Petite Nikola: Birth Story

Niko is already three months old. But I want to go back a bit to her birth and write my posts in chronological order so that if I reread these in the future, or if Niko wants to read this blog when she's older, it'll all make sense more easily.

The birth story was a traumatic one.

Kiril and I ate dinner at Chez Panisse on Friday, the night before. Earlier that day I dropped Mila off at my mom's to spend the night so that Kiril and I can eat our "last supper". I wasn't certain but I felt that I might go into labor that weekend, Sunday was my guess. I had been feeling braxton hicks contractions throughout my third trimester. But they were getting more frequent, maybe a few contractions every hour without a consistent rhythm. During dinner, they were coming on stronger, even somewhat painful. But it didn't stop me from enjoying my meal. It was Chez Panisse for Christ's sake! Kiril asked me to promise that I would not go into labor that night so that he could have 2 glasses of wine and eat heartily. I told myself not to pig out with the possibility of labor looming over me, but what the hell! It was delicious and I didn't regret it.

I had Nettles Pizetta as my appetizer.

Asparagus main (this was the end of season for asparagus).

In the British education, they always stress the three Rs - Reading, Writing and Arithmetic (though it seems that the English should have considered spelling a first priority. Three Rs?) This is a Chez Panisse poster, Eating was added first.

After dinner, we went home and slept for a few hours. At around 1am I started to time my contractions. They were definitely 5 minutes apart. They weren't painful but they were consistent. So I jumped into the shower and washed some dishes, folded some laundry, tidied up a bit. I certainly didn't want to come home to a mess after delivery. I called labor & delivery and they told me to go into the hospital right away. A few weeks earlier, I was tested positive for Strep B (occurs in 25% of pregnancies), so they wanted to administer at least a round, if not two, of antibiotics in me before I deliver. I was instructed NOT to labor at home. If it were not for those instructions, I would not have called the hospital. The contractions were so mild.

When I checked into the hospital at 4:45am, I felt like "the girl who cried contractions". They were so mild, I thought surely they would laugh and send me home. They checked me and told me I was 3cm dilated. They said that I had the option to go home, but they did an ultrasound and saw that my bag of waters was low. So they gave me a room and if I needed a boost, they would induce me.

They administered the antibiotic at around 6am. The nurse said if I didn't deliver by 10am, they would give me another dose. I thought Ha! 10am? She's on crack. I took over 30 hours to deliver Mila and those contractions were off the charts. How would it be possible to deliver in the next 4 hours? All seemed fine for a while. In fact the contractions were backing down, and were more than 5 minutes apart. Until suddenly they just knocked me over. They went from easy breezy to full on collision with a semi-truck. They were unlike anything I've ever felt with the first delivery. I asked first for the drip (I forget what that's called at the moment)…. the drip through the IV. It was delicious. I was deliriously high from that for about 4 minutes until the next contraction. It felt as if the hand of an invisible giant was throwing me across the room, to and fro. The pain was all consuming and unbearable. I asked for the epidural, not knowing if I can survive the next contraction. The anesthesiologist stabbed me with the giant needle and it was in, though the drug was only active on one side of my body. They checked me again after the insertion and I was 10 cm dilated, fully effaced, baby's head was down. Luckily I asked for the epidural at that time because if they had checked me first I'm sure they would have denied me the epidural because it was too late.

My nurse actually took a break at this time. A fill-in nurse, who didn't look old enough to buy alcohol, took her place to watch over me. And then they noticed that the baby's heart rate dropped dramatically, to below 50. I was newly high on the epidural, and everything seemed like a blur. The fill-in nurse kept asking me to move my position. I tried but I really couldn't move much. She looked a bit frantic. I wasn't sure how serious this was until I saw her hit a button and then there were about three, maybe four, doctors in the room. Niko's heart rate did not increase. I was covered in a thick fog of drug, pain and numbness. I felt like I was moving in slow motion and everyone around me was on double speed. Then I think one of the doctors shouted, "Get her into the operating room NOW!" High school fill-in nurse grabbed my bed and ripped me out of the room.

Let me stop here and mention that I was hooked up to IVs. I had a heart monitor attached to my right toe, and socks on my feet. The frantic fill-in nurse pushed my bed like she was on that old game show Supermarket Sweep, treating my bed like a shopping cart. She forgot to pull along my IV stand. So the IV tore out of my hand. The heart monitor ripped off my toe, pulling off my sock along with it. She then proceeded to run down the hallway slamming my knees into sharp corners and cabinets. I still have scars on my knees as battle wounds.

When the IV ripped out of the back of my hand, I started squirting blood everywhere. I left a trail of blood in the hallway. Psycho high school fill-in nurse finally noticed my bloody hand when we got to the operating room. She stared at my hand and then my face and then my hand and then my face. Her eyes began to grow out of her sockets. She looked back at my face and said, "Shit". Then looked back at my hand, "Shit!" Back to my face, "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!" Then louder, "SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!" I thought, "Damn it. I'm in the OR now. If there is someone here who can make this situation worse and result in me getting a c-section, it's this bitch." So I reached over and grabbed her with my bloody hand. I said as calmly as I could, "Calm down. I'm ok. Calm down. I'm fine. Get me another IV." That was, by the way, my only moment of clarity in the OR.

I looked around. There were about 7 or 8 doctors now. I wanted Kiril. He was not here. I asked for him. Idiot high school nurse told me that I could not think of my husband now, I had to think of the baby. What the hell was happening? With about seven faces looking at my vagina, I was asked to push immediately. I wanted my husband. I tried to push. I didn't feel anything between my legs.

Suddenly Kiril appeared in the room, dressed like a bee keeper, or a hip hop background dancer. He was covered from head to toe in a white zip up suit. He even had on a white head cap. With Kiril in the OR, I felt more ready to push. I gave a few good pushes but didn't make any progress.

I kept looking at my feet. The left foot was covered with a blue hospital non slip sock. The right foot was naked because the over zealous intern nurse violently ripped me from my room and my right sock flew off along with the heart monitor that was once attached to my right toe. I don't know why, but this detail just made the whole situation so wrong. I was not supposed to be in the OR. My baby's heart rate was not supposed to drop below 50. My substitute nurse was not supposed to scream "SHIT" repeatedly to my face. Kiril was not supposed to greet our baby wearing a space suit. And I was NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE ONE SOCK ON!!!

I was just about to ask one of the 7 or 8 doctors to pluck the left sock off when one of them instructed me to push the baby out immediately or else! And I supposed that "or else" meant cesarean. The baby's heart rate climbed back up to a safe zone and they were giving me the opportunity to push, so I closed my eyes, ignored the sock, ignored the cursing young nurse, ignored my bloody hand, ignored the steady droning noise that was in the OR and pushed for my life, for my baby's life.

And then within 30 - 40 minutes, at 9:55am, a tiny blond baby was handed to me. Someone said with a shaky voice, "I think it's a girl." That voice must have belonged to Kiril. Who else would be shaky? A girl? A blond? I was so happy that she was a girl. I kept saying, "I'm so happy she's a girl. I'm so happy she's a girl. I'm so happy she's a girl. She's blond?"

Eventually we made it to the recovery room. The main delivering doctor came to visit, just to check in on us. By then, we were able to breathe and think a little clearer. Kiril was proud that he didn't have a heart attack. We asked the doctor why the baby's heart rate dropped so low. He said that he wasn't quite sure. Perhaps the cord wrapped around her neck briefly (it was not the case when she was delivered) or perhaps her shoulders were too squished as she moved through the birth canal. Whatever the reason, when a baby's heart rate drops below 50, it's a sign that the baby is dying. Jesus Christ. I was so glad they didn't mention this little detail as crazy nurse shoved me into walls, had me bleeding all over the place, and then threw me on to the operating table. I think that detail would have upset me a bit more than the sock situation.