The Final Score - Dr. Y: 2, Jackson: 2

It's Saturday, and I apologize for being silent to all those who have been sitting at home, clicking "refresh", waiting to find out if Jackson is here yet or not. I've been a little preoccupied with things like trying to recuperate after having a baby and stuff.

After spending all morning having strong, frequent contractions and the most hellacious back labor known to mankind (while contractions are bearable, that back labor is crap! Ohmydog so much pain I can't even tell you. Think of the worst pain you've ever felt. Now multiply that by a million, and put it in a place that you can't reach to try to soothe. Backrubs, counter pressure, heat packs...they all sound like a great idea. And yet I didn't find them as helpful as people sell them as), Dr. Y came back to my room around 2:00 on Thursday to check my cervix. I had only dilated 1 cm (you need to be 10 cm to push a baby out! I was a long way from there!) and hardly effaced at all. (The cervix was still thick, it needs to thin out to open up). So after all that work and all that pain I had made no progress towards being able to get Jack out on my own.

Dr. Y looked at me with empathic eyes and said "You know what this means". I nodded and said, "Prep the OR". I do have to say one thing here though - Dr. Y did everything in her power to honor my wishes regarding the birth I wanted. She truly and honestly did. I know I never would have gotten that kind of respect and patience out of Dr. Boob Check. I am so very grateful for Dr. Y's multiple attempts to allow me to have the birth I wanted. Her job was to have a healthy mom and a healthy baby at the end of the day. She did her job, and she did her job well. She really did try to give me what I wanted, I know she did her best. But nothing she did worked.

My heart was broken. Seriously, it hurt so bad having to admit that I was going to have a c-section that I could barely breathe, I was just racked with such immense feelings of failure and loss that my entire being shook. I'm crying right now as I revisit that moment in my head. The nurse got me ready for surgery, they called down an anesthesia guy, and I walked the longest hallway ever from Labor and Delivery to the C-Section Operating Room. I told Tim it felt like a "walk of shame". All the things I did not want so much were happening to me. I had to have an c-section, I had to have an epidural, I had to be tied to the operating table. As they were taping my arms to the wings of the table, I said "I feel like I'm being crucified". Dr. Y laughed hysterically and said that I was the funniest patient she's ever had. But I really did feel like I was making the Ultimate Sacrifice for someone else's well being. I've heard so many Epidural Horror Stories that I wanted to avoid that at all costs. But I couldn't avoid it anymore. I had no choice. I had to do this for Jack. They don't let the Daddy into the room until the procedure is ready to begin, so while they prepped me and epiduraled me, I was all alone. And I truly do mean all alone. I've never felt "alone" as a feeling more acutely in my life. They really should let the Daddies into the OR right away. Sometimes the Mommy needs him there. I certainly did. I kept hearing me telling myself over & over again in my head...'I've failed, I've failed, I've failed...". I really could have used some moral support.

I felt the epidural stuff only on my right side, so they tipped the table to the left. Without warning me. I freaked out. I screamed, "HELP ME I'M FALLING OFF THE TABLE!" because I really thought I was falling off the table, and there was no way in hell I could have fought gravity to hang on to the table. I felt like jelly. I think they gave me too much of the medicine because I was supposed to be numb from the waist down. Instead, my arms were numb, my hands tingled and I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Dr. Y cut me open and I heard her say something about a big blood vessel. I guess that's why I lost so much blood that now my labwork comes back showing me as anemic. Oopsie. Yet another thing my body can't do correctly. In a moment of pure insanity (or clarity, I guess it depends on how you see it), I asked Dr. Y to make the incision so I could try a VBAC next time. NEXT TIME!?!?! Who am I kidding?!?!?! Next time should be the last thing on my mind at this time, but still there I was, planning years ahead already. Cuz that's how I roll.

Dr. Y said the amniotic fluid looked nice & clear, which is good. Jack wasn't in such distress that he passed some of his meconium into his fluid, which can be bad for the baby (because basically they end up breathing their own crap). So that was good. I felt the pressure of her lifting Jackson from my womb.

I then experienced the longest few seconds of my life, as I waited to hear my son's cry. It couldn't have been more than 5 seconds, to be totally honest. But it felt like an eternity. I laid there with my abdomen cut open, unable to see what was going on, while Tim snapped pictures, and all I could do was wait. I kept whispering to myself "Cry, Baby, cry". This really didn't help that feeling-like-I-couldn't-breathe dealie I already had going on!

The most beautiful sound in the world is your child's first lusty wail.



I would have killed or died a million times over to hear that sound. I heard it, and my entire body went slack (like I wasn't slacky from the epidural, but whatever). He was here! He was here and he was crying and he was okay. It was the tiniest little crumb of peace and contentment, but I clung to it.

Since Jackson is a little early, he's having some complications that require he stay in NICU instead of in my room with us (Tim packed my air mattress and has been sleeping on that, on the floor so he could stay in my room with me. What a gem of a guy, huh?). His lungs are a little immature (which is why we wanted to do that amniocentesis in the first place, to check) and he had a little bit of amniotic fluid stuck in there from being born via c-section instead of a vaginal birth. When they come out through "the door", the birth canal helps squeeze that extra fluid out for them. When they have to come out through "a window" they don't get that little perk. So he is in the nursery across the hall, which sounds so close but is yet still so very far away from me. I am still a little wobbly on my feet and they just finally took the IV From Hell out of my arm last night. Jack can't take any food by mouth yet because he's not yet ready to eat and breathe at the same time. So he's on a feeding tube, and Tim has been going to the nursery every few hours to feed and cuddle him. He sings to him and tells him he's going to grow up to be the best quarterback ever of the San Francisco 49ers. :)

I try to make it over there too, but sometimes it doesn't work out with my own eating, insulin dosing and breastmilk pumping schedule. When he's not eating, the nurses want him to rest, so I am shunned from waking him in the nursery to visit with him unless it's a feeding time that fits into my schedule. Except that when I'm not eating, insulin dosing or breastmilk pumping, my doctors want me to rest too. I can't win! :(

I am still more than just a little frustrated with my birth experience. I'm getting over it, trying to accept the outcome. I'm getting there. I'm not there yet. It's really hard for me. I live life with a lot of discipline and planning. I scope out every move. I like it that way. I control my destiny. Over the past few months, I have trained for this. Millions of kegels, squats and pelvic tilts later, my bahina was prepared for birth. I feel like I trained for a marathon that I didn't get to run. It's so disappointing. I did everything I was supposed to. Everything. And it still wasn't enough. My everything wasn't enough. That *kills* me.

I have one tiny ray of sunshine in my dreary outlook. I have Jackson. I have a 6 pound, 11 oz, 19 inch long baby boy who is just the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. And while he's struggling a little bit right now, his size and weight is just what his mom worked so hard for so long for...it's *perfect*. At 37 weeks, a healthy baby of a non-diabetic mother is supposed to weigh between 6 and 7 pounds. Babies of diabetic mothers typically weigh more when the diabetes isn't controlled at all, or is poorly controlled. Not my baby. I worked my tushus off and it shows. It might sound stupid to you, but I take great pride in his size.

Before turning off the lights to go to bed last night, I told Tim the bad news.

I told him there was another man in my life now. Tim said, "Oh yeah?" And I said "Yeah. But don't worry, he doesn't even weigh 7 pounds. You could totally take him out."

And so, I present to you our firstborn son, Jackson Phoenix, who was born on Thursday, September 28th at 2:19 pm. He is 19 inches long and is 6 pounds, 11 ounces of the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. However, I will readily admit that I am quite biased.