A labor of love. And also profanity and heavy drugs.

 

At 38 weeks and 5 days, I went to my OB/GYN for one of my regularly scheduled, “your vag is about to explode and produce progeny” appointments.

“Well,” he told me as he had his fingers poking around my cooter lady parts, “it’s not like you’re going to go home and have your water break tonight.”

It was Dec. 20.

“Well, what about going home for Christmas?”

“No, no,” he said. “You have to stay around here in case you go into labor.”

I’ll be honest. I smiled and said okay, and went home, getting ready to sneak my way home for Christmas. (I’ll just close my legs up and stay horizontal if I go into labor. Heh heh. Foiled again, doc!)

So, that evening, I ate dinner, watched television with my dog, Jack. Got ready for bed. Read a book.

Kept feeling like I had to poo.

 

(Ugh, all these maternity poos. My guts are not well. I just want to sleep. It’s damn near 3 a.m.)

 

I decided to get up, to go to the bathroom. See if I could make some magic happen.

Well, I peed. And I kept peeing. And I thought, “Wow, that’s a lot of pee.”

Could my water have broken? No, certainly not. There’s no way.

So, I did what any normal, almost-ready-to-pop pregnant lady would do. I went in the living room and stretched out on the couch. I waited five minutes, then leapt into the air (it was VERY graceful, mind you).

Oooh. When I landed, I stood in a puddle.

“Oh, shize,” I said. Then, I looked down as my dog, Jack, trotted up to try to LICK my fluid puddle.

Hearing me scream “NO!” was what woke up My Darling Ex, and after a phone call to my OB/GYN at 4 a.m., we got on the road for The Noodle Delivery.

“I want to drive,” I complained as we walked to the car.

“But you’re in labor,” My Darling Ex said.

“We’re taking MY car.”

“You’re in labor.”
“You drive like a grandmother.”

“Fine.”

So, that was how we got to the hospital. Fun times, right?

As we go in, I have to dress in the lovely gown and spread my legs for the nurses. My giant Eastern European Swimming Champion nurse, let’s call her Olga for this story’s purposes, looked at me.

“You want an epidural?”

I shivered. “Not really. I mean, needles and spines and needles and spines?”

“Well,” she said, “if you are strong you can do it drug free.”

“Oh, I’m not,” I said. “Can’t I get IV drugs or something?”

“Sure. There are some IV drugs that’ll dull the pain. Make you feel drunk.”

“Well, that’s a feeling I’ve been missing,” I told Olga. “Hook. Me. Up.”

So she did, and friends, it was niiiiiice.

Unfortunately, here’s the thing. They don’t mention that when the drugs wear off they can’t give you anymore. And also? When the drugs wear off you lose. your. mind.

There are three hours I don’t remember, because I was drunk on drugs. My first foggy memory includes coming to, telling my father that he had to go walk Jack, had to had to, because I didn’t want him to think I didn’t love him anymore.

Then, I remember thinking, “Oh. This hurts like hell.”
It got worse from there. I tried bouncing on a ball. Nope. I tried rocking in a hard ass, wooden rocking chair. Double no.

I tried prayer. I tried it in a loud way, though.

“Oh deeeearrr Jeeeeessuuuuusss! Looooooorrrrrd! Goooodddd, heeeeeelllllpppp meee!” I wailed.

“Lona,” my father chastised, “don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

I wasn’t. I really wasn’t. I was actually in that much pain that I could only scream. And those screams were the most heartfelt prayers I have ever made, I promise.

My sister stayed outside the room, listening to my screams. At one point, she turned to the nurses and asked if I was normal.

None would answer her.

Finally, finally Olga came back and, after shoving her arm, all the way to the elbow, inside me (I am NEVER having sex again. Ever) she told me I could begin pushing.

So I did. Once.

And then, I looked at her and closed my legs.

“There will be no baby born here today,” I said, “unless I get an epidural.”

“It’s too late,” she told me. “You’re at nine-and-a-half.”

“Well then. I’m not at ten. Needle please.”

“There’s no way,” she told me.

“I want a F#@%$ing epidural right now, or so help me I will learn to stand on my head and keep this baby inside me until the end of time. And I will continue to scream,” I declared.

Well, I got the epidural.

I got the epidural, and when the anesthesiologist came into my room, I proposed marriage to him. I told him I would leave my husband and be his sex slave (Seriously, I said this. I have vague recollections of it, plus the doctors and nurses and My Darling Ex were all so disturbed by this bribe that it was brought to my attention often in the coming days.) if only he would make the pain stop.

And he did. And I slept.

One hour later, I awoke. I amazed everyone by being able to lift my legs and then I began pushing.

Forty-five minutes later, I was pushed out and The Noodle was not. My OB/GYN went to get the Hoover.

“We’ll just attach this vacuum to his skull,” he told me.

Oh, that sounds good. Okay. So, vacuum sealed baby head and I made two more efforts to get him out, and … walaaa!

The Noodle was born at 4:59 p.m. on Dec. 21, 2005. Seven pounds, four ounces. Twenty one and half inches long. (Long and skinny and very pale, like a noodle. Hence, his nickname.) APGAR scores of 9 and 10.

I held my little baby-child. They took him away to clean him up.

I noticed the doctor, still hovering ‘round my vag.

“Placenta duty,” he told me. Did I want to keep it?

“Um, no,” I said. “You can have it. Think of it as a souvenir.”

When the afterbirth was expelled, he set to work looking around down there. Olga presented me with a hand mirror and made me look at the ‘splosion, saying “I want you to know why you’re walking funny.”

Gee, thanks.

“Did I tear?” I asked.

“Just a little bit,” my OB/GYN replied. “I think one stitch will take care of it.”

“Oh,” I said, “While you’re down there, make me like a virgin again, will ya?”

Just so you know, that joke? It does not go over well in the hospital.

But regardless, I had my Noodle, I had numb legs and I had a nice bloody mass between my legs. We later found that my tailbone had been cracked due to Olga making me push before I was fully dilated. My arse hurt for months.

All in a day’s work, right?

 

Five days later, his vacuum head had healed. Throwing his hands in the air, 'cause he just don't care.

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