The Birth Story: Or How I Got Filleted - Her View

On Wednesday morning, I was apprehensive, but prepared. We were going to the hospital to have an external version done to flip the baby from breech position to head-down. I was trying to think good thoughts, and be positive that it would work.

We arrived at 7:30, and were taken up to labor and deliver. They perform all versions there, in case it leads to a c-section. That, of course, wouldn't be me -- or so I assumed. They took us to a recovery room across from the c-section suite and started trying to thread my IV for the medicine that would relax my uterus. There was a little confusion, as it appeared the orders hadn't been put in. The doctor arrived at 8:15, and wheeled in an ultrasound to confirm the position of the baby. He was still head up, of course. Then she did a quick check of my cervix. She had told me a week before that if I was dilated to more than a 4, they wouldn't be able to perform the procedure.

When she finished the check, she looked up at me and said, "Well, you're between a 4 and a 5, and I can easily make you a 5. I usually want to wait until 39 weeks to do a c-section, but I'm not comfortable with you walking around at a 5. You would probably go into labor naturally in the next week, and he is situated so far down, he's actually dilating you with his butt. There is no chance this baby is going to turn on his own, because he is really wedged down in there. So, if you guys are ready, we can go ahead and do this today."

I'm not sure "stunned" really covers it here. I mean, we knew it was a possibility, and the car was packed with everything we needed in case we did end up with a c-section. We thought that warded us against having one. The more prepared you are for a situation, the less likely it is to come true, right? That was my strategy, anyway.

After thinking about it barely a second, both of us agreed. Labor meant possible cord prolapse, depriving the baby of oxygen, which could lead to brain damage. Much as I wanted a natural birth, any harm coming to the baby terrified me. The doctor turned to the nurses and said, "How quick can we do this?"

It was only 8:30 at this point, but they were able to settle on an 11 operation. Only two and a half hours later. At this point, I turned to Greg and said, "Why don't you go get some breakfast?" Greg is notorious for skipping breakfast, as he had that morning. My first thought was of getting into the operating room and Greg collapsing from low blood sugar. I would not be delivering this child with my husband passed out on the floor. He agreed, and ran off to find something to eat. I got out A Feast of Crows, which I had conveniently placed in my purse that morning.  Nothing prepares you for childbirth like stories of war, incest and blood lust.

Greg came back quickly, and the next couple of hours passed so fast, I can't really remember them. The next thing I know, I was being walked into the operating room, hospital gown flying open at every opportunity and sharing my ample backside with the world. The room was freezing - probably 60-65 degrees. They sat me on the table and immediately draped my front side with warm blankets. The back had to stay exposed for my spinal block.

The block itself was highly unpleasant. It began with the application of what seemed to be a giant sticker that said "Start Pain Here." The anesthesiologist called it a "plastic drape." I like my description better. She then gave me a shot ("It's nothing - just feels like a wasp sting" she says. Seriously?) to numb the area. Then, and I can't confirm this since I couldn't see anything, but I'm pretty sure she started digging around in my spinal cord with a rusty butter knife. A nurse stood in front of me to keep me from passing out or falling forward off of the two-by-four they wanted me to lay on for the operation. I'll admit that this is the point when I became the biggest baby in the room. Tears filled my eyes, because all I could think was that I wanted Greg holding me up and not the nurse who had just passed her boards that morning at 3 a.m. (seriously - she told us). But they had told me he couldn't come in until after I was ready for the surgery. So I didn't whine, but I did start bawling like a baby, while staying completely still since I didn't want the rusty butter knife to sever my spinal cord and leave me paralyzed.

A few moments later (or an hour, I'm not sure), they finally finished (after much discussion between anesthesiologists which involved disconcerting phrases like, "Are you sure?" and "I think you should probably try it again over here") and my feet immediately warmed as if I had stuck them in a bath. Then the warmth traveled along my legs and they had me quickly flip around and lay down on the "bed." At this point, everything went so fast, I hardly remember any of it, other than the constant thought of, "I want Greg. I want Greg." Someone put an oxygen mask on me, probably because I looked like I was about to pass out, the drape went up in front of my face, so my out-of-body experience could begin, and people talked about vacation plans.

At some point, Greg finally came in, wearing scrubs. I would have normally commented on how ridiculous he looked, but all sense of humor abandoned me at this point. I was laying as if crucified, arms straight out to either side, and Greg grabbed my hand. From my vantage point, I could only see him if I turned my head at an excruciating angle, but it didn't stop me. Someone said, "Okay, Jennifer. We're getting started." And then the weirdness really started. I could feel my body being moved, I could feel pressure here and there, but I couldn't identify where anything was coming from. Behind the drape, I imagined them doing a conga line on my stomach, or perhaps just playing it like bongos. I would never know.

The doctor said, "Almost there," at one point, and I braced myself for something to hurt. Or feel. But instead, a few second later, I heard this strangled, choking cry. A fluid-filled cry. And I had my own fluid-filled cry that went out to him. I wanted to see him, but Greg was able to stand up and look at our vernix-covered baby. For the next few minutes, I ignored what was happening to my body and my ears strained to hear that cry in the next room where they were quickly cleaning him up to go to the nursery with Greg. Now and then, I'd hear it and start laugh/crying again.

Someone appeared behind Greg holding a package, and after first thinking, "Why are they going to give him that here? Can't it wait?" I realized that it was our baby and got his attention so he would turn around and take it. He was wearing a little cap and looked totally shocked. I don't blame him. That wasn't how either of us had envisioned him coming into the world. I stroked his tiny cheek and put my hand on his warm little head. About 3 milliseconds later, the nurse asked Greg to follow him so they could take our little Guy Lawrence to the nursery for initial testing and cleanup. I would have followed them, but I was kind of strapped to the table and numb from the chest down. Puts a damper on escape plans.

I'm not sure what they did after that, because all I could think was, "I want Guy and Greg. I want Guy and Greg." I'm sure they did some sutures or something, probably put humpty dumpty back together as best they could, etc. They took down the drape, and I watched fascinated as they manipulated the giant weights on the bottom of my body. I had ceased to have any feeling whatsoever in my legs. A team of five or 20 people did the transfer you always see in the movies, "1, 2, 3!" and I'm moved from one "bed" to an actual gurney with room for all of my body parts.

I was wheeled into the recovery room (the same room where I was supposed to get the version only hours before), and waited. I was groggy from the loss of blood and the spinal. I did my best Kill Bill impression as I tried to move my legs for the nurse. The sooner I could wiggle them, the faster I could get upstairs to my room and have some serious time with my little boy. Luckily, they brought him back down only a few minutes later, and handed him to me. They laid him skin-to-skin on my chest and let him work his head around to find my nipple. He found it, attempted to latch, but kind of made a mess of things. We kept trying, and he whimpered, missed the nipple, whimpered and missed again. I mostly just laughed at him and tried to memorize his little hands and feet and ran my hands over his waxy hair.

I'm not sure how long we were there, how I made it up to my room or what happened for the next two hours, because I was lost and in love. Guy Lawrence Tatum weighed in at 6lbs 13ozs at birth, and was 19 inches long, born at 11:42 on August 1. I spent 48 hours in the hospital and then went home with our new family. Those 48 hours were filled with visits from family and friends, but mostly I just gazed at the baby, and agreed with every wonderful thing said about him. I took copious pictures with my iPhone and marveled at the view out of our hospital windows - all of downtown Tulsa. It was a beautiful two days, but I was ready to go home at the end and start our life.

So now here we are. And I'm going to stop typing here, because Greg has been holding my Guy way too long, and I think it's time for some snuggles from Mommy.

- Jennifer

PS - Greg's story is yet to come!