He is also 11 pounds 12 oz and almost died during birth. Not sure I'll ever fully recover emotionally from the trauma. And my saving grace is that maybe I'll never fully recover from the miracle.
It took 1 hour to push him out. A few bumps in the road along the way: he was facing my left hip for awhile and so we worked to turn him. He ended up tuning face up! I pushed on my hands and knees for awhile, and this helped him flip eventually. Ah, but then he flipped back. I had an epidural, but I could feel the pain. Not all of it, but enough. Yikes.
Then, I got my grove, and he started to really move. I knew we were close when they called the breathing specialists that I always have at my births because of the maconium.
But then things got really bad. When they got there and I started really pushing -- he got stuck-- half in and half out. And I could tell from everyone's panic that this is the worst case scenario. His body was as big as his head and shoulders. At least one shoulder was stuck. I'm not sure what was happening or what it looked like because they laid me down and just started screaming at me to push. No breaks. No waiting for contractions. Just PUSH. They were calling the attending physician, and the midwife was screaming (Tim says she was very calm) -- GET THE DR. GET HIM. PUSH. PUSH. She was pulling on her end. I could here talk and screams (again Tim says there were no screams) that his heart rate was dropping. I could hear their stress. I could see Tim's stress. I could feel my stress. And I could feel so much plan.
I pictured myself in a tent on the plains as a pioneer. I felt the hopelessness of not having options. I felt the need to emotionally prepare that my baby was dying. But the pain and the fear helped me keep pushing. My sweet Husband staring into my eyes and lying to me that everything was fine helped me keep pushing. I was screaming like a birthing woman on TV. But my screams did nothing but make my pushes weak. I had to pull it together and push and push -- with no hope, no breaks. Just fear and complete panic. The midwife yanked my legs down toward the end of the bed and did some cutting, and she pulled and yanked while she voice trembled at least a little to my ears.
And then he was out.
And I started to cry. And didn't care if he cried or about him or about anything. I just bawled and shook and trembled for 45 minutes. And then sometimes I would just start crying again after that out of the blue. I didn't want to hold the baby or see the baby. I just wanted to cry. I didn't want anyone to try and stop me or console me. I knew I was fine. Eventually he cried, and I knew he was ok. But I still cried. I cried for the fear I felt. For the worry. For the feeling that I might never be able to love this baby who just scared me so badly. How could I risk forgetting that fear? How could I keep him safe or feel safe again?
I'm sure everyone was freaking out that I couldn't calm down. But I didn't care. I was not OK, and I wasn't going to pretend. I still might not be ok. I eventually let Tim go see the baby. I eventually sat up and held the baby. But my soul was on fire. And the tears came back several times.
I'm glad I lost it. I'm glad I didn't pretend or bottle it up. I'm glad I just did what I needed to do -- maybe I cleaned out something horrible that freed inside me and maybe light has settled and stayed.
So, it's 5 hours later, and I'm starting to feel like this baby's mama. I hope I cried out enough space. I hope the pain doesn't stay. I might lose it when I see all my babies together in a few days -- and so be it. I guess I'll have to lose it a little.
That said. My giant baby is the talk of the recovery ward and the nursery. He's huge and has the cutest chucks ALL over him !!! He won't fit into half the clothes I bought him, but he'll probably sleep ... Like a giant baby. And together we'll recover. And we'll learn to breathe again or for the first time .... together.
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