PAIL September Monthly theme post: Write to life.

This post is part of the PAIL monthly theme posts (Pregnancy After Infertility and Loss), and September’s theme is Why we blog. . Other posts from the members are here.

I started blogging in February of 2011 as a space to record my journey as we tried to conceive. I’d spent so long trying not to get pregnant, it was just weird to be on the other bus!!! I needed somewhere to clarify how I felt about it, and I’ve always done that with writing. Private Blogging was just an evolution of my existing emotional processes.

Six months later, I began thinking we may have a problem, reading infertility blogs, trying to get my head around what was next. On my fortieth birthday I was sitting in an IVF clinic waiting room with a wad of Internet research and an armload of questions, PCOS for me and a couple of low sperm counts for hub-in-boots. The thoughts had to go somewhere.

Trying to conceive is inherently funny. IVF is inherently funny. The things you have to do to help science make a baby are madness. Absolute madness! Counting follicles like you have an egg carton in a supermarket, injecting yourself, wandering around secretly carrying ovaries that look and feel like bunches of lead grapes. Jerking off in strange rooms with bar fridges and porn…it ain’t your normal journey.

I also felt writing about it here would allow hub-in-boots to see my emotional journey in his own space and time, if and when he wanted to read about it, not by my leaning on him too heavily (at least at first). I thought it would help us communicate, with more space and reflection. I think it definitely achieved this, and our journey through IVF and bedrest were, I’m sure, much more harmonious and mutually supportive as a result.

Plus, once you’re out about IVF, you can get tired answering the same questions, talking about it all the time. I blogged so I didn’t have to spend my life talking about it. Everyone knew where we were at, so we could start conversations from a place of shared info. People didnt have to ask me how it worked, I wrote it out for them.

The decision to be “out” about IVF was a very personal and practical one. I had depression years ago. I suffered very very badly, before I knew what was happening. I remember thinking if I really knew what it was, what it felt like before hand, I would’ve recognised it, and got help sooner. When I got better. I swore I would be out about depression. I would always tell people, I would talk about it, if it was relevant. Just in case it helped just one person.

And so it was with infertility. Another taboo, another outspoken Jo. Another hope to suffer with a purpose. And with humour.

You would think that pregnancy would end an infertility blog, but the fact is, a pregnant “infertile” feels differently about being pregnant. It is a whole other category of complicated. Add that to pregnant infertile, with a sub chorionic haematoma of grave proportions with a complicated pregnancy on extended bedrest, hell yeah I still needed to blog. I was living in liminal space, on the threshold of everything, but nowhere.

I needed to blog my child into existence.
I needed to write him alive.
I needed to distance myself from the spectre of loss that sat beside us, waiting for tragedy.

And when jman arrived, I needed to blog myself into being a Mum. I needed to blog his first days, as a gift to him. I needed to blog away that spectre of loss that haunted us, to blog away the pregnancy trauma, (because waiting and hoping 24/7 it is traumatic).

As jman hit nine weeks old, my nephew, 22, committed suicide. No warning. Simon, originally himself a very premi baby with months in NICU, would have been twenty three on Monday.

I felt like the spectre of loss had just moved somewhere else in the family, that it was still here. I felt that our making it through somehow contributed to Simon not making it. I understand this is completely illogical, nonsense, but emotions can speak other truths from logic. My anxiety skyrocketed. I had nightmares about the ‘inquest at jensen’s death’ if he slept through more than a couple of hours. I dreamt of my nephew. I dreamt of losing Jensen, as in physically leaving him places. I didn’t always directly write about these things, but I tried to blog myself to a more positive mindset, to record each day, to see how real and alive he was, and to see how safe we were, even as my mummy radar shifted into overdrive.

On a more prosaic and joyful level, I wanted to share the joy of this special boy who we’d worked so hard for. I wanted to celebrate his life, with both those who loved us in real life, and those who had joined us in our journey, online, and rooted for us, and cheered for us, and cried for us, and helped to bring him here. They all pushed us another step forward.

It does annoy me a bit, people that condemn Internet over sharing about their children. I get the safety thing, I get it, but what they miss is how enmeshed you are at first as a mum, how their life is your life for a long time. I will end this blog at some point, when I feel it is taking from jman rather than recording for him. I’m his mother, I trust I can make that judgement, like I make a thousand other judgements for him, every single day.

I thought about transitioning to another space when he arrived, but it is all part of our journey. It is all part of the one continuum, and I don’t care who knows the gory details. I don’t care if it doesn’t have tidy easy to tag cookie cutter blogger edges. It is our life. It is messy and multi faceted. It is worth sharing.

Right now, with a fourteen month old tear away on the loose, blogging is sometimes another nagging chore, but mostly it is a perspective changer. It can be hard when you’re picking up books for the sixteenth time that day, have just been hit in the head with a yoghurt covered spoon, and you’re wondering why you bothered with two degrees and whatever happened to your brain? Because I might blog about them, because I have a problem with perfectionism and at times negative thinking, blogging, particularly humourous posts, make me stop and reframe the moment, from “what a disaster!” to”what a hilarious post!”.

When I travelled solo, or dated idiots, I’d always think how Would I Tell the Story; as I got stuck in carriage full of smugglers having lost my passport on a Bulgarian night train on the border, faced with an Alsatian with bad breath, the thought of the dinner party story it would become made me stop and reassess, and not panic. And so it is with the parenting trip. I think in stories, in words, in connecting my story with other stories. I always have. A blog is simply a logical next step.

The value in blogging after, after infertility and insurmountable odds, is firstly to show it is possible to those still in the trenches. Secondly it is to celebrate the joy of a little person becoming a person, growing, developing, and thirdly to acknowledge that how I parent requires everything I have been until now, and more.

Lastly, and this is something I only thought about after I first drafted this post, when you become a mum it is a time of personal upheaval. You lose who you were. You lose your edges. You get to be someone else, but eventually I think you need to try and recognise which parts of yourself are lost, and to an extent mourn them, which parts are new and worth celebrating, and integrate those disparate selves into a whole. This, I think, is how you avoid becoming “just a mum”, how you avoid resenting your partner or child through the upheaval, how you find a way to parent well, and how you find a new normal by selecting from the smorgasbord of selves to create a new plate of you. I’m laying out my dishes in these pages, I’m looking at what is there, I’m thinking which parts I want a second helping of. That’s why I blog.

The Monday (tues) snapshot: yard

As the brisk autumn end of days close in, we’ve taken to getting fresh air before sunset in the yard. Jman loves the birds, boats and helicopters,and always sleeps a lot better after a dose of fresh air and nature’s inputs. Though yesterday he was pulling up on everything, so the one storey drop to the water and rocks adds a little bit of extra vigilance….I’m glad there’s a fence. It’s nice to have some calm time together before the meal-bath-our meal-play-bed kerfuffle.

Monday snapshot: Today’s the day

Today’s the day that jman’s life started, in a little petri dish, on the first floor of a nondescript building in Greenwich. Today’s the day, a year ago, that the scientists rang me to say we had 12 eggs fertilised in our second ivf attempt (three embryos made it to day 5).

It is a strange feeling to look at him, laying here attacking his owl on his playmat, and think that a year ago today he was one cell, thinking of becoming two, thinking of being a hatching blastocyst in 5 days, thinking of joining me on the 30th. After all we’ve been through. It’s amazing.

I should have taken his photo, in that petri dish on the camera on day 5, but for the Monday snapshot you can make do with these:

Chapter 5: Gumby becomes the J-man: Jensen Angus is born

Chapter  5: Gumby becomes the J-man.

Chapter 4: we’ve contracted, we’ve gone from ACDC to classical, we’ve moaned, we’ve seen a head. I was reaching down to deliver our boy and…..

And as I went to lift him up to my stomach, STOP! He wouldn’t come! The umbilical cord was too short for him to reach! It was like he had a handbrake on! And he stayed there, in mid air, held by the midwife. My first thought, as he was waiting for his cord to be cut, was “He’s not big at all! He’s REALLY little!”.After a bit of open mouthed pausing, Stew was able, through his shock, to get down there and cut the cord, and they put Gumby-Jensen, finally wailing onto my chest. He was lovely, and I could see him reacting to my voice almost straight away. Not as mucky as I’d expected. They put a bunny rug over his back as he nestled in close, and I laugh-cried sobbing-laughing for what seemed like ages, til his crying stopped and his eyes opened slowly, eventually. We cuddled for a long time. It seemed as real as a marching band parading through the ward, delivering this baby.

I was a bit out of it on the gas, and finally being able to let go of the tight tight control I’d had of my breathing and focus for the past however long. Everything we’d fought for, for so bloody long came down to this moment.

And, just as I’d visualised, right then the song playing was a Peter Gabriel cover of “The Book of Love”. Please listen to this song. It is glorious. It is beautiful. (Have tissues at the ready). And just as I had pictured in my head, this was the song playing as our son hit the decks and made us into a family. It felt as though I’d painted this moment into reality. And everything about it sums up everything that brought us to right here and right now. With my boy in the corner of our apartment lounge room, quietly rustling awake, ready for his next feed.

I don’t know how something as simple as words can describe that day. The day that we had all hung on so bloody hard for. The day that arrived like a pre scripted affair, that lived up to everything it promised. The day I had thought about thousands and thousands of times, lying in bed, sitting in emergency, hearing “your baby still has a heartbeat” said to me so many times. The day that came and went quietly, without fuss, like walking to the top of a gentle hill and seeing what lay beyond it, and coasting down the other side. Words cannot do it justice. Music cannot do it justice. Photographs cannot do it justice.

Hope is like a giant beacon that flashes from a lighthouse in the darkest night. And though once I wrote in a previous non pregnant post that hope is like a monkey trap, sometimes hope is all we have. And sometimes it is all we need to keep us going. That and bloody minded stubbornness. That’s where I come in. And I guess, the J-man too. He must be stubborn. Tell me I can’t do something and you’ll motivate me for life. Tell me this pregnancy won’t last, and baby, I’ll show you something completely different.  I’ll show you our son. For many days, our hope, and the hope of those around us, was all we had to hang onto. And I am so glad we hung onto it, that we weathered it. That we made it.

But all good things must come to an end, and Dr North Korea did indeed arrive. My sister immediately asked him if we got a discount, seeing as he hadn’t made it. He gave her a death stare I reckon, after his mock good natured chuckle. According to the labour report it was 18 minutes of pushing. Not quite enough for him to make it to North Sydney from the city! His midwife told me he TORE out of the offices when he got the call, but still wasn’t quite there in time. And I was glad. I had the delivery I wanted.

And then the fun started. I saw a flicker of concern pass his face after he got me to push (again? Are you serious?) and deliver the placenta. I never even felt the injection go into my thigh to speed up the third stage. My sister later said there was a lot of blood. The obstetrician had a fleeting look of concern, a moment of indecision, I felt. This was one of those possible nasty turns, and I recognised it. Cathy leaned over and quietly said “are we ok here?” to the midwife. They were looking to him. And after a split second of indecision, of weighing up that I saw pass across his features, gauging me and my tolerance versus the situation, he decided to stitch me up under gas with just a local anaesthetic. I had a feeling he was considering whether to send me for surgery. And I decided I didn’t need to know what was happening and I blocked my ears to their replies, and looked at Gumby/Jensen.

Dr North Korea explained they would do it then and there, the internal stitches, but that I’d need to use the gas. More bloody gas. The next 30 minutes were harrowing. So so hard. He SWORE I would not feel the pain, just the pressure. I SWORE I felt the pain. And the knots. And the thread pulling through my skin. OH HORRID. And in my head, I was so so concerned that I was squeezing the baby as I sucked on the gas, and no one would notice and I’d kill him. I was SO convinced this was going to happen, but I couldn’t vocalise it because there was no way I could let go of that gas. Eventually I got out the words to tell my sister to watch me with him, and she assured me they were, that he was fine. I swear Cathy and Stew did more coaching in that half hour than in the whole labour. It seemed to go on and on and on. It seemed harder than the labour, perhaps because this was not part of my visualisation. At the end of it I felt very shaken up. The stitches were all internal, but god it took a long time, and EVERYTHING I had left. I was so relieved when they took the baby off me so I could just regroup.

They weighed Jensen/Gumby and finally hub-in-boots held him. Stew looked close to tears but despite me thinking it was odds on, he did not cry. I think everything happened so fast, and he was so worried about me, that he had no time to get that emotional. And for me, God it felt good just to sink back and stop being in control, stop with the focus already.

Sometime later, the midwife led me off for a pee (terrifying) and a shower (glorious), with Cathy poking her head in to scrub off the random bits of WHATEVER stuck to my skin. I remember being fascinated by the fact that my right foot was ENTIRELY caked in blood. I had no idea how that had got there. Apparently nightmare on elm street in the labour ward had passed by without me so much as noticing.  Just how I like it. Oblivious!  My sister said there was a LOT of blood. I found it hard to believe that was my blood. The shower was incredible.

Later on, they asked would I like to see the placenta. The bastard organ that almost gave us all that trouble. You bet. Everyone was surprised that I agreed, but I’d read accounts of women’s birth stories who said it was important to see it, and although I did think it kind of gross, anything that helps your head catch up to what your body  has just done has to be a good thing. The midwife showed us the sac, the placenta, where the umbilical cord was attached. It was amazing. It was HUGE, stashed in this giant silver kidney dish which she lifted up with both hands.

I did not say the word “curry” to hub-in-boots, though I thought it. Every time anyone said placenta in an antenatal class I would tell hub-in-boots stories of people cooking and eating the placenta, or planting trees in it, or drying it out and turning it into capsules they took like vitamins. Just to gross him out. I always said “we could make a nice curry out of it”. So I’m sure he heard my head saying the word “Curry”, even if my lips weren’t moving. It was cool to see, anyway, and helped make the connection between baby in there and baby out here, which is, basically, sorry to be crass, a complete “mind fuck.”

From that point on, I was focused on me for a while. I ate like I’d never seen food before, when they brought toasted sandwiches all round I ate everyones. The cup of tea was just amazing. I proceeded on to eat museli bars, le snaks, you name it I ate it. I didn’t hold the baby for this bit. I think I was in shock. I felt like I was in shock for another two hours, and it was only when I held the little man again in the ward that I started to understand what had really happened, who this little guy was, and what we had accomplished that day. I think for a while there, I just had to come back into myself, to be me for a bit, before I was able to be mum. They had brought him for a feed in the labour room, and I fed him before my shower after he was weighed and towelled off.  I can’t remember much about that first feed. We have a nice photo of it though.

Dr North Korea did a good job at the stitching up I think, and really, that’s where you need an expert like him. We didn’t need him for what, amazingly, incredibly, turned out to be an uncomplicated delivery. A  calm, lights low, music playing, perfect delivery. We got our happy (natural) ending.

The printed labour report says I was in labour for 3 hrs 38 minutes. THREE HOURS! Are you serious? Helped along by all the pre labour I did at home, helped on by the calmbirth breathing, and focus, I think it was incredible for a first child. I pushed for 18 minutes. And stage three went for 5 minutes.

I didn’t want to commit to a name straight away, because I felt so out of it. But sometime the next day we finalised what was, really, already final, and Jensen Angus Eckermann was named. At 3.125kg or 6 lb 14oz, he’s not a big guy, not for my family at least. He was puffy, with puffed up eyes and a pointy head, and a funny lamb like cry. He changed immensely in those first 48 hours.

I am amazed that the birth went exactly as I had visualised, though I expected about another 15 hours of it. I am amazed that I could do this, though I always believed I could. No epidurals, no c-sections, no crazy post partum haemorrhages, just a bright pink boy who was attempting his first cry before he was quite out.

And just like that, with the long hoped for arrival of Jensen Angus, we were a family.

I’ll write for you very soon about our hospital stay, three trips to special care, our time settling into being home, melon boobs, cabbage leaves, the mind numbing killer sleep deprivation, and most of all the wonders of our little J-man as we get to know each other. There’s so much to say about him already.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Gumby’s birth story Chapter 4: This is Serious Mum

Chapter 4: This Is Serious Mum

So far, chapter 1 covered pre labour, and chapter 2 & 3 the dramatic waterfall from my nether regions. The serious action continues in chapter 4.

Of course, on arrival at the hospital, the car park was full. Hub-in-boots decided to drop me at the entrance and send me in solo. It was a bit nerve wracking. I’d sent out a few messages on the car trip, and the contractions were sitting at about 8 minutes.

People in the foyer looked at me, but didn’t do anything, and I didn’t ask for help. I limped in to the lifts and waited. I probably should have sat down right then and there and hollered, but it’s just not my style.

In the elevator, a contraction started and continued as the doors opened. I leaned on the door, not quite making it out of the lift.

“Hello! You certainly LOOK like you’re in the right place?” A lovely older lady with a clipboard, obviously having just left a meeting, (clearly some kind of nursing unit manager) came and grabbed my arm. Shall I take you around to delivery?”

“Yes please. My husband is coming but, no car spots.”

“Okay. Just around here.”

She walked me around, chatted, got my name and details out of me, and shouted out to the midwives and I was taken through. I started to get really nervous being in the delivery room alone. I checked, and sure enough it was the ONE room without a bath. Bugger. Then no one came. And no one came. It felt like ages. Finally, hub-in-boots arrived with bags, a bit stressed. I emphasised we would be moving to a room with a bath, if I had to cross my legs for two hours it would happen.

Finally the midwife came in. They took details. I nearly forgot the printed birth plan and medical history.

“Are you guys in medicine? These are very thorough.”

“No no. Just control freak first timers.”

She read through the birth plan and I started to feel better.  .

Then nothing for ages again. My sister arrived, armed with freshly made rice paper rolls she snaffled from their morning tea at work. I hoed into them like I’d never seen food before. I had changed into a hospital robe (I think).

I was hooked up to a monitor to monitor Gumby’s heart rate and my contractions. At first, his heart rate dropped a little each contraction, and I stared at those graphs just waiting and waiting whilst they monitored things. My head wasn’t in hospital yet, my head was still at home in bed getting ready to kill time for another day. I couldn’t quite catch up.

Louise came in, the midwife that was to take us through to birth. She asked could she do an examination, waiting til a contraction had passed. I was 2-3 cm dilated, and my cervix was “paper thin”, which I guess is the effacement part. This was brilliant news.

“You’re doing REALLY well” she said, weirdly exactly the same phrase that was used in visualising this on the calm birth meditation about the day of the birth.  At this stage I was joking around a bit, and hub-in-boots put on the ipod. Eric Idle from Monty Python “Always look on the bright side of life” was playing as I had the first examination. Ironic. What a shit disturber.

Louise assured us we’d get a room move, and sure enough we did. It didn’t take too long. I think it was about 11am when we arrived at the hospital, and maybe 11:30 when we moved rooms. According to the printed report, this is when active labour started.

At this point, it didn’t seem to take long for things to ramp up pretty quickly. I suddenly, after my batch of vague, remembered the Labour TENS machine I’d hired, to give electrical impulses to my back, with a booster button for contractions. That $5 extra to get it express post was a good thing…it arrived Monday, and here we were on Thursday hooking it up. Hub-in-boots got the electrodes on and yeah, now I’d call it pain.

I donned my big white towelling dressing gown, popped the TENS machine in the pocket, and wandered around in a figure eight around the room. Hub-in-boots followed me, massaging my upper back in contractions. My sister followed me trying to get my patient ID to log on to the hospital wireless network. That almost got her a broken arm. She was captain communications & catering though, so it was probably a good thing. The TENS machine was good, and gave me something to focus on, though I often forgot to turn off the booster as the contraction ended. It allowed me to get my focus back, which I’d completely lost, and come back to the breathing, and it was good to be free of monitors so I could move and move and pace and pace. So much had happened in the last hour, it was hard to maintain focus.

The pressure element ramped up, and the pain moved more into my back than it had been. I still managed to upload the blog post I’d typed at 5am and answer some texts in the break between (what a dag), but i knew I was quickly running out of time for anything except labour.

I wasn’t hooked up for monitoring anymore….but on my contraction timer I realised they were now coming every two minutes. As they lasted about 45 seconds, it was basically a minute on, a minute off.

There came a point where the TENS machine became more of a nuisance, as one contraction seemed to run into the next, and Louise suggested I hit the bath. It was a good call. She made all the right suggestions with the right amount of emphasis at the right time. The hot water, as I slipped in to the deep bath, was amazing. I believe this was the last time I saw clothes during the labour! I didn’t realise it was true, but you REALLY DON’T GIVE A SHIT about modesty when you feel like a disposable extra in the cast of Alien. I always wondered whether you’d feel your baby kick at all during labour, how he’d be doing. And to tell you the truth, I have no idea. The contractions become so all encompassing, so demanding of your attention, that anything else is just screened out. Kind of like having an itchy foot when you’ve just broken your arm. The itch just doesn’t cut it in the brain’s attention ranking.

Another funny music moment came in the bath as the pressure ramped up, and ACDC’s “A Long Way to the Top” was playing…and in contraction land, it sure is “A Long way to the top if you want to rock n roll”.  I’m not sure if this was in trip to the bath number one, or number two. Outside, I had started to vocalise with the contractions, a freaky primal sound that wasn’t exactly voluntary. It wasn’t moaining, it wasn’t screaming, it was just this noise I felt like a bit of an idiot really, and quite surprised at myself. Inside, I was mucking around as I breathed, singing the joke lyrics :” It’s a long way to the shop if you want a chiko roll”. So whilst it sounded like game on, inside I was doing pretty well.

After goodness knows how long in the bath (maybe 20 minutes according to Hub-in-boots), Louise decided that despite the inconvenience she needed another look. It really hadn’t been long. The aim of the bath was to get the contractions lengthening out, as they were kind of short at 45 seconds and needed to be around the minute mark to get my body doing what it needed to do. We waited out a contraction leaning on the bed, now most certainly long enough,(and hollering) then she hooked me up to monitors, and on examination found I was 7cm dilated. What the hell? I was so surprised. This was going rather quickly, and the change in sensations was a real roller coaster…just grab the “Jesus!” handle and HANG ON FOR THE RIDE. I started to stress out a bit about how much worse this was going to get, and Louise yelled out from the other room that they don’t get any closer together. A minute long and two minutes apart is IT. Okay. I never knew that. Okay. I can do this. No closer together? I can do this.

Then it was back in the bath with Hub-in-boots by my side, and Louise explained I would start to feel more pressure but I needed to breathe through it and not go with any urge to push, but instead to buzz her back straight away once that occurred. It sounded like I was on hold to a call centre, this phase would take a while, judging by her tone of voice.

I reckon she was out of the room 30 seconds when it hit, and MAN did it hit. Through clenched teeth (sorry Calmbirth) I said to Stew “BUZZ HER. MUST PUSH. BUZZ HER.” She was back in in a flash, and kind of surprised. “Sorry Jo but I’m going to have to get you out again. I think we need another look. Is that okay”

“Bloody oath it’s okay, I think you need to check it out. Its moving fast.”

“We’re going to wait out the next contraction…..”

“Aaaaaaaaaaagh”

“…hang on to the basin here”

“Aaaaaaaaagh…..okay. Fucking Calm birth. Riding fucking waves of freakin pressure to meet your fucking baby my ASS! This HURTS. LIKE. HELL!” She cracked up laughing. Apparently, this was the only time I swore during the whole labour, and this time it was deliberate, and, for those that know me, incredibly unlike me. The Calmbirth description was apparently shared in the corridor and cracked the other midwives up. For those that know me, not swearing is pretty unusual.

We literally limped back to the bed, and I believe, from memory , that was the last time I was on my feet until we had a baby and it was time for an antenatal shower.

I was 9.5cm dilated, so I couldn’t quite push. The baby had moved to a transverse (sideways) position. She went to get another midwife to reassess. Louise asked softly I know you want a natural birth but would you consider using gas to help you breathe through and not push.

 Inside, I was saying “Hell yeah. Are you insane? Give me the gas. Give me the FUCKING gas.”. Outside, I was totally focused on my Calm breathing. Not pushing was one of the hardest things I have ever done.

I was helped onto the bed, completely inward at this point. I could no longer drink water, and was being fed pieces of ice by my sister and the midwife in between contractions. The crunching eased the tension in my jaw, and the cooling effect was so welcome. I felt like I had a raging inferno inside, burning up my face. It was weird.

Then something in my head said “It’s ok. This is all ok. This is supposed to happen. This is transition. 9.5 cm. This is transition. You get HOT in transition.” Somehow this eased my worries and from this point on I was in complete control…complete moaning vocalising shouting control, but control nonetheless.

Around this point, Cathy dashed out to move both cars and avoid parking tickets, as things began to ramp up pretty damn quick. I began to worry she would not make it back. Time had slowed down and sped up all at once. It had no meaning. I was on internal time, which ran fast between contractions and slow during one. I had to dive deep deep deep within myself to get through them now, and somehow I managed to shut down all my senses. I could not hear properly, I could not see, even with my eyes open. I could hear Stewart’s, Cathy’s and occasionally the midwife’s voice, and I could hear the balls rattle in the happy gas pipe and the music. I could feel the ice crunch between my teeth. The only thing that stressed me out a bit was that they would be doing an internal when the contraction hit, but they managed to time it well with my rather vocal encouragement to get out of the way as the waves rose again.

The calm birth meditation had said “you will find your partner’s voice very reassuring at this time”, and although I expected him to annoy me, I did find it incredibly reassuring, even if sometimes the meaning of the words passed me by. He had to repeat every instruction from the midwives, as it was really only his voice I could hear with any clarity. That and the music.

I could no longer joke around, or even talk between contractions. I did, however, manage to test my own blood sugar (the midwife was astounded) just before a contraction rolled around, as her test kit had gone missing in another room, so I whipped out the kit, pricked my finger, inserted the test strip, and tested away. And I could manage to dictate exactly which track I wanted playing on the ipod! Repeat! Repeat track 1 I said.

I struggled to use the gas at first, as the Calm breathing was through your nose, and the gas was through a mouthpiece. Cathy, who had finally made it back (blessed relief), kept saying listen to the balls rattle, and this helped me understand what I was supposed to do. I felt thick and foggy outside, and sharp and powerful inside. It was a strange contradiction.

The first few non pushing contractions were horrible. It was so so hard to do what they said. I had Stewart keep hitting replay on this track O Magnum Mysterium. This track I had sung in a several hundred voice choir on Bondi beach a few years ago, called Dawn Chorus. You can see it on Youtube by clicking on the name above…it makes a nice accompaniment to reading the blog :-).  This was the piece we sang as the sun came up over the beach, as about a thousand people watched for the Sydney Festival. It was written by an American composer in the 70’s, about the birth of Christ. I loved it, and having rehearsed it a gazillion times I knew every little piece of phrasing inside out. I was INSIDE the music. I could visualise it moving around the stave. I could see the sand between my toes as we stood, dressed all in formal black, on the beach and sang it, I could see the first rays of the sun coming up and the gentle swaying of the conductor, Brett Weymark’s arms, as he swept us along to the sunrise. I breathed to the music, and I was through two or three non pushing contractions, sucking back on the gas like my life depended on it. My focus was like a laser, as it had to be.

Then they let me have a “trial push.”

Oh my god.

It was a relief, but it was also hard to let go of what I’d been holding back so hard. It took just as much concentration to remove the barrier I’d put up in myself. YOU CAN’T PUSH. The midwife had to say “try pushing” quite a few times before I really understood. I mentally took down the barrier. I once again listened to my body’s screaming for release.

And I pushed. It felt like the baby, and I could feel him, was a million miles from where he needed to be, like my body only had the most tenuous grip on him. He was at the end of a long long road. I could just feel him, but I thought it would take such a long time. He was such a long way away.

There was a hurried conversation between the two midwives about when to call Dr North Korea. I clearly remember the phrase “No we need to. I just trialled, she’s a CHAMPION pusher. It’s not too early.”

My head went back to the TV show One Born Every minute, the US version having been on in the past week. I remembered women on there who couldn’t seem to get the hang of pushing, and at the time, I wondered would I be one of them. Apparently not! I also reminded myself of what they said about a “burning ring of fire”. Oh ouch. But if you felt this, it was the baby’s head, and in a few pushes it would soon be over and you would have your baby, if you could just get through it. I reminded myself of this, and I hung on to it, to motivate myself to go on. I knew it was coming.

Finally I let hub-in-boots move the music off track 1 in my “Big day out” playlist. I had never even played this playlist to him, having come up with it one night at about 34 weeks when I couldn’t sleep. He’d only loaded it onto his ipod the night before.

I could feel the baby had moved, and moved significantly closer.

I continued to breathe through the music, and I had one or two contractions without any urge to push at all, even though Louise said that I could. I also remembered this from what I’d read. Some women get this, but by no means all, and it’s called the PAUSE. My head gave me the information, just as I needed it. Louise explained it to Cathy and Stew. I already knew. My body was resting and gathering up its resources for the last hell bent charge for the finish line. I loved the pause. It was only two or three contractions, but it was such a huge relief to be able to relax without the demand by my body to push, even as the contractions arced over my head.

“You can push! You can push!” they were saying, but I went with what my body wanted. I breathed, and I regrouped.

Then I was ready to rumble.  Some women get a pause for an hour. Geez that would have been nice!

Then it was on. And the “burning ring of fire” arrived. A little part of my head started singing Johnny Cash’s “I fell into a burning ring of fire” then I told myself to shut up and focus, and I went back to the Chopin piece that was playing (Etude # 3 in E) , following the complex piano line up and over and through with my mind and my breathing.

The pushing at this stage was bloody horrible. It wasn’t pain, it was burning. Just burning. (Which may have been the feeling of me tearing myself a new one!).  But i told myself to just suck it up and get through it. Teaspoon of concrete and harden the F#$% up, girlie. I was egged on by the “we can see his head” comments. And thankfully, no one offered to get me a mirror. NO MIRRORS, said my birth plan. Later, I kind of wish we had video of this, but my visuals of what was happening were pretty clear. Who needs technology? None of us had time for photography.

Apparently hub-in-boots at this time was away from the business end, as I wanted, and was sponging my forehead with cold wash cloths. My sister called to him, “Come and see your son Stew!” and he moved to the end of the bed, to see the dark hair of Gumby / Jensen about a third of the way out.

“Oh my god! His head’s not out and he’s trying to cry!’ said one of the midwives.

Gross! Said my internal voice. I needed to focus on what I needed to do, not deal with him as a little person just yet. So I let that comment slide through to the keeper and went back inside, deep down. Back to my breath.

As Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks Menuet began to play, the midwives started with the “just one more push and you’ll have your baby” calls. Hub-in-boots repeated their instructions. The midwife said “put your hands down Jo. Here comes your baby. Deliver your baby.”

Musical aside: The menuet is a bit less showy than the main part of the fireworks suite, and rolled out by orchestras a bit less often than the main movements. It spoke to me of a quiet but grand entrance into the world. Unbeknownst to me when planning our accompaniment, it is one of hub-in-boots’ favourite pieces of music. Poetry.

Not a doctor in sight. No Dr North Korea. No Dr South Korea. No doctor at all. Just two nice midwives and my sister and my husband. Afternoon sunlight streaming in the white plantation shutters, the overhead lights dim, Handel playing, and I reached down to hold our boy.

Gumby’s Birth story Chapter 1: Olympics and horses

Settle in kids. There’s a story to tell. TMI warnings will be given. Laughter will be had. A baby will be born.

Here’s the LAST BUMP PIC EVER.

30 July, 2 days before arrival. Pre labour started two days later.

Since last Thursday, a week ago today, (ok update so now over two weeks ago) a lot has happened. And in my quiet moments, I go over and over and over the birth in my head. Hopefully putting the story down here will give me and my brain more time to rest….so here goes! There is a story that will need to be pieced together, because my birth story is different to hub-in-boots or captain communication’s version of the story. We were all there. We all played our part…it’s just that mine involved more stitches and gas and less photography.

So here goes.

Chapter 1: Pre labour day 1

Well last week on Monday 30^th, I was 37 weeks and 2 days pregnant. It was time, I decided. I did not want to wait for induction, because I did not want to be the one dictating when this baby would come. I went for a long walk to our local deli, stopped for coffee with two nonnas who were there (relatives of friends), and all the way there went a bit berko on the pelvic floor exercises  as I walked because, as usual, I hadn’t really been practising them as much as I should.

A few days earlier, I had gone on a mental online shop, and FILLED the cupboards full of food, stockpiled us up so we could live for weeks without shopping, filled the freezer with meats and meals. I spent about $300. I worked all week, getting bills for the next few weeks paid, our tax returns  done,  getting paperwork together for the paid parental leave. I visited my work, said hi to a few people, did a maternity leave form, visited the boxing crew on Saturday for breakfast. Looking back on it, all week I was putting full stops on all the sentences in our lives.

After the walk, my groin muscles were aching. I’d kind of overdone it, and they kind of continued like that for two days. Stupid Kegel exercises. I sat on the couch and thought of the things I still had to do before the baby came, and I listened to the calm birth meditation and a playlist I’d done up for the birth. I decided in my head that the jobs that were left to be done were not so important. It would be okay if Gumby arrived at any time. We were ready.

Tuesday the 31^st I met with Captain Complicated Pregnancy for lunch. We went back to the deli and talked for a long time, but I felt kind of out of sorts, and weird about heading out. Despite wanting to exercise, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything. I almost rang her and apologised after lunch I felt like I was such odd company. I was agitated, but incredibly lazy at the same time, and really drawn to home. The weather was kind of crappy. When we got home I totally crapped out on the couch, but eventually muscled up the energy to turn the salmon I’d bought into a hot hot thai salmon curry that was really delicious. Hub-in-boots was stoked when he got home from training.

As hub-in-boots tucked into his meal, the usual evening Braxton hicks continued their merry work, but there was like an overlay to them sometimes, just a weird “what was that?”. I thought it was strange. You could have called it mild pain. I didn’t say anything. The night of Olympic broadcast was just unfurling when something in my head was really compelling, saying “whatever this is, you should rest”. So I called it quits quite early at around 9.

At 4am when I could not sleep. I lay there for a while, feeling the Braxton hicks do their tighten, release, tighten release, and I suddenly had a strong visual of a roller coaster. I could feel them rise to a peak, and then go up, over and down. They started low low low in my abdomen, rose up with the tightening towards my navel then arced over my hips and into my back. This was new. This happened three or four times before I started to pay attention. I reached for my iphone, grabbed the contraction timer on my Sprout Pregnancy app (so sad, techno girl), and started to time them. It was exciting being the only person in the world that knew this was going on, right at that moment.

They were regular, about 10-12 minutes apart, at first lasting 30 seconds and by dawn reaching 45 seconds. They were minor, but they were different. I lay in bed smiling. I was pretty excited. Would I tell Hub-in-boots to stay home from work? I didn’t know. Wait til dawn. Suck it and see.

At about 6:30, hub-in-boots rolled over, exhausted, and said “Oh god I’d give anything not to go into work today.”

“Well now that you mention it, babe, there’s been something going on. I felt it a little last night, but I’ve actually been timing something since 4am. They are not that painful, but they are different, and they are regular. I am not sure what to tell you about work”.

His face went pale, and his mouth opened and he looked across the pillow at me. “REALLY? Oh!”. He looked confused, and a little alarmed.

“Yep really. But I’m not saying they’re something yet. They just might become something later. But this stuff can rumble on for days. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

He was a bit surprised, and went for his shower, really unsure what to do. By about 7:15 I called it, and he came to the same decision, and said given work was only 30 minutes away, and given this may go on for days, he’d go in. But I was to keep him posted all day.

I dashed from bed to the loo with a bit of an upset stomach. Calmbirth course sign of impending labour number 2. Hmmmm. But it could be anything. Back to bed, be alert, but not alarmed. Keep Calm and Carry On.

15 minutes later at 8am hub-in-boots was back. He’d lost his car immobiliser thingy, so he couldn’t take his car to work. He was in a bit of a flap. I felt like I’d thrown him for six! I sent him off in my car, despite his protests, because hell, if they were contractions, I was not getting behind the wheel anyway.

I sent my sister, the other half of the birth team, a facebook message telling her she was officially on standby.

 

 

The day rumbled along, and after messaging captain complicated (S) and getting a lecture from her about doing nothing, and asking for what I paid for, by 11 I decided a call to Dr North Korea’s midwife was a good plan.

“Oh my god! I feel like your mother! That’s great! I’m so excited!”. The midwife was so enthusiastic after all we’d been through. She told me these things could rumble on for days, just take it easy, get loads of rest, but that it would be doing something. Getting my cervix ready for labour, thinning it out. Whatever it was, pre labour, early labour, false labour, whatever, it was bringing us closer. So I felt perfectly justified watching hours and hours of the Olympics.

The jokes rolled in about me having a baby on the horses’ birthday, August 1.

We’d done a meditation on early labour in the calmbirth course, about thinking you were in labour, and thinking through what you’d do. I got up and made as snack, just like I did in the meditation: banana and peanut butter on sourdough toast. Later on, a fruit smoothie. Just like on the calmbirth visualisation, I got up and had a long relaxing shower. I washed up, tidied the kitchen I did a load of washing and hung it on the balcony, I watered the plants. I added a few things to my hospital bag, and checked the baby’s coming home bag was in order. I was glad I’d made a mad dash to Target the previous week. I had a sudden feeling we didn’t have enough smaller baby clothes, and I bought about 4 suits in two different sizes (0000 and 000) and just hung them away with the receipt as a just in case. I felt like I was being stupid at the time, because we had heaps of clothes, and didn’t really need to be spending more, but I couldn’t help it.

At 5pm, the thing overlaying the Braxton hicks was a bit more “hello look at me”. The day’s contractions had regular patches and long patches of very irregular timing. 8 minutes 8 minutes, then 12 minutes 10 minutes 11 minutes, 7 minutes 8 minutes, always lasting about 45 seconds to a minute long.  It was all pretty interesting. We stayed home, had dinner, and went to bed pretty early.

At 2am Thursday morning, they woke me again. Now I think they’d qualify as painful. After two in a row at 4 minutes apart, I was a bit nervous so I rang the maternity ward. As I said in my brief post, I got a nasty midwife who did the dismissive “oh first time mother” routine, and told me to take two Panadeine and call in an hour. “No waters breaking, no show?” No. I was furious at how dismissive she was. (Cue the cranky post natal letter to the hospital!)

 After two hours of watching more tele on the couch, at 4am I called again, and the nicer midwife agreed something was happening, but probably nothing serious just yet. Hub-in-boots stumbled out bleary eyed. I told him I’d rung the hospital but there was not much change. Just get some sleep. One of us needed to be firing on all cylinders! I had no intention of going in to the hospital, I just wanted them on standby.

At 5 am I went to the loo, and woo hoo’d loudly, ran into the bedroom and demanded a hi-five from a deeply sleeping hub-in-boots. Stewie, we have a ( minor) show. And unlike the last time this happened, this was not something that said “Your pregnancy is stuffed”. Instead, this said “Gumby is on his way.” Hub-in-boots indeed hi-fived me, and went back to sleep immediately. I felt the auto- panic rise seeing even the tiny amount of blood, but I knew it was ok.

I crawled back into bed at around 5:30, and slept off and on til 8 or 8:30.  Contraction wise, nothing had changed. If anything, they were shorter and less regular.

At about 9am I rang the midwife at the Obby again. “still going, and had a show” I reported. I was concerned there was a time after losing the mucous plug that they would consider inducing for the baby’s safety or something. I wasn’t sure how it worked.

“I reckon you’ll have a weekender” she said. “These things can rumble on for days, especially with a first.” I madly added up the days. It was only Thursday. God another 48 hours of this? How do you stand the WAITING? “ I don’t think we’ll still be talking about this Monday. Just get heaps of rest. Of course, if it changes, don’t ignore it. Sometimes, just sometimes, I can hang up the phone from a call like this and things change in a moment and get cracking.”

She said it.

We pfaffed around laying in bed for another half an hour. I rang the mums and briefed them on what had been happening for the past day. My mum was excited but upset, because she was too sick with a virus to be anywhere near us anytime soon. Stewie’s mum was excited, first grandchild on his way.

Stay tuned for more adventures of maybe baby and hub-in-boots in pre labour: chapter 2 – keeping it real.

Chapter 2: Pre labour day 2: Keeping it real

Chapter 3: Laughing my ass off

Chapter 4: This is serious, Mum

Chapter 5: Gumby becomes  the J-man: Jensen Angus Eckermann

Chapter 6: My plan versus reality & did Calmbirth help

We made a person!

Big day today.

37.5 weeks,
3.125kg (6lb 14)
51cm
3:02pm
Pre labour:29 hours of watching Olympics , nesting & couch sitting

Actual labour:4.5 hrs flat, 3.5 in a wild roller coaster ride in hospital. The doctor didn’t make it!

Gas only. A few stitches. Madness.

Birth story later.

Me, you, and everyone we know

What a day! What a huge day!

Today was Gumby’s happy hour. A gathering at the local pub to celebrate the baby that is on the way, and what a little miracle he is, given all that we have faced.

We started the day with tea and porridge in bed, totally looking forward to the day but ever so slightly dazed from staying up until 2am the night before in a combined post afl footy game come down,/ first night of the tour de France / favourite cousin in surprise last minute visit from Melbourne fest. Naturally, after picking her up at the airport, there was about six hours of talking to be done. Oops.

After I had my hair blow dried (oh mobile hairdresser, bless your cotton socks for suggesting this, and then coming earlier than arranged), we headed up to the pub to decorate. 100 helium balloons, swirly dingle dangles, Antonias famous bunting ( hear that Bec ? BUNTING. Bec hates the word bunting. She thinks her mother made it up. So I had to get some so we could say bunting a lot). Finally finished off with strings of gumby’s little clothes pegged across the windows. Juliet and Sarah, the invading melbournites, took care of the fiddly bits, while hub in boots and I went all helium cylinder on those balloons’ ass. The event chick at the pub rustled up a miraculous 100 ‘spare’ Blue and silver helium balloons from the previous night’s function, we added another 100, and I have to say this was starting to look like a PARTY!!!

Hub-in-boots had worked hard on a fairly tongue in cheek playlist, featuring such labour inducing greats such as “push it” (salt n pepa), “under pressure” ( Bowie ), “the drugs don’t work”, then moving on to “highway to hell”, “the boys light up”, “yo mama ”
(butterfingers, rude, thank god the mum’s didn’t hear it), “take your mama out” (scissor sisters), ” punk mum” (regurgitator), etc. Sadly the conversations were so loud it just faded into the background, but I’m sure in the lighter moments of labour we’ll roll it out.

A quick change at home & cake collection later, back to the venue, and the guests were rolling in.

1. We invited too many people. We wanted an all in brawl… But failed to keep tabs of an invite list. We planned 30-40. It was huge. About 70 plus kids. Maybe 10 kids.

2. I felt bad because the combined effect of baby brain, too many people and being a sober person surrounded by drinkers, meant I did not finish a conversation with anyone , or thank anyone appropriately for their lovely gifts, or feel like I got around the room anywhere near as much as I’d have liked. I actually forgot to sit down until about two hours in.

3. We had a ball. And if you were there, and wondering why you came when you didn’t get to chat to us, thank you for coming. I am glad that YOU came. It was like a room full of big, warm, hug. I appreciated you being there. Really truly.

We asked for a get together, not gifts. If the invitee was a ‘oh but I have to get you something, then it became a bring your favourite childhood book for gumby thing. No stupid games, no girls only weirdness, awesome cupcakes and cakes, booze, finger food. Civilised. Family, friends, workmates, support crew.

The function was supposed to end at 5, it was more like 6pm, and then we hung around and had a slow sit, drink, and dinner at the pub. Nice. The staff were great, the finger food was great, the cupcakes impressively awesome.

awww cupcakes

Our budget meant we ordered pretty light on, but it seemed like everyone got a nibble and the tab seemed to last for so long! It’s amazing how far a drinks budget cab stretch when I’m not on the red wine!!!!

The only ‘game’ was a what’s in a name vote, allowing our guests to vote for short listed baby names. Some serious, some not so much. The scrutineers Nicole, Dave, Ellie and Tia were strict during the counting, and the results were:

What’s in a name? CAST YOUR VOTE! Angus     8 votesŽ Hamish 5 votes Ž             Finley      5 votes Ž             Jensen      5 votes Ž             Oscar     4 votes Ž             Jethro     4 votes Ž             Oliver     3 votes Ž             Gumby     (!!!) 3 votes Ž             Ignatius     (Iggy) 1 vote Ž             Grover     (!) 1 vote Ž             Evan     1 vote Ž             Other: Hindy, Fred, Reginald, Milo, Lewis, Carl Heinrich, Plugger, Erik,Barry, Bruce,     Rover,Englebert, Parsley Cereal, Atticus, Hennessy Sterling Judges reserve the right to ignore your suggestions and/or change his name by deed poll several times.

Of course we reserved the right to completely ignore the election results. It’s kind of like an Egyptian democracy around here…..

Like these things always are, it was a total blur. A whirlwind, I’ve been sitting on the loungeroom floor for 3 hours since the party, surrounded by the gorgeous wrapping, cards and ‘no gifts’ we requested, madly trying to identify a few UFP’s (Unidentified Flying Presents). Mysteriously, giraffes featured heavily. Here’s one of our mystery items here:

Unidentified Flying Present: do you know this giraffe?

Party preparations…And Check out some of these beauties!!!

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. I think we had our whole village there today. And there’s more of our village out there in blog land too. Thank you all for walking beside us, pushing us uphill, following us, feeding us, and finally, celebrating with us. 33 weeks and counting. And kicking.

I am buggered. Tired and wired and can’t sleep a wink, with a 6am run to the airport to follow, to deliver the fave cousin back home.

Best. Baby. Shower. Ever.

Tirty tree

Thirty three weeks today . Woo hoo! Can i just say 32 weeks was my ultimate goal and 33 seems unbelievable?

Gumby’s happy hour shower tomorrow. We asked the folks coming to hold back on the pressies, but said if people insisted they could help start his library with their favourite childhood book. He’s looking well read already with the mail arrival this week of a mr men box set, the house at pooh corner, The gruffalo, where is binky boo,for boys only and the Little Prince.

Gumby continues to move in a ridiculous fashion every 40 minutes or so. We have the wriggling in phase (extensive turning last night which actually hurt … Don’t go breech little guy!), the see saw phase where he makes both sides of my big belly jump at once (learning star jumps? Very popular during mum’s relaxation/ meditation), the tigger phase ( possibly short bursts of hiccups), and the let’s do something unspeakable to mum’s hip/rib/belly button phase, which I’m pretty sure involves getting fingers & toes wrapped right round somewhere they should not be & them practising like an Olympic athlete on the parallel bars. My left hip is available for interviews on this topic, as is hub in boots, who was worn a track in the carpet to the microwave with the heat pack.

All in all, though, my busy little companion hasn’t changed a great deal with the third trimester. Of course, anything I drop is just left on the floor, so there’s a clear trail or what I’ve been doing around the place, but apart from this the toe nail painting / shoe putting on stakes are not too bad. I refuse to clean the shower, as it would look like an elephant in a phone box trying to pick up a peanut. Otherwise, duties are not too restricted.

The braxton hicks continue to provide entertainment quite regularly, at times balling up to such an extent that I’m pretty sure I’ll be giving birth in about 20 minutes time. The real thing should be a total party if these babies are the practice version. Kind of like you may simultaneously crap yourself, have some vital organs drop out, and have a Sigourney in aliens / Bella in twilight moment where he bursts forth tearing flesh out of his way. Yep, sounds awesome. Not phased though. It’s only pain. ( she writes, naively, while sage women all over the world nod to each other and go she’s fucked).

I am having trouble adjusting to the idea that my little companion will be moving out soon. Can pregnant women get empty nester symptoms? It seems weird to have him everywhere with me and be so used to his presence, then suddenly he won’t be. And my head understands there’s going to be a baby in da house, but I can’t connect the baby with the little dude that’s been hanging out in my downstairs. It’s weird. It’s weird to say, but I’ll miss him! Mostly. What he’s doing right now to my left hip, I won’t miss at all.

Speaking of little dudes in the house, I ran into the girl from the unit above us. We hate these people, quite a lot. They are drug fucked idiots who somehow hold down good jobs but specialise in all night drug fuelled parties (and when I say all night I mean 2am-11am), vomiting deliberately into our balcony ( no I kid you not) and arguments. they are the most inconsiderate neighbours you could possibly have.

Actually we love the arguments. At first, I took her side and stew took his, but now we both realise Patrick’s a total asshole. We actually mute the tele so we can hear the latest instalment. Sunday night arguments are de rigour, oh but there’s others. He never does any housework. He never wants sex. She is lazy. If she doesn’t stop crying he’s gonna throw himself out the window ( I had to physically grab stew & stop him shouting so do it!!! during this one. Plus it’s not high enough to do sufficient damage.). Before they got married, they fought about the effectiveness of the priest doing the deed, the in laws, the wedding plans. They were married within three months of us. After they got married, the arguments have got really good.

And yesterday, after suspicions for sometime whilst on bedrest, she spoke to me, and I find they are indeed expecting, due two weeks after us apparently. So hub-in-boots’ plan of standing under their window and making gumby howl to wake them every night? Ruined. That’s three women expecting in a block of NINE units! Weird. God help us if they end up in the same hospital at the same time. Hub-in-boots will take cocaine snorting bong building Patrick OUT.

Right. I’ve eaten my porridge & gumby has done his usual kick the hell outta mum the second she starts eating routine (his father’s son where food’s concerned). Off to markets.

Here’s week 32 and 33. Baby happy hour pics to follow.

Bambi cops it

Bambi has copped it in the neck again. I’m loading up on the venison and vitamin c veg for tea. Hub-in-boots is at footy til very late (he’s the video ref again), and I’m racking up the girly DVDs, pulling up my nana blanket, curling up & kicking back.

I’ve hit the third trimester wall. After a doing day on Monday, Tuesday & Wednesday (hour long walks, hovering around murder investigations, baby washing marathons, vacuuming, freaky nesting weirdness) Wednesday arvo I hit the wall. And I can’t get back.

At about 11:30am every day, I get so tired I am not sure if I can make it back to the car, or to the couch. I feel like i may pass out, like I’m not getting any food. It’s not sticking. I seem to sleep ok ( mostly), but during each afternoon all I can think about is bed or couch.

I haven’t been for a walk for several days. I just don’t have any energy. The weirdness that I think is a braxton hicks contraction can come very regularly, I think I’ve had six in the past 90 minutes. My whole belly tightens and sticks out more, like a basketball. It starts in the middle and spreads outwards. It is a low hollow tight feeling, It makes me feel slightly nauseous. I explained it to hub-in-boots as the feeling five minutes after someone punches you with all their might in the stomach, like the aftermath of being winded. When it ends, the feeling gradually releases, til my stomach just feels soft and normal again. Truth be known, now I have finally realised this feeling is a contraction, they make me a bit nervous.

I rang the midwife at my ob this afternoon, simply because I feel wrong. It is really hard to describe what’s wrong, but it’s kind of like being in a car, pushing down on the accelerator pedal, but it goes flat to the floor and nothing happens. How I feel seems quite out of my control, and unpredictable. Like a body of muscle & fat without a skeleton. Gumby is moving fine, as far as I can tell. The midwife thinks the energy is related to my low iron levels, & a possible baby growth spurt. To be sure, they’ve moved my appointment from next Friday to this coming Monday, & will give me a thorough going over.

I think I had started to expect a bit much of my body, doing a bit too much, and I need to revise my expectations a bit. Being out both days last weekend, then getting housework busy in the week, just wiped me out.

We’re 32 weeks tomorrow, the point at which I can actually give birth at the Mater hospital. A big milestone for us, and for gumby I believe, in terms of lung development etc. One part of my head is crystal clear that this is all happening, and soon; the other part of my head still doesn’t even believe we’re reliably pregnant, or expect any outcome at all.

Next weekend is Gumby’s happy hour shower. It should be fun. I hope nothing happens before then.

Today I booked in to the hospital’s breast feeding class that patients can attend prior to the birth. I’m doing it in three weeks.

There’s a lot of other shit in our lives at present, things I need to get sorted prior to gumby’s arrival, and I have no brain space or focus for anything. I just don’t care. I cannot hold any other non baby related tasks or thoughts in my head for more than a few minutes. It’s like I don’t even have a brain. I am just this ball of forward momentum, and my head will only pay heed to things that move me to that date/event. I’m totally blinkered, and god help you if you get in my way. I have had a short temper a couple of times this week, and poor hub-in-boots has been on the receiving end of veins-in-neck-popping-up shouty madness. Not at all like me really. Odd.

I’ve decided if anything much changes in the next 24-48 hours I’ll ring the hospital & chat to them. There’s nothing exactly wrong, but something I can’t quite put my finger on has changed in the pregnancy, and it’s unsettling. I expect we’ve just moved on, stepped up in hormone levels, stepped down in iron, and maybe in a few days I’ll find a new, slightly bulgier equilibrium, before we hit the pregnancy home strait.