. . . nor heat nor gloom of night stays the stork from the swift completion of his appointed rounds . . ."
--(apologies to) Herodotus
Where to begin? With the big news first: our little Gillian Rose made her sweet entrance into the world last night at 9:26 p.m. She is a peanut--6 lbs, 2 oz., and 19.5 inches long. She has long fingers and toes, and dark hair like her big sister. She also bears an uncanny resemblance to her grandpa Merle.
Or maybe we should begin at the beginning, which is hard to pinpoint. This past weekend, we were hit hard by the snow. We endured a harrowing few hours when my contractions had gotten closer together and stronger, but we were totally housebound by 28 inches of snow, the streets were not passable for an ambulance (our failsafe plan)--and then our power went out. We sat in the dark and prayed that we wouldn't have a baby that night, and thankfully, she stayed put.
Then, with the forecast of more snow, and the contractions continuing regularly at about 8 minutes, we were concerned that I might be getting more dilated and then have a very fast labor like last time--while snowed in or powerless. We were fairly confident that we could get to the hospital, except that we also would have needed time for Allison Clare's babysitter to arrive (which could take a while if she was snowed in, plus extended travel time as she lives a bit away) or get her to a friend's house here in town. So we decided to go to the hospital to see if I was getting further dilated--we figured they couldn't say that I was not going into labor, but they might be able to tell us if I was.
10:00 a.m. Babysitter arrives, and we head unhurriedly to the hospital. The doctor says I'm 3 cm dilated. Suppposedly I was 3.5 at my last appointment, and more effaced, so no progress there. But they've had a couple of babies born in cars on the side of the snowy roads and at home in the last few days, so everyone is extra cautious and they want to monitor the contractions for a while.
noon-ish. No further dilation. Sam and I figure we'll stop for milk and drop off a package at the post office, then relieve the babysitter and send her home in advance of the storm. We wait for our official release, but they decide to have us stick around for another hour.
1:30. Contractions pick up a bit, with some at 6 minute intervals. The doctors are happy.
3:15 A different doctor checks and says I'm 4 cm dilated. I wonder if the difference is just subjective, but she says they're going to break my water. And the parts of me that are 1) hoping not to have a baby at home, 2) relieved that AC is already settled with her beloved babysitter, and 3) tired of waiting, all agree. They move us right into another room and break my water within a few minutes.
6:00. Still not much happening, contractions picking up to 4 min. but not too uncomfortable. 5 cm. dilated. We figure we are in for a long night.
7:00. Nurses change shifts and laugh at us because Sam is on his laptop and I am reading on my iPod Touch (I seriously love the e-reader function right now . . .).
7:45. Contractions are 2-3 minutes apart and getting more uncomfortable, to where I have to breathe through them. I tell Sam that I could pretty easily bear them like this, but I know they'll get worse, and possibly last a longer time than with AC. We weigh the epidural option and decide in favor of it.
8:15. I feel like I might need to push soon, but the nurse checks and I'm only 7 cm. I'm a little confused--isn't that supposed to happen at the time when you are fully dilated? And I'm impatient for the anesthesiologist--where is he?
He shows up and asks me to curl up on my side. This position feels almost impossible and incredibly painful, as I'm suddenly wracked with powerful contractions. I'm almost sobbing and pretty pathetic, as he's saying, "Curl your back toward me, honey, or I won't be able to get it in," and I'm whimpering, "I can't--please don't stop!" I can feel him working super fast, ripping my gown open and taping me up and shoving things around behind me.
8:30. Epidural is in, the nurse checks, and I've gotten fully dilated in the last 15 minutes. The anesthesiologist is now my best friend. I must remember to write odes to him, conduct parades in his honor.
8:45. Labor with an epidural is the best! I start pushing, feeling all relaxed and lazy, and suddenly Sam can see the top of her head. I ask for a mirror, and they set it up. I push when I feel a contraction, relax in between, and actually fall asleep (somewhat embarrassing, but I think only Sam noticed) between a couple of them. Everyone is standing around--two doctors, a nurse, and Sam--and we are all joking and laughing and making small talk and watching with interest as the baby makes her tiny bits of progress.
At one point, another woman on the floor is about to give birth, and our doctor asks if it's okay if she goes down to the other room for 5 minutes. In my epidural-induced bliss, I'm all about the largess--sure! I figure I might take another surreptitious nap, and we all chat some more and I peer down at the mirror and still can't believe that baby is actually going to come out, even though I can see the top of her head.
The doctor comes back after a few minutes. She asks if I can feel anything, and I feel like a furtive child--don't want to tell the truth (no) because I'm afraid they might lessen my epidural. But I do feel enough to be able to push, and I do, and suddenly I can feel that the baby is crowning, and there she is! She gave us a cry and was already pink and perfect. I had no tearing--it was a total breeze. She was born at 9:26, after about 40 minutes of pushing . . . including naps.
I got to hold her right away, and then they cleaned her up a little and gave her back to me, and as soon as I held her up, she latched on and nursed like she had been doing it, well, all her life. She nursed for an hour and 15 minutes while we called our families and waited to be moved into our room. It's a huge relief, since AC had such feeding issues. Gillian seems basically unperturbed by it all--she hasn't even needed a pacifier in the nursery . . . I just went down to peek at her through the window, and she was yawning and sleeping amid all the squalling.
We are so thankful to God for the blessing of her safe (and easy) arrival. Thanks to all of you who thought of us and prayed for us!
