Part I is here. 
So, manned with three breathing techniques and a tennis ball (to have Left-brain rub my back with) your father and I headed into labor likes lambs to slaughter.
Labor started little before 10 pm on a Saturday night. By 10:35 I had bathed, washed and styled my hair, applied full make-up, made the bed with clean sheets, washed up all the dirty dishes, vacuumed, and was sitting on the couch with my labor journal and a stopwatch timing contractions. They call this phase nesting. I really do wish it lasted longer – I think it was the last time we had clean sheets on the bed till you were two.
About Contractions – the first one felt like the many Braxton-Hicks contractions that I had been having for weeks with just a little catch in my side along with it. Hmmm. The next one (half hour later) felt more like a bad burrito cramp and a strong Braxton-Hicks at the same time. Three contractions down, and already they felt like full-fledged, take-your-breath-away, bend-you-over-at-the-waist-gasping gas cramps.
Now you need to know one thing about me at this stage in my life. A gas cramp was the closest thing to true pain that I had ever known. I had never broken a bone, been severely burned, or suffered with a touchy appendix. But, dear friends, I did have gas cramps – and they were horrendous! I had been chronically constipated since my teenage years and I had already suffered through a number of near death experiences on the toilet.
Note: For those of you that don’t know me, you are unaware that as of late, all conversations with me somehow end up discussing my bowels. Yes, and even Honey, at the ripe old age of 29 has the same problem with over-sharing. We call it diarrhea of the mouth. Somehow any visit, in person or by cell, is not complete til one (usually both) of us shares our latest Gastrointestinal Nightmare. We are working on widening our verbal and conversational horizons, but for now, be aware and be warned. So if you have a weak stomach, touch of nausea, or any unusual tightness is your hither regions, just stop here and know that everything comes out fine in the end. For those made of tougher stuff – read on – but remember, you have been warned.
Those were the days of everything “natural”, even if it didn’t work, it had to be “natural”. So wheat bran was the only potential cure available to us chronically constipated types. The other “natural” products that we have now had not been invented then. No Mirilax, no Metamucil, no Citrucel. Life was tough back then. So, when I started suffering with pregnancy back-up, I hit the bran like a woman possessed. If a teaspoon in my orange juice was good, a quarter cup was better. Once a day was for light weights, I was chugging it down morning and night. Unfortunately the Organic Hippie food store that I shopped at didn’t give instructions with the purchase. No mention of the need to drink copious amounts of water on the side of the drum that I scooped my “natural” laxative out of every week. No skull and crossbones, large red warning labels, nothing. The effect was immediate. Weekly, from that day on, I gave birth to a log large enough to house a family of squirrels. My trips to the bathroom were legendary. I would gird myself with a cup of hot tea, damp rag, and a pillow when I made my weekly death march to the bathroom. The tea was to aid movement, I read that somewhere and that seemed feasible. The damp rag was to mop my brow when things started to get tough and I broke out in a sweat. Usually just laying my head on the cool tile of the bathroom wall was sufficient, but unfortunately this bathroom was without that necessary luxury. The pillow was to lay on the edge of the tub in front of me. Just in case I passed out and fell forward, I was trying to prevent loosing all my front teeth on the cast iron monster. The only up side to all of this was that I was pretty sure that I knew what labor and delivery would entail. I knew pain, up close and personal. Just to make sure I found a new mother in my neighbor hood and asked. “So, compared to the very worst bowel movement you have ever had, in your entire life – how bad was it?” She started out with words, “worse”, “way worse”. But that wasn’t good enough for me, I needed a number I told her. “Ten”, she said. OK, ten. I can handle ten times as bad. Chances are she had never suffered as I had in the bathroom so her ten was really probably a four. She was a bit frail looking on a good day, so lets make that a two. And look at those hips, my thighs were wider than her hips. I had great big, baby-making, motherly hips. I could probably cough and send a baby flying into the arms of the attending doctor. I was covered. I could do this. Bring it on.
Our first trip to the hospital was exciting. You hit the door and they whisked you away in a wheel chair, off to the examining room with you. Your father was to stay and fill out paperwork and insurance forms. Our insurance was limited to the good will of the teaching hospital that we were putting ourselves in the hands of. No regular insurance here, you were what’s known as a pre-existing condition. Most of the young medical students in 1981 were men, and most of them had wives that they had managed to get pregnant prior to starting school. About a third of the class, at any one time, was usually expecting a baby. It went on for the full four years, but the first generation was called the “Pre-existing babies”. You Honey,were one of these.
By the time Left-brain had made it to the exam room I was into breathing phase three. Having gone through one and two and found that they were ineffective, all I had left was breathing phase three or pushing. Hmm, lets go with phase three. The nurse who was doing the checking suggested I dial it back a bit, Left-brain said I was going to hyperventilate. But I just kept it up, if breathing could have brought on birth, you would have been out in a flash. The only thing that slowed me down was the news – “…one centimeter dilated – you can take your wife home – it’s going to be awhile.” Ugggghh!
Stay Tuned for Part III!
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