How Little Doctors Know

On the second day of my maternity leave, I had a scheduled doctor's appointment - which was a good thing, because I awakened with what felt like contractions.

"I think I want you to drive me there," I told my husband. "I have a feeling I won't be coming home right away."

I had yet to pack the little overnight bag the folks at Cedars suggested we have at the ready. After all, I hadn't actually been expecting the baby for another couple of weeks, which I had planned to spend with lots of long lunches with old friends I rarely saw any longer. I decided it was a good thing I'd spent the previous day shopping for all the items that we'd NOT received at my shower... including a nightgown that buttoned down the front, so I could nurse the baby -- and a pair of pajamas my husband could wear while he stayed with me overnight at the hospital (because he did not have any!)

I was having such a wonderful time fantasizing about the baby's arrival that I almost didn't hear the doctor's assessment: "That baby isn't coming any time soon."

The contractions were just more Braxton-Hicks (even if they were more intense than I'd been experiencing). I tried to remember that as we traveled back from the Beverly Hills medical office to our place in the Valley via Coldwater Canyon. I had to make my husband drive slowly, as every little bump and dip in the road felt like agony.

It was too late for my husband to return to work, so we took advantage of our time together by checking out the home day care place I was thinking of using when my leave was over. The baby will not be here any time soon, I reminded myself as the pains kept coming.

We went out to dinner that night and sat outside, under the full moon. It was unseasonably warm for April, but I ended up having the soup. The tightness in my uterus wasn't doing much for my appetite.

We retired early to watch TV in bed. We were enjoying a particularly funny episode of "Frasier." I was laughing out loud at one of the lines; a real belly laugh -- when another of those contractions hit.

And my water broke.

I must have been going on instinct, because a split-second later (without taking the time to process what was happening), I was sitting on the toilet. My husband says he hadn't seen me move that fast in my nine months of pregnancy -- or ever.

"What's the matter with you?" he shouted.

I told him, all the time cursing myself for ignoring the advice to use plastic sheeting. That must of been in my head when I darted into the bathroom -- I'm proud of the fact that I did not get ONE DROP of fluid on the bed.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"OF COURSE I'M SURE!!!!"

Stupid question. The fluid kept on coming, unless I shifted my weight a certain way, where I could feel the baby blocking it. There was no question about it. It was time.

We went to Cedars the long way, on the 101 (avoiding the Canyon this time). I called my mom to let her know what was happening. We pulled into the emergency room space we'd been shown during childbirth classes and a nurse assessed me.

"You're not in labor," she said.

How can that be? I'd had contractions all day. We drove to the hospital with a folded up beach towel beneath my butt and it was soaked.

"It happens. We need to induce."

I had been looking forward to using one of the hospital's cheery birthing rooms, which were kitted out with all kinds of little luxuries, including a VCR. It had been a fantasy of mine to force my husband (who HATES them) to watch one of my favorite old movies with me while we were there. (You laugh at me now! What did I know?) But since I wasn't yet in labor, they wheeled me into a tiny, spartan room where I was hooked up to a pitocin drip and a monitor.

I have low pain threshold and the thought of going into labor scared me. I had no intention of having a natural childbirth; and as I was one month away from my 40th birthday, the prospect of having the staff and equipment of a major hospital was reassuring.

My doctor made an appearance. "This shows you how little we actually know," he laughed. "Your baby had her own idea."

He asked if I wanted an epidural, reminding me that if I waited too long, I would not be able to receive one. There was no question about it: I wanted it.

The plan was to move us into nice birthing room as soon as I started to dilate. I never got there. But Every time I had a large contraction, the monitor indicated stress on the baby's heart. So the decision was made to SLOW the labor.

It became a vicious cycle. I wasn't progressing, so they would re-start the pitocin, but then they would stop it again when the baby's heart slowed.

I never dilated past three centimeters.

By 3:00 a.m., I knew that I would have to have a Cesarean, and I started to panic. That was the one part of the childbirth classes I zoned out on. With my hips, I didn't think I would ever need it. I had not counted on the possibility of the umbilical cord wrapping around the baby's neck in such a way that she might get strangled by a vaginal delivery. This very thing had happened recently to one of my colleagues at work. Her baby was stillborn. I started to cry.

A couple of hours later, my doctor returned. "We could keep on like this for several more hours," he said. "Or we can just go in and take the baby out."

I was scared. This was my first time in a hospital since my own birth. I had no experience with surgery. But as afraid as I was of the c-section, I was more afraid of losing the baby. I agreed.

The rest is kind of a blur. I remember my husband left the room to clean up and don a sterile gown while the anesthesiologist giving me a spinal. I remember getting wheeled in to a spartan OR. I remember meeting the surgeon. I remember closing my eyes. I only know about the intestines the doctors swept away and the size of my uterine fibroids because my husband thinks it's funny to tell me.

I remember my doctor ordering me to "LOOK!"

I opened my eyes in time to catch a glimpse of the mirror on the ceiling, which allowed me to see the doctors lift my baby girl out of me.

I remember being surprised at how tiny she was -- just 5 1/2 pounds. The nurse lectured my husband about the dangers of smoking while pregnant (neither one of us is a smoker -- my doctor surmised that Megan's low birth weight was due to a lack of nutrients from that cord wrapped around her neck).

I remember the nurses making me walk the moment the anesthetic wore off, and how painful that was.

I remember being overwhelmed with joy, because after years of trying, I finally had my beautiful baby.

Twelve years later, she still fills me with joy. Well, most of the time...

Original post for Los Angeles Moms Blog. Donna Schwartz Mills also blogs about trying to stay cool at SoCal Mom.