The labor story, part two.

Within five minutes of the nurse telling me I was in active labor, I was being wheeled into the delivery room. Before I even had a chance to catch my breath the epidural was ordered and countless family members were on the way.

The plan was to administer the epidural and then let my doctor, Dr. Graves, break my water. I barely had to suffer through three more mind-numbing contractions before the anesthesiologist entered the room, reading off page after page of risks--everything from spinal headaches to death. I gingerly signed the papers.

Jason sat in the corner of the room while they put in the epidural--a process I didn't realize takes at least 15 minutes. I tried my best to focus on his face the whole time. He skillfully managed to pretend to be at ease.

It was uncomfortable and scary (I've heard too many horror stories of enduring headaches and back pain and failures to even work) but it didn't come close to living up to my fears. A half hour later and I was lounging back, pain-free, choking down ice chips like they were going out of style.

The hospital is in Nashville, about 45 minutes from our apartment and our families' houses in Murfreesboro. But I swear it only took 10 minutes until the room was flooded with visitors. My mom got there first--she rushed to leave work, also in Nashville. I've never seen her, or anyone, really, in such a tizzy. Jason's parents got there shortly after and his sister and my best friend Erin, along with several cousins and aunts and family friends. Once they put in the epidural I didn't have a minute to myself. And thank God, because that would have required thinking, and realizing, and soaking in what was about to happen. The hustle and bustle of visitors and well wishes and "Are you ok's?" kept me sane.

I felt my water break before Dr. Graves even got there. Again, for all my googling trying to figure out what water breaking feels like, I can definitively say that it feels like water breaking between your legs. There is no mystery to it.

By the time Dr. Graves walked through the door, still her usual temperate self, I was dilated to a 6, almost 7. She told me I'd have a baby by the early morning. It had been five hours since I got to the doctor.

Up to that point I can't say how I felt or what was going through my mind. And I don't think it's that the memory is already clouded. I think I just honestly didn't allow myself to think much at all. I focused on the facts, the minutiae of the event. How many centimeters that contraction might have dilated me. How we were going to get my dogs to my parents' house. How we were going to get our hospital bag. If my dad, who was on a flight back from a conference in Germany during the whole ordeal, was going to make it in time to meet his grand-daughter. It was all business, no emotion.

But then it all started happening too fast.

An hour after my water broke, Dr. Graves found me dilated to an eight and decided to go get something to eat. Because isn't that always how it has to happen--things have to start snowballing the second the doctor leaves?

She told me to keep an eye out for any "pressure," but said that it would still probably be at least a few hours before I was ready to push (Note to self, and anyone else who is pregnant: doctors, even the best ones, are often wrong). So she left, and Erin, her parents and grandparents, Jason, my mom and I sat around talking. Erin tried desperately to keep me distracted. We talked about Kourtney Kardashian, and our friends, and relived funny memories from high school. It was right in the middle of a conversation with her that I felt something weird, some vague "pressure," from my abdomen.

I called the nurse, who ushered everyone except Jason and my mom out of the room. It had been fifteen minutes since Dr. Graves left. I was dilated to a 10.

That's when the facts and minutiae went out the window and emotion took over. I wasn't ready. How was it time? How could I possibly be on the brink of pushing a human out of my body? How was I--or anyone--supposed to do this? How can I expect my daughter to be healthy and my labor to be drama-free when there are so many millions of things that could go wrong?

The nurses paged Dr. Graves to hurry back. Within 20 minutes she was in her scrubs and my legs were in the stirrups. My mom was on my right, her hand on my head. Jason was on my left, his hand in my hand.

I'd read about the labor shakes--and although I still felt little pain my body had taken over. Every single ounce of me was shaking. Out of fear, out of exhaustion, out of pure emotion-overload. I shook so badly Jason had trouble holding his grip. I shook so badly I could barely talk, barely get out the words "I'm not ready," which I struggled to repeat over and over.

I started pushing at 9 o'clock. And everything--all the silly, little things--I feared about labor were nowhere to be found. I didn't care if I peed, pooped, or threw up on that table (for all of you, who like me, gave this a lot of thought, I'll tell you that even though I pushed with every tiny bit of my strength, nothing came out except a baby. And now I wish I'd spent all that time I worried about that on something more productive, like learning another language. I could be bilingual by now.)

Pushing was the hardest part. Not painful, although they dialed back the epidural enough that I could feel the twinge of each contraction. But I pushed so hard I was coughing, gagging, gasping for air. And still, a barrage of nurses and my doctor and Jason and my mom never stopped telling me to push harder, to just give it a little bit more. And I had nothing left to give.

After forty minutes of pushing, I heard the thump thump on the heart rate monitor slow down. This is the moment in all of the Baby Story shows and horror stories that the woman is raced into an emergency c-section, when the dramatic music kicks in. Adelyn's heartbeat had slowed to 50. She was having trouble getting past my pelvis.

But luckily for me I wound up with a dream doctor, one who deserves infinite praise. A c-section was never mentioned. Instead, calmly, she told me she was going to have to cut the smallest incision (another one of my biggest fears about labor, episiotomies) and bring out the vacuum. I had no reason and no will left to argue at this point; I simply nodded and shut my eyes tighter, gripped Jason and my mom's hands with a little more force.

Ten more minutes of pushing with the assistance of the vacuum and Dr. Graves took a break. She told me that during the next set of pushes, it was more important than ever that I listen to her carefully. She said she would tell me to push gently, and the second she said to stop, I had to do it. So that's what we did--for what seemed like another hour. Dr. Graves slowly pulled Adelyn past my pelvis, and I felt--not with pain, but with pressure--her head, her shoulders, her abdomen coming out.

Months ago I sat down with Jason to tell him that when the time came, I wanted him by my side. I didn't want him looking. Call me a prude, or unappreciative of the naturalness of birth, but whatever. I didn't want to see it, let alone him. So being the amazing partner that he is, he listened. He stood by my head, helped the nurse hold my leg up, and stared directly into my eyes. His gaze never wavered.

The nurses and doctor all started chirping together to look down and watch my baby come out. Again, I had no intention of looking. But they all sounded so excited that I reluctantly lifted up my chin and looked down. And there she was--remarkably unbloody, arms outstretched, beautiful. It was the most amazing thing I've ever seen.

"Look at her!" I said to Jason. He kept his gaze on my eyes locked--he knew how serious I had been about the no-look policy.

"But you told me not to!"

"Look at her!" I said again.

And he finally did. I saw his eyes fill up with tears. Seconds later they put Adelyn on my chest. She cried and we cried and I felt the biggest surge of relief I ever could imagine. My daughter was perfect. After months--years--of fear, of convincing myself that my health would never allow such a miracle, of letting myself believe in every negative aspect of my malfunctioning body. She was perfect.

Jason went to the opposite side of the room with the nurses while they cleaned her up, and I watched as Dr. Graves worked to deliver the placenta. I didn't see it come out--I was too focused on my new family. But as I saw her stitching me up in my pereferal I saw Jason hold Adelyn for the first time. He didn't think I was watching. He held her to his face and mouthed, "I love you." It sounds cheesy, but that was the best moment of this whole nine months. I'd done it. She was here.

Adelyn Belle. 7 pounds, 5.2 ounces. Born at 9:48 PM, January 25, 2010.

Jason and his dad.

Aunt Erin.

Great grandparents.

My mom.

The most beautiful girl in the world.

The first day home.

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The labor story, part one.

I haven't been sure where to start in telling this story. It went fast, that's for sure, but it's filled with so much emotion that it's hard to tell wholly and concretely. So I'll start with this.

Thank God for the epidural.

I had a wavering distaste for them before I, you know, had to use one. I knew I'd probably break down and get it, but deep down, part of me wished I could be one of those women who could claim she did it "all natural," whose baby was born without the aide of chemicals.

But I didn't waver when it came time for that needle. And because of that, I can honestly say the birth of my daughter was a beautiful--albeit terrifying--nearly pain-free experience.

On Sunday night, two of my friends came over to watch The Hangover and eat pizza. I'd been having these weird stomach cramps all day (famous last words), but they weren't time-able or alarming.

Halfway through the movie, right as a petite Asian man was jumping out of the protagonists' trunk, I finally verbalized it.

"I think these are contractions," I said, gripping my stomach.

My friend Crystal, a nurse, simply said, "If they were real contractions, wouldn't you be, like, saying 'ow?'"

And that seemed reasonable enough. They hurt, yeah, but not enough to pull out the stop watch and cry wolf. Not even enough to say "ow."

You spend so much time toward the end of your pregnancy worrying and fantasizing about those things. Contractions. I can't tell you how many times I googled "what does a contraction feel like?" How many times I asked another mother to describe them to me. How many times I felt a stomach cramp and wondered if this was it. And everyone kept telling me that when they were real, I'd just know. I wouldn't be googling.

Yet there I sat, contracting. Oblivious. Or in denial.

I didn't get a wink of sleep that night. Not even the tiniest glimmer of sleep. Every time one of the pains struck I looked at the clock, waiting for the next one and some hint of a pattern. But a pattern never came, and seven hours of tossing and turning later, Jason was getting up for work, and I was dragging myself out of bed to start the day.

I already had my 37-week doctor's appointment scheduled for Monday at 1 PM. I might have called my doctor during the night if I didn't already have that appointment. But I kept telling myself to wait, to not get too excited, that surely this wasn't it.

I made myself some eggs and carried on with my day, taking a a minute-or-so hiatus every hour to double over in pain. It was getting worse, but not any closer together. Without letting the idea that it could be the real thing permeate my thoughts, I finished packing my hospital bag. Casually. Without any air of expectation.

Jason got home from work around noon to take me to the doctor. We debated taking the bag with us to the doctor, just in case, and decided against it. Again, denial.

On the car ride to Nashville, they started coming closer together. Jason started timing--and my pain, this time, was tangible even to an outsider. This time, I was saying "ow."

Every seven minutes on the dot, I gripped the door handle and started the chant--"ow" sprinkled with a few choice expletives. By the time we reached the hospital doors, the pain was coming every five minutes.

Jason dropped me off at the front while he went to find a parking space. I got in the elevator--packed with strangers--terrified of letting the pain show. Because, by now, this pain wasn't quiet, or hide-able. It was intense, leaning over, smack the stranger-who's-staring-at-me-in-the-face real. Denial over.

I was already 3 to 4 centimeters dilated when the nurse checked me. She could feel Adelyn's hair. I'd been in labor since the day before. Those were real contractions, and for all my googling to figure out the age-old question asked by anxious pregnant women everywhere, I finally had an answer: they feel like hell. Like a pounding, burning, menstrual-cramp on crack, that starts in your back near your hips and radiates--sears--toward your abdomen.

After 9 and a half months of waiting, preparing, researching, and planning, I still wasn't ready. And I think I immersed myself in my pregnancy more so than the average woman--I wrote about it, breathed it, obsessed about it. And still, the thought of actually being in labor was too much to handle.

They sent me to triage and gave me an hour deadline to progress. If things had changed after that time, they'd admit me. If not, I'd be sent home, to deal with the exceedingly intolerable pain without medicinal help. I prayed for progress.

Jason and I walked the halls of the maternity ward for the next 45 minutes, looking every bit the part of the cliched couple waiting for labor. I wore the dingy hospital gown, he wore a terrified expression. I stopped every five minutes to put my forehead on the wall and groan in pain, he stood behind me, unsure of how to help, timidly rubbing my back. I had the worst contraction of the entire labor standing outside the hospital's nursery, looking at a baby born two hours beforehand named "Gomez." I gave him an introduction to the world he probably wasn't ready for and had to put my hands up against the nursery glass, right in front of his newly-born-face, to try to steady myself through the pain.

When we got back to the room, the nurse examined me and found I had dilated to a full-on four. With her hand still uncomfortably poking at the source of my pain, she looked up at me and smiled.

"You folks ready to have a baby today?"

And my heart nearly stopped.

Before the epidural and after we found out it was, in fact, D-Day. I'm blaming the double chin and glossy-eyed expression on the fact that I was between contractions and petrified.

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Introducing Adelyn Belle.

I so badly want to write about what happened, about the most intense, wonderful, terrifying, beautiful, exhausting experience of my life--but I literally do not yet have the wherewithal or energy to give it justice. As it turns out, having a newborn at home makes it really tricky to get enough rest. Who would have thought??

But, for now, let me introduce Adelyn Belle, the most beautiful and amazing creature I've ever seen. Born January 25, 2010 at 9:48 PM. 7 pounds and 5.2 ounces. She arrived after just 45 minutes of pushing and a freakishly fast labor (or, at least, it seemed), once I found out at my 1 PM doctor's appointment that same day that I was, in fact, experiencing contractions (I was in denial). No Pitocin needed, only the smallest tear endured, and the most miraculous human as the result.

Welcome to the world, Adelyn Belle.

Stay tuned for the labor story. For now, Adelyn has decided to sleep. And so I must follow suit.

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Hospital hiatus.

So my mucus plug fell out, and 12 hours later I was in the hospital. Except not for a happy reason.

I woke up Thursday morning at 6 a.m. sick to my stomach, then proceeded to throw up for two hours before waking up Jason. My fever got up to 102, so we called my doctor, and she asked me to come in. My fever wouldn't break. They admitted me.

24 hours later, it still refused to go away, and even got up to 103.5, sending Adelyn's poor little heartbeat up to 200 for a good few hours.

We're still not sure what was wrong (I think just a Crohn's outbreak, my doctor thinks a stomach virus that's going around and just hit me particularly hard). But they released me this morning after I finally managed to go fever-free all night.

I'll write more about the experience later. First I need to get the smell of hospital off me and take a much-needed nap in my own non sweat-soaked bed. Suffice it to say, for now, that I'm no longer in a crazy rush to give birth. I remembered how much I hate hospitals, and I spent three days terrified I would go into labor while suffering a high fever. (At one point I woke up so weak I couldn't move my legs off the bed to go pee, and when the nurses hooked me up to the monitors I was having contractions every two minutes. Luckily, they stopped after an hour or so, and only dilated me to a 1 and left me 80% effaced. Because at that moment I literally couldn't imagine having the strength to push a baby out).

Nap time.

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Progress.

Ah, pregnancy. One of the few times in a woman's life when such otherwise disgusting things can bring you so much joy.

I lost my mucus plug this afternoon. I know it can mean nothing, and it can regenerate, and sometimes labor is still weeks away, but let me just enjoy this milestone. At least it means something's happening, right?

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50% Effaced.

After about a month of feeling really, really healthy and letting myself getting sort of cocky about that fact, I'm starting to notice the all-too-familiar pangs and pains of Crohn's again. I've spent the past few days trying to determine if that god-awful dull ache I feel around my stomach is because of my disease or just the baby's way of saying hi, Mom. (I think the former.)

I've dealt with stomach pain for pretty much my entire conscious life. I'd like to say I'm a pro at masking discomfort. I've trained myself to smile when it hurts. And it's this little charade that worries me about pregnancy, because I've spent so long perfecting the art of ignoring pain that I tend to do just that--ignore it.

I think I've even thought to myself--maybe even said it out loud--that whenever, one day in the distant future, I have a baby, labor pains will hardly phase me. Thanks to a lifetime of digestive disease. It's one of those things that you know isn't true even when you're saying it, but if I've had to spend a good portion of my public life worrying about where the nearest bathrooms are, I figured the least I could do is make myself out to be some sort of tough-as-nails girl because of it.

The truth is, I'm terrified of labor. And pain. I had surgery in my teens to remove some of my intestines, and I remember waking up from the anesthetic too early and feeling the sensation of a fresh incision across my lower abdomen. I remember that pain. And I remember that I never, ever wanted to be in that kind of pain again.

I told all of this to my doctor today at my 35 week appointment. She checked me to make sure my recent problems haven't been causing any dilation (answer: no dilation but already 50% effaced, and her head's down really, really low).

I can't believe it's been nine months. But just the same I can't believe I have at least 3, maybe 5, maybe 6 weeks left to go. I'm so excited I can't stand it. And I'm so ready to put this pain-guessing game behind me and focus on being her mom.

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