Looks Like Rain

My mother had such faith that I would be a good mother. That I would be good at this thing called life. As I sit on my couch 27 weeks pregnant. As I struggle. My mom enters my thoughts a lot. She had four kids, all girls, all about three years apart. She had her first when she was 33 and didn't stop until she was 42. She died at 49.

Through most of my life, I've felt like I let her down. I'm the only one to leave Hawaii. I got an education and still only make $30K/year. I'm in my second marriage. I made horrible life decisions. I honestly never thought I would have a kid. In fact, until I was about 27 I never actually WANTED kids.

Yet here I am, life growing inside of me at a rapid rate. Three months to go, almost 7 months down. I rely on my mother, a lot. She's not here physically but I think about how she handled us girls, how we each managed to have her undivided attention at times, how she shaped us. It's really hard to wrap my head around the fact she won't meet her granddaughter. I do think, however, that she had her hand in all this. Naneki (Nancy in Hawaiian, which was my mother's name) is due a day before my mother's birthday.

September 27th, 2015

6am – The day following my due date for my first child. Cramping came randomly and was light enough that I fell back asleep. I started a new book too – The Rewind Files by Claire Willett – It basically saved me.

9-10am – My husband awoke to find me leaned over the couch swaying a bit. He looked at me funny and with a perky demeanor, I said,

            “So, I’m in labor…”

He went into “crisis” mode asked me if I’ve been timing my contractions, if I’ve eaten anything and why I didn’t wake him (one of us should be well rested going into this thing)? We started to time my contractions. I stomach a orange popsicle and a yogurt. I even managed to take a shower and shaved my legs.

Noon – Things made an ugly turn. No one told me when you go into labor your body “empties” itself. It was 95-100 degrees that day in SoCal and my non-air conditioned home, especially my bathroom became a hotbox. I poured sweat and spent all my time on the toilet. We asked if someone could come over and watch our dogs.

1pm – Oh my god, I think I’m dying. Our friends showed up to watch the dogs. Tim was holding me during a contraction and I ran to the sink to puke. The pain was that bad. We began our 15-minute drive to the hospital. Tim grabbed me a puke bucket.

1:15pm – THERE’S NO MATERNITY PARKING LEFT AT THE HOSPITAL. It’s a Sunday! Tonight is not just a full moon but a SUPER BLOOD MOON. EVERYONE went into labor. We park as close as we can and then try to walk it in, usually there are wheelchairs at every parking lot entrance, not today.  It’s hot. I’m drenched in sweat. My contractions seem to be 3-5 minutes apart. I have one getting out of the car we walk a bit with the hot sun and I have another one. Tim, the poor pack mule, has a puke bucket a labor bag and a post labor bag. I lean heavily on him. Halfway through the walk, after my third contraction I tell him I’m not going to make it. Leave me here to die. We waddle on.

1:35pm – I made it. I did it. I got to Labor & Delivery. They have me filling out paperwork, when I just slowly and calmly drop to my knees and have a contraction, apologizing. They want me to pee in a cup. I go white and dread fills my face but I manage to get it done between contractions and we’re admitted into Triage to see what the situation is. The situation is bad. It is BAD. They prod Tim about the bucket.

            “What’s that for?” Asked the triage nurse.

            “When she has a really bad contraction, she pukes.” My husband said.

            “Okay. Well let’s just move that off to the side for now.”

I’m 6cm dilated and 0 effaced. I pass muster to be admitted to the hospital. They sat me up, I looked at Tim and screamed “Bucket!” I vomited neon orange.

            “Good thing you had that bucket,” said the triage nurse.

Things went dark for me. The pain reached a level I didn’t know I could stand. I became unresponsive. I kept sweating and made them turn the AC way down. Tim tried to make it work. I begged for an epidural. 

Curled up in the corner of the hospital bed crying, sweating and apparently blacking out often, the epidural finally came. They had Tim leave the room. He got the worst turkey sandwich of his life and by the time he returned I was cracking jokes with the nurses.  I didn’t feel the epidural the pain from my contractions was so intense that I honestly didn’t notice. This was important to me. I was terrified of an epidural after a bad experience with a spinal tap when it was believed I had meningitis in 2006. I had to get a blood patch. The epidural worked and though I had a tender spine for a few months I fully recovered. I honestly don’t think I could have given birth without it.

3:30pm – My water broke and I was 9cm dilated 0 effaced.  Your water breaking, especially after an epidural is the weirdest feeling. Like the hottest water balloon being popped on your lap well, not really on your lap.

9pm – I hadn’t progressed and my contractions stopped (apparently). They wanted to start me on Pitocin. I started to get a little nervous. Also, all I had to eat that day was some ice chips which I kind of forced Tim to mix Sprite with because I needed some type of something to get me through this.

9:30pm – By the time they got the Pitocin ready, my contractions had started again and we were going to start pushing soon.

10pm – Ahhh oh push it.  Until I pushed too hard and gave myself a headache. Two Tylenol and wait 20 minutes.

10:38pm – Pushing begins again. I can’t feel anything and they have to tell me when to push. The nurse kept asking Tim if he wanted to feel the head before it crowned. He politely declined.

11:20pm – Still pushing. Tim tells me all he sees is 2 inches of hair like weird tentacles then he stopped checking.

11:38pm – I start to tell Tim I don’t think anything is happening and I’m worried the baby isn’t coming. He just looks at me wide-eye and assures me “THINGS ARE HAPPENING.” Not even 2 pushes later our beautiful baby girl came screaming into this world. SCREAMING. Tim, although hesitant cut the umbilical cord. I felt the afterbirth which was also just a strange unexplainable feeling. 

At 7 pounds 7 ounces, 21” long she apparently kind of flew out. Her shoulders didn’t even get stuck. I had a small tear in my left labia. Midwife said normally she wouldn’t bother to stitch it but it will help me to heal faster.  She latched and breastfed right away. It was told to me that as soon as I pushed her out and heard her screams I said to my husband, “That wasn’t so bad I can do that again in a few years.”

I didn’t know there was a button on the epidural to feed me more drugs. By the time I had Naneki Eileen Regan, I could walk and function pretty normally which shocked the nurse. While I got wheeled into my recovery room holding my sweet baby girl they played the little musical announcement to indicate a baby had been born.   

That first night was magical. I slept with her on my chest I was so unwilling to let her go.  I finally got to meet my little Nene. Delivered at 11:38, September 27^th 2015 during a rare Super-Harvest Blood Moon. This child was destined for great things but no matter what she does she will always be great in my eyes.

 

I Can't Take the Heat

I remember when my blood test came back positive,

"Congratulations, is this your first one?"

I nodded to my doctor. I was with child. For the next few months, I puked and cried and slept. I tried to maintain a normal life and I failed. I had to turn vegetarian, I cut out sweets, I was disgusted by cheese. I lived off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and prayed it was a boy.

Every ultrasound, every sonogram I was terrified. Panicked there'd be no movement, no growth, scared it would somehow all be taken away from me.

Three years earlier, I was told having children was going to be extremely difficult. That I should look into in vitro and adoption. I was told to go back on the pill to help regulate my Polycycstic Ovary Syndrome.  I cried for days over this news.

Now, pregnant, I am constantly filled with fear that I'll do something wrong, something will go wrong. I'll be alone with the memories of terrible kicks to my spine and punches while I desperately tried to sleep.

The day we found out it was a girl, I was slightly crestfallen. I'm one of four girls, all I wanted was a boy. My husband, patted my leg with so much joy in his eyes.

She's alive.

That's all that I cared about. She was alive with no major issues. Seeing her, really seeing her changed something inside of me.

I thought it was a positive but things quickly went dark. I cried, daily. I was anxious and frustrated and some days I simply couldn't get out of bed. There was the fear of somehow losing her. There was the disaster that was my home not even partially prepped for a baby. There was the financial stress I was already under being added to by specialist visits to manage my high risk pregnancy. There was the slow limitations of my body. There was the unsexifying of my body. There was a distance brewing between my husband and I. My frustrations were not his frustrations. He had started a new job, working nights and my concerns over a nursery currently burdened by essentially the leftovers of a move from two-years ago were not a high priority for him.

September 26th looms in the distance and I am overly ready and at the same time not at all. My house is in shambles. It's a dry heat in the 90s where I live. I'm exhausted. Just maintaining the dishes, laundry and daily dog walks is becoming a strain. I still work full-time and plan on returning to work after the birth. I need the money. I've started to retreat from social gatherings. I've started to hate that I do that. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know where I am. I don't know who I love.

Envious of those women who have happy pregnancies, blissful even. Those who beam with love and pride. Those who say they never felt more beautiful than when they were pregnant. I don't feel beautiful. I don't feel happy. I feel fear. I'm quick to anger. Fast at annoyance. I'm tired. I'm so tired.

I can't afford these feelings. I can't afford this baby. I can't afford to not find joy in my life.

At night, with these feelings trying to pull me under. I feel her kick. I feel her shudder. I feel her grow. She's making me weaker. She's already draining me. I still muster the strength to whisper "I Love You" to her as she let's me settle into uncomfortable sleep.