendy's. (If that last statement doesn't make sense, go back through my blog and read Matthew's birth story.)
I made it home with our food, with no trouble except a little disappointment. However, I noticed around nine pm that my contractions had settled into a regular pattern. I started re-doing all the housework I'd done over the past week, went up and down the basement stairs a few more times, and went up to the grocery store for milk for Matthew, since we were running low. By the time I got back from the store (a 2 minute drive from my house), my contractions were seven-eight minutes apart. I decided to take a shower. If it was false labor, the shower would make them stop and I wouldn't end up going to the hospital and embarrassing myself.
When I got out of the shower, the contractions had indeed slowed down and lessened in intensity. I felt like crying. Instead, I took a Tylenol PM and went to bed. I couldn't get comfortable - my hips were killing me, and I kept thinking about getting up and finding some uncleaned corner of the bathtub to scrub. Jonah was squirming inside me, and whatever he was doing, it certainly felt like he was trying to use his fingernails to dig his way to freedom. I finally fell asleep around two am . . . .
. . . . And woke up at 4:41 with the first real contraction. I immediately got up, went into the bathroom, dropped the lid on the toilet, and sat there, cell phone in hand, waiting for the next two. They came at 4:51 and 5:03. Okay. Not bad. Then the next three hit at 5:10, 5:17, and 5:24, respectively. The pain in my hips centered and strengthened. I hoped that that meant that he was engaging in the birth canal. Remembering my labor experience with Matthew, and everything I'd read over the course of both pregnancies, I started pacing the living room, stopping to squat each time a contraction hit, then recording the time. In between, I made a pot of coffee. By the time the alarm went off at 7:30, the contractions were 5-6 minutes apart. Jeremy seemed to be sleeping through the beeping, and I didn't want the alarm to wake Matthew up, so I went into the bedroom, shut it off, shook Jeremy, and said, "We're having a baby today."
Once Jeremy was up, I used my cell phone to call my parents - my dad had agreed to stay with Matthew while I was in labor, and my mom wanted to be there through the labor and delivery - while Jeremy used the land line to try to call Chef John and let him know he wouldn't be in to work for a while. I was able to get in touch with my parents fairly easily - they'd been waiting for a call like that for a few weeks. Chef was a challenge though. Jeremy told his roommate, and finally was able to get through to Chef down at City Park around 8:30. Chef's roomie had already called him, though, so he knew what was going on.
My parents arrived at 8:45 am. I called my doctor's office and told them what was going on. They asked me to come into the office instead of heading to the ER. I ran down my pre-written copy of Matthew's schedule with Dad, asked Mom to follow us in her car, gave Matthew several kisses and hugs, passed the keys to Jeremy, and we were off.
Mom told me she had to run to the grocery store to get Dad some root beer, and that she'd meet up with us. So, Jeremy dropped me off at the front door of Burns Clinic. I waited for him while he parked the van, and we went in together.
Dr. Wilder, my regular doctor, was on vacation, so I ended up seeing Dr. Wilcox. The nurse escorted Jeremy and I to one of his exam rooms. I removed my grey lounge shorts and undies, covered my laps with the giant paper drape, and began praying that this was it. Although Jonah wasn't technically due for three more days, the fact that they'd predicted his birth weight to be around 7 lbs had me scared. Matthew had weighed just under 6 lbs, and it had still taken me 22 hours to have him. Would I be able to birth Jonah too?
Dr. Wilcox finally came in. I told him how frequent the contractions were, and that I had super-intense pelvic pressure. He gave me a quick internal exam and told me that I was 75% effaced, dilated to a 4, and that they were going to send me up to labor and delivery. However, despite my belly looking like he had, Jonah still hadn't dropped past -1 station. I wasn't too concerned - Matthew had been at 0 station when my water broke with him.
My labor room was 179. They got me settled into bed, and Jeremy went downstairs to meet Mom and have a smoke. While he was gone, Dr. Wilcox and my nurse, Sarah, came in, hooked me up to the monitors, and broke my water. I looked at the clock when I felt the first gush of amniotic fluid - 9:50 am. I wondered if things would happen as quickly this time as they did for my sister - she gave birth to Jessica within an hour of having her water broken.
It didn't go that quickly.
The contractions were more intense than I remembered. And for some reason, it felt like Jonah was headbutting me in between contractions.
While they were still about 45 seconds long and 4 minutes apart, Travis stopped by with his girlfriend Robin. They were on their way to Marquette to take her back to school, so it was nice of Trav to stop in. They visited for a little while. I told Travis that I was having my tubes tied after Jonah was born, and he made a sad face and said "No, you can't! You're my nephew factory!"
Jeremy's dad, Big Al, and his younger brother, Little Al, arrived shortly after. They arrived in the middle of another internal exam. I'd dilated to 7 and was fully effaced, but Jonah was still hanging out in the same position he'd been in when I was admitted. Sarah decided to put me in the jacuzzi to see if that helped. She was getting concerned, especially when I told her that I really felt like I needed to push.
The contractions kept getting longer, stronger, and closer. I remembered how much the whirlpool bath had helped with Matthew, and I was anxious for the tub to finish filling; at this point I was writhing in pain and moaning my way through each contraction.
Jeremy came in and sat next to the tub once I lowered myself into the water. It hurt so badly to sit. I couldn't find a position that hurt less than any other. I gave it about 15-20 minutes, and nearly cried when I realized it wasn't going to help.
Back when I'd hit 5 cm, I'd asked about getting a walking epidural, and had been told that I couldn't have it until "labor was steadily progressing," because of the risk that it could cause labor to stall. Now, as I got out of the tub with Jeremy's assistance, dried off, and re-dressed myself, I wondered exactly what they had meant by "steadily progressing." My new fear was that they would let me labor for too long, that I'd miss my window, and that I'd end up delivering with no pain relief, the way that I'd birthed Matthew. At this point, I was exhausted and just wanted the pain to stop.
I got back to my bed. They hooked me up to Pitocin and a regular IV. Time ceased to have meaning. My body thrashed around on its own and I heard strange noises coming from my mouth. Jeremy tells me that at one point, I was making a sound like Matthew's jargoning. There was no break. Each contraction hit at least 150 on the monitor, coming every 90 seconds and lasting a full 60 seconds, the kind that indicate the end of transition and the readiness to push, and in the 30 seconds between the end of one and beginning of the next, I could feel Jonah headbutting me.
Sarah came and gave me a shot of Stadol. It didn't help. I wanted an epidural, morphine, ibuprofen, Tylenol, Midol, anything. Barring drugs, all I wanted was to push. She checked me again after saying that the way I was laboring, I should be at a 9 or 10 and ready to go. Nope. Still at a 7 - bad. Jonah still hadn't dropped any further - very bad. I'd stalled, despite what my body was doing.
Sarah went back over my chart, and paused in the middle of reading one of the pages. She asked, "How much did your older son weigh at birth?" I managed to gasp out that he'd weighed 5 lbs, 15.9 oz.
"And they had to use the vacuum extractor on him?"
"Yeah, cord . . . around . . . leg . . . bungee-jumped for hours," I gasped out.
Sarah shook her head. "I'm going to go check on your epidural. I'll be right back."
She returned five minutes later with Dr. Wilcox in tow. He told me that it was up to me, that I could keep on the way I was going and hope that labor began progressing again, or that - and that he recommended - I could consent to a C-section. I agreed to the C-section.
Everything blurs again here, a little. I remember signing consent forms. I remember Sarah coming in to prep me for surgery as much as possible. I remember begging Mom to bring Matthew up to the hospital to see me as soon as I got out of surgery, and crying because I missed him already. I remember being terrified about the surgery - I'd never really contemplated the possibility of a c-section once I'd hit 30 weeks and it had become obvious that my low-lying placenta had moved up - and at the same time, feeling a vast sense of relief that an end to this pain, so much worse than the pain of my previous delivery, was in sight. I remember thrashing around more. At some point, I contorted the wrong way and severely strained a couple muscles in my lower back. I remember Sarah telling me that they were setting up the OR for me, but that the anesthesiologist was held up somehow.
And then, finally, two new people entered the room. They moved me from the bed to a gurney, which, oddly enough, was more comfortable than the bed had been. I told them so, and they laughed and said that they were used to hearing the opposite. They wheeled me through the OR doors, pausing to let Dr. Wilcox run by, and parked my gurney in a dimly-lit area, then pulled a set of curtains around it.
Someone brought Jeremy a set of surgical cover-ups (hat and gown) and a hat for me. Although I was allowed to keep my glasses, they made me remove my nose ring. I heard people talking and the moans of another woman in labor. Sarah came in and gave me a shot which was supposed to stop my contractions. I think it was her who explained that there was an emergency patient who had to go before me. I was reassured that Dr. Wilcox was quick though, and that once the surgery had begun, the baby would be delivered in fifteen minutes. I laid there and waited. For some reason, the shot she'd given me didn't work.
Finally, they came for me. One more internal exam - still stuck at 7 cm, Jonah still in his original position - and they explained what was going to happen. They were going to take me in by myself, finish prepping me for surgery, and then bring Jeremy in. I told Jeremy "I love you" as they wheeled me away.
The OR was large and brightly-lit. After the near dark they'd had me in for an hour, the lights made me wince a little. They transferred me from the gurney to the table, which was even more comfortable. I had to lean forward as far as I could so that they could administer my epidural. While they were doing it, they explained why they'd made me wait for it for so long.
As I mentioned earlier, I'd requested an epidural. They had intended to do an intrathecal, aka a "walking epidural" - a much lower dose of medication that's delivered through an IV continually. It allows use of the legs, and allows you to retain some sensation of pain and enough abdominal muscular control to push. However, with me needing a cesarean, they were going to have to do a regular epidural. Sarah had inserted a Foley catheter when she prepped me for surgery, so that all that was left to do was numb me, hang the curtain, add iodine, and begin.
I leaned forward and asked how much the epidural would hurt. The anesthesiologist told me it wouldn't hurt at all. He gave me three injections of a local anesthetic first. It felt like someone had sprayed my back with hot cooking oil, then it turned ice-cold almost immediately. I didn't even feel pressure from the actual epidural, I just noticed that all of a sudden, my toes and the top half of my feet were completely numb. The sensation spread rapidly. The only basis of comparison I can come up with is that it's similar to the Novocaine you get from the dentist, only instead of my mouth, it went from just under my breasts all the way to the ends of my toes. I couldn't feel anything. It felt so good to be numb that I wanted to cry from relief, but didn't. I did thank the anesthesiologist several times, though. He asked me to tell him if I felt any tingling in my toes. I remember saying, "No, I don't feel anything, and it feels so good. If I didn't have a boyfriend I'd make out with you right now."
Then, I got dizzy. They'd given me a hefty dose of fentanyl in the epi, and between that and the exhaustion of two hours of sleep followed by nearly fifteen hours of labor, I was fighting the urge to nod off like crazy.
Before they'd taken me to the OR, in an effort to distract me, my mom had said, "When you get the epidural, no matter what, don't try to wiggle your toes. You won't be able to, and you'll panic." Now, as they helped me lay back on the table and placed the prongs of the oxygen tube in my nose, that statement popped into my head. Me being me, I had to try it, and of course, Mom was right. I didn't panic, though. I was so full of relief and fentanyl that I actually giggled a little.
I heard a door open and craned my head around as far as I could, accidentally dislodging my oxygen tube. They'd just let Jeremy in. I forgot momentarily that the arm with my IV was restrained and started to reach for him. They'd hung the curtain already, which was a relief. As desperate as I was to finally see Jonah, I was equally desperate to avoid seeing him "extracted." I scratched at one of the electrode stickers attached to my chest and watched Jeremy sit next to my head. I was starting to feel pretty panicky. This was a c-section, this was what I'd been hoping and trying and praying to avoid, this was what I'd never really seriously considered a possibility, this was MAJOR ABDOMINAL SURGERY - but, as soon as my eyes met Jeremy's over his mask, my fear drained away. Jeremy has always had a calming effect on me, and this was no exception.
Dr. Wilcox got on the other side of the curtain and did something to my belly, asking if I could feel it. I felt motion in my breasts and back, but that was all, and I told him so. That was his cue to begin.
It was surreal, lying on my back, staring up at the lights, and hearing the conversation coming from the other side of the curtain, something about all the young guys coming to NMH to work as doctors, or something along those lines. Things remained in focus unless I moved my head, and then everything would blur. I felt my torso being jerked and tugged about, and I tried my best to let the 1/3 of my upper body still under my control remain limp. I felt someone - I don't know who - either lie on (or lean over and restrain) my chest, just under my breasts. They told Jeremy, after a few minutes, to look if he wanted to see Jonah's birth. He did. He says that it was weird, that it didn't look like my body because of all the iodine surrounding the incision site. He also says that, thanks to seeing surgeries on TV and all that iodine, that it was actually less traumatic for him to watch Jonah's birth than it was to watch Matthew's. As he watched, they lifted Jonah's head out first. He was in the proper head-down position, but from the look of his head molding, he had only been able to get a little bit of his head engaged, which probably explains the sensation of headbutting I'd been feeling. They moved him to the side and extracted one shoulder and arm. Then, he got snagged, so they had to move him all the way over to the other side to free his other arm and shoulder. After that, they lifted the rest of his body clear of mine, and Jonah Lee Gatica was born to the outside world. It was exactly 8:00 pm, August 22, 2008. At some point while birthing him, Dr. Wilcox said, "Yeah, that wasn't going to happen."
They cut the cord themselves, rather than letting Jeremy do it. I saw the back of the nurse as she carried Jonah to the sink to clean him up, get his weight and measurements, and do his Apgars. I had a sudden wild urge to throw myself off the table and drag myself over there so I could see my son, since they hadn't let me see him yet. Instead, I asked questions.
To Jeremy: "Does he look like Matthew?"
Jeremy: "Yes."
To Dr. Wilcox: "Is he big?"
Dr. Wilcox: "Yes. There's no way he was coming out any other way." Pause. "I'd say he's close to eight pounds."
Me: "Eight pounds?!?"
Dr. Wilcox: "Maybe not eight pounds exactly, but close."
Nurse who had my son: "Seven pounds, five ounces."
And then, I remembered. Jeremy had the digital camera in his pocket. I asked him to go take a picture and bring it back so that I could see Jonah. He did, and then went back and took a few more pictures.
Once Jonah was cleaned up and measured and had his Apgar score (he ended up getting a 9 both times), they dressed him, swaddled him, and handed him to Jeremy to show me. The anesthesiologist took the camera from Jeremy and snapped two pictures of the three of us. After that, they sent Jeremy and Jonah to recovery to wait for me, since they still had to do my tubal ligation and close me back up. It was somewhere around this point when they informed me that they had miscalculated my due date. The placenta was severely degraded - there was barely anything left of it. Dr. Wilcox estimated from looking at it, and at Jonah, that I should have been due August 5'th, not August 25'th. I was too tired to care at that point. It all hit me so hard right then.
Before they'd taken me to the OR, in an effort to distract me, my mom had said, "When you get the epidural, no matter what, don't try to wiggle your toes. You won't be able to, and you'll panic." Now, as they helped me lay back on the table and placed the prongs of the oxygen tube in my nose, that statement popped into my head. Me being me, I had to try it, and of course, Mom was right. I didn't panic, though. I was so full of relief and fentanyl that I actually giggled a little.
I heard a door open and craned my head around as far as I could, accidentally dislodging my oxygen tube. They'd just let Jeremy in. I forgot momentarily that the arm with my IV was restrained and started to reach for him. They'd hung the curtain already, which was a relief. As desperate as I was to finally see Jonah, I was equally desperate to avoid seeing him "extracted." I scratched at one of the electrode stickers attached to my chest and watched Jeremy sit next to my head. I was starting to feel pretty panicky. This was a c-section, this was what I'd been hoping and trying and praying to avoid, this was what I'd never really seriously considered a possibility, this was MAJOR ABDOMINAL SURGERY - but, as soon as my eyes met Jeremy's over his mask, my fear drained away. Jeremy has always had a calming effect on me, and this was no exception.
Dr. Wilcox got on the other side of the curtain and did something to my belly, asking if I could feel it. I felt motion in my breasts and back, but that was all, and I told him so. That was his cue to begin.
It was surreal, lying on my back, staring up at the lights, and hearing the conversation coming from the other side of the curtain, something about all the young guys coming to NMH to work as doctors, or something along those lines. Things remained in focus unless I moved my head, and then everything would blur. I felt my torso being jerked and tugged about, and I tried my best to let the 1/3 of my upper body still under my control remain limp. I felt someone - I don't know who - either lie on (or lean over and restrain) my chest, just under my breasts. They told Jeremy, after a few minutes, to look if he wanted to see Jonah's birth. He did. He says that it was weird, that it didn't look like my body because of all the iodine surrounding the incision site. He also says that, thanks to seeing surgeries on TV and all that iodine, that it was actually less traumatic for him to watch Jonah's birth than it was to watch Matthew's. As he watched, they lifted Jonah's head out first. He was in the proper head-down position, but from the look of his head molding, he had only been able to get a little bit of his head engaged, which probably explains the sensation of headbutting I'd been feeling. They moved him to the side and extracted one shoulder and arm. Then, he got snagged, so they had to move him all the way over to the other side to free his other arm and shoulder. After that, they lifted the rest of his body clear of mine, and Jonah Lee Gatica was born to the outside world. It was exactly 8:00 pm, August 22, 2008. At some point while birthing him, Dr. Wilcox said, "Yeah, that wasn't going to happen."
They cut the cord themselves, rather than letting Jeremy do it. I saw the back of the nurse as she carried Jonah to the sink to clean him up, get his weight and measurements, and do his Apgars. I had a sudden wild urge to throw myself off the table and drag myself over there so I could see my son, since they hadn't let me see him yet. Instead, I asked questions.
To Jeremy: "Does he look like Matthew?"
Jeremy: "Yes."
To Dr. Wilcox: "Is he big?"
Dr. Wilcox: "Yes. There's no way he was coming out any other way." Pause. "I'd say he's close to eight pounds."
Me: "Eight pounds?!?"
Dr. Wilcox: "Maybe not eight pounds exactly, but close."
Nurse who had my son: "Seven pounds, five ounces."
And then, I remembered. Jeremy had the digital camera in his pocket. I asked him to go take a picture and bring it back so that I could see Jonah. He did, and then went back and took a few more pictures.
Once Jonah was cleaned up and measured and had his Apgar score (he ended up getting a 9 both times), they dressed him, swaddled him, and handed him to Jeremy to show me. The anesthesiologist took the camera from Jeremy and snapped two pictures of the three of us. After that, they sent Jeremy and Jonah to recovery to wait for me, since they still had to do my tubal ligation and close me back up. It was somewhere around this point when they informed me that they had miscalculated my due date. The placenta was severely degraded - there was barely anything left of it. Dr. Wilcox estimated from looking at it, and at Jonah, that I should have been due August 5'th, not August 25'th. I was too tired to care at that point. It all hit me so hard right then.
I know I nodded out momentarily a couple times, but still, it went fairly fast. Dr. Wilcox apologized for having made me labor for so long, and I just flopped my free hand at them - my throat was sore from yelling, and my mouth was dry and sticky. Two nurses lifted my limp body back onto a gurney and rolled me to recovery, which turned out to be the dark area where I'd awaited surgery.
Sarah had gone home for the night, and my new nurse's name was Christine. She brought me several thick warm blankets, which made me thankful - I was getting chilled for some reason. She explained to me that they had to keep me there until the epidural started to wear off, and that that would take about an hour. I asked her if I could breastfeed Jonah, and she helped me out. He nursed and nursed, and when he was full, he snuggled his chubby little cheek into my breast and fell asleep. I laid there and cuddled him until I was able to wiggle my toes and flex my upper thighs. At that point, they took me to a regular room. I got a big glass of ice water, hugs and kisses from Mom and Jeremy, Big Al and Little Al, and more painkillers in my IV. Finally, I was able to fall asleep. And when I did, I dreamed about taking my little Jonah home.
Sarah had gone home for the night, and my new nurse's name was Christine. She brought me several thick warm blankets, which made me thankful - I was getting chilled for some reason. She explained to me that they had to keep me there until the epidural started to wear off, and that that would take about an hour. I asked her if I could breastfeed Jonah, and she helped me out. He nursed and nursed, and when he was full, he snuggled his chubby little cheek into my breast and fell asleep. I laid there and cuddled him until I was able to wiggle my toes and flex my upper thighs. At that point, they took me to a regular room. I got a big glass of ice water, hugs and kisses from Mom and Jeremy, Big Al and Little Al, and more painkillers in my IV. Finally, I was able to fall asleep. And when I did, I dreamed about taking my little Jonah home.
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