A Birth Story - Pt. II

Pt. I Pt. II Pt. III

8:00 AM: State of the Ute Address

Sack o' amniotic goodness: officially breached!
Private room: officially obtained!
General mood: wheeeeeeeee!
Was that a contraction?: fuck, yeah!

The sun is up, the birds are delivering spirited avian renditions of Broadway classics and we are kickin' back in the Labor Suite. The Labor Suite is part of the hospital's brand-new Julius and Ethel Rosenberg Memorial Baby-Poppin' Pavilion. It is nicer than some hotel rooms I've visited. Hell, it may be nicer than my house (my delicate condition having led to a rather indelicate degree of filthiness as of late). My contractions are coming on slowly and leisurely; I'm finding them to be quite manageable. "This is IT?" I think, twining my fingers in the bedsheets and slowly exhaling, "I can deal with THIS!" I'm clutching the sheets – rather than, say, a birthing ball or a soothing CD (Now That's What I Call Atonal Whale Songs! Vol. XI) – due to my ol' bacterial nemesis, Group B Strep. Wondering how that works? Permit me to explain.

GBS leads to IV antibiotics. IV antibiotics lead to – duh – an IV. An IV leads to a restricted range of motion. A restricted range of motion leads to a the medical equivalent of a hazing ritual, wherein a hospital worker says, "Okay, folks, so whadda we got here? A globe? Chained to a pole? What do you say we strap a big, uncomfortable elastic band around that bitch?" A big, uncomfortable elastic band (otherwise known as an electronic fetal monitor) leads to a snarl of wires, which leads to a plug, which leads to a discarded prop from "2001: A Space Odyssey", which is beeping softly next to your bed… which, incidentally, you are not permitted to leave for more than a minute at a time. Eat it, globe. (But don't eat anything else. That's not permitted.)

Am I bitter about the massive, iodine-scented volume of medical intervention to which I've been subject? Slightly – but only slightly. I'm giving birth in a spacious, sanitary private room. The majority of the world's women deliver their babies in conditions which are uncomfortable at best, dangerous at worst. I may be temporarily tethered by latex and discomfort; this doesn't change the fact that I'm a middle-class American, privileged through and through. My annoyance is tempered by gratitude. My excitement is interrupted by the occasional round of fully-bearable abdominal cramping. I breathe deeply, I chat with Baby-Daddy and Mother-In-Law (who has stopped by to lend a little moral support), I sip apple juice from a tiny plastic cup. Everything is going swimmingly... that is, until the arrival of...

9:00 AM: The Pitocin Patrol!

[Disclaimer: exaggerated for comedic effect... but only barely]

Dr. Speculina: "I recommend that we augment your labor with Pitocin. Your water's broken, but you're only a few centimeters dilated. We need to speed things up to make sure we're not putting the baby at risk." [Ed. Note: the longer the labor, the greater the chance of Little Lord Fetus' holding tank being contaminated by GBS germs]

Jul: "Well... um... I've heard some pretty bad stories about Pitocin, so I was kind of hoping to... not..."

Dr. Speculina: "Well, if you WANT to put your baby at enormous risk..."

Jul: "No, no, of course not! I was just wondering if there were any other options, maybe wait a little while and see how things go..."

Dr. Speculina: "I mean, technically, we could jam a manure-crusted garden trowel up there, too, just to 'see how things went'."

Jul: "You're pretty dead-set on the Pitocin, aren't you?"

Dr. Speculina: [glare comparable in frostiness to the one Gloria Steinem would deliver if slapped on the ass and instructed to rustle up a pot roast]

Jul: "Okay! Okay! I give!"

Dr. Speculina: "Eeeeeeexcellent." [whips open white coat, eagerly yanks out baggie of high-grade Columbian "P-Toc".]

[fade to black]

9:30 AM:

Baby-Daddy: "Can I get you some juice?"
Jul: [turns head away, does not respond]
Baby-Daddy: "Do you need some more Chapstick?"
Jul: [turns head away, does not respond]
Baby-Daddy: "Want to sit on your birthing ball for a minute?"
Jul: [silent glare, the intensity of which makes Dr. Speculina's best effort look like that of a puppy begging for a tummy rub]
Baby-Daddy: "Um... whoa... well... do you want us to go to the cafeteria for a little while?"
Jul: [nods vigorously, turns head away]

Poor Baby-Daddy. He'll never really get over the snubbing he's currently enduring. He hates to see me in pain... but he really, really hates not being permitted to help. His forced exodus from the Labor Suite will be the subject of black humor for years to come.

Typical Account of Labor, Jul: "Well, I felt very strongly compelled to focus... without any distractions."

Typical Account of Labor, Baby-Daddy: "So I was like, 'What can I do for you, honey?' And you were like, 'GET OUUUUUUUT!' And I was like, 'Well, can I rub your back?' And you were like, 'GET OUUUUUUUT!' So I was like, 'Is there ANYTHING I can do?' And you were like, 'YES, YOU CAN DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE!'"

This account - while amusing - is not entirely accurate. I don't yell, I don't scream. Nor do I speak, or interact in any fashion beyond the occasional blistering glare. My demeanor can best be described as a charming amalgam of autistic and homicidal. Baby-Daddy and Mother-In-Law slowly creep out the door, praying that the squeak of their shoes on linoleum doesn’t cause my spooky, silent wrath to flare.

10:00 AM: Pit of Despair

Ah, Pitocin. Ol’ buddy, ol’ pal. How I wish to draw you near, to hold you in my arms… to squeeze you… harder… and harder… and HARDER…

Pitocin is a synthetic form of oxytocin, a hormone released naturally during childbirth (as well as many other non-agonizing moments, such as breastfeeding and orgasm). Per the manufacturer (Merck), faux-tocin is intended to “[produce] the rhythmic uterine contractions characteristic to delivery”. Like Baby-Daddy’s characterization of my behavior during labor (“Do you want some whale songs?” “THE WHALES SHOULD ALSO DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE!”), this is both hilarious and a teeny, tiny, eensy-weensy bit inaccurate.

Well, let me rephrase. It’s a fucking lie.

The contractions characteristic to a natural, non-augmented delivery wax and wane. They begin slowly, then build in frequency and intensity. They feature a well-defined beginning, middle and end; it is this nifty “end” feature which allows the laboring woman to relax, breathe deeply, listen to Shamu belting out “Inagaddadavida” and prepare for the next onslaught.

Synthetic oxytocin is not released in dribs and drabs. It is delivered at a steady clip via infusion pump, the dosage increased every half-hour or so until a “desired labor pattern is achieved”. In many cases – and certainly in mine – “desired labor pattern” is a euphemism for “slavering hellhound of a contraction which gnaws at your uterus like it’s a goddamned Booda Bone. For hours. Houuuuuuuuuuuuurs.”

It’s brutal, exhausting and unrelenting. It’s also, as I discovered quite by accident, entirely endurable.

TO BE CONTINUED...