The Details

10:54 . . . 11:32 . . . 12:06

1:22 . . . 1:33 . . . 1:38 . . . 1:50 . . . 2:00 . . . 2:04 . . . 2:15 . . . 2:37 . . . 2:50

Contraction times.  Nothing regular, but coming often enough to know that "today" could be the day (and if not today, definitely "tomorrow").

I had already called my doctors office earlier Thursday morning to schedule an appointment with him to check on Boston's heart rate and do the other routine "stuff".  At 3:00, though, I gathered the courage to call my doctor's personal cell phone (yeah, I was intimidated by that) and told him that I'd been having irregular contractions and asked if he wanted me to keep my appointment, meet him at the hospital, or ____?  He said that as long as they didn't pick up in frequency and intensity over the next hour, we could just meet at his office at 4:20 and assess the situation from there.

My dad and I called a taxi at 4:00 (at Brandon's insistence; I wanted to walk the six blocks, but noooooo...) and Grandma stayed home with Bailey. We figured that if doc wanted me to report straight to the hospital, I could go there and meet up with Brandon while Dad reported back to Mom.  But the contractions still weren't any more consistent (4 minutes between one set, then 10, then 20, back to 6) so Dr. Schmit sent me home to wait it out.  We walked.

I started tracking contraction times again at 4:40, but it wasn't until 6-ish that they became regular.  And even then, they weren't like clockwork (as they had been with Bailey).  If I was sitting down, it was 8 minutes between; walking around the house, 4 minutes.  By 7 the dull, almost-ignorable ache contractions had progressed into something more and I told Brandon that we needed to start getting things together to head to the hospital.

We finished dinner (rather, the family finished dinner while I watched), double checked the hospital bag, said goodbye to Bailey, and called a taxi.  It was 7:30 when we loaded into the cab and asked him to take us to the hospital; "Estoy en trabajo de parto," I said. (I'm in labor)

At this point I also tried to call Dr. Schmit to tell him we were on our way to the hospital. Tried being the operative word.  The call went straight to voice mail. No ringing, just "leave a message after the tone" well, "despues del tono . . . " yada yada yada. Perfect.

One contraction later, we were in front of the emergency room doors, headed for check-in. Thankfully Dr. Schmit had written out an order for me to be admitted right away, so we were able to just hand that to one of the clerks and he jumped right up to help us (well, called someone else who jumped right up to help us).  Brandon continued to try to get in touch with Dr. Schmit, trying his cell and home number, while I filled out some paper work.  I'm still not sure what the form was all about since it only asked for Brandon's information, but I didn't ask.  I just did what I was told.

Two contractions came and went, and we were headed upstairs to the OB department.  They offered to get me a wheelchair, but I insisted I could walk.  It was about 20 steps to the elevator and another 20 to the room they put me in.  Definitely NOT wheelchair worthy.

The doctor on call  and a nurse helped get us situated and were extremely patient with my constant "I don't understand" or "a little slower, please" responses to their questions. Together we got through the rest of MY paperwork (general health, allergies, family history of disease, etc.) and they checked my progress.

8 cm dilated.

Yikes! We don't have much time . . . and still no word from Dr. Schmit. The nurses tell us that he's been called, but I haven't seen him.

8:12 is the last "entry" on my contraction log; at that point, it seemed a bit silly to continue.  Dr. Schmit came waltzing into the room in his golf polo and khakis and quickly took over. He confirmed the 8cm dilated status, but also informed me that my water hadn't broken (as I thought it had earlier in the day). You could have just had a small leak, he said.

At this point Brandon had the foresight to exit the room as they slid a bedpan under my hips so the doctor could break my water.  The contractions picked up in frequency and strength and I started thinking about drugs.

My sense of time for the rest of this is non-existent.  

All I know is that I started having to stop everything and clutch the sheets to get through each contraction.  Then Brandon started lending me his hand because the sheets just wouldn't do.  I sent Brandon off to ask good ol' Dr. Schmit about getting some drugs.

"Well, you said you wanted to do this without drugs, right?" Brandon stated as he walked back in.  "Schmit says he wants you to see if you can handle it without."

I started kicking myself right then and there.  I should have never even had that thought.

Before I knew it I was being wheeled down the hallway to the delivery room and Brandon headed off with the doctor to suit up.

And I know that the actual delivery of the baby was the "worst" part pain-wise, but the next request the nurses had of me was a close second.  Almost a tie for first.

I had to switch beds.

The request came mid-contraction, which didn't help the situation. I just remember propping myself up on my elbows, looking UP at the bed I had to hoist myself into, and telling them "no puedo hacerlo, no puedo . . . " (I can't do it).  One nurse started rubbing my shoulders and saying something about "si, estas guapa mama, que guapa."  And while her hands on my neck felt nice, I couldn't help but think "I'll 'que guapa' you!"

I made it (as I'm sure everyone does) and as they strapped my legs in and my hands felt the grab bars on the side of the bed, I realized that I needed to push. But Brandon and Doc still weren't there.  Oh what was that phrase in Spanish? They just asked me a few minutes ago to tell them if I felt like I needed to push. I understood what they meant, but now that I needed to repeat the words back to them . . . "NECESITO EMPUJE!"

I hear the scampering of feet (my eyes have been and continued to be clenched shut) and a flurry of unintelligible (to me) Spanish.  Finally I heard Doc's voice and felt Brandon's hands on my arm.

And the rest is history.

Rumor has it, my arms looked like something out of the Hulk, with my muscles and veins bulging out as I gripped the sides of the bed, and I may have politely asked the doctor to "JUST PULL HER OUT!!!" but I'm not one to gossip . . .