Then He Raked Me

*Warning: Contents of this entry may be disgusting to some readers. Discretion is advised.*

I always knew I wanted to be a mom. According to the life plan I created for myself in my tween years, I would be married by 27 and have my first baby by 30. Who knew my adolescent self would be so prophetic.

Three days before my 29^th birthday, I took a pregnancy test and learned I was pregnant. I am sure most of my feelings were hormone induced, but still valid. Feelings of joy, excitement, anxiety, anticipation and fear were washing over me all at the same time. Up to this point, I hadn’t even been able to keep a plant alive.

The first few months were rough. I slept with saltine crackers and ginger ale on my nightstand. Brushing my teeth without gagging was an accomplishment. Chicken was no longer a food option for me. I didn’t care what form it was in. Raw or cooked. Grilled or Fried. Nuggets or Strips. It was all nasty. The smell alone would throw me into a lurching spiral. Once the morning/afternoon/night sickness subsided, I had a near perfect pregnancy. Even though I was feeling better, I was still disgusted by chicken and didn’t eat it for almost a year after having the baby.

The ultrasound pictures were something I kept with my at all times to show off my creation. I suppose Dave helped with the creating part, but I wasn’t giving him much credit. My tiny being was morphing from a lima bean to a replica of the Planters Peanut Man. All it needed was the top hat and monocle. Then, at around 15 weeks, we got a profile shot of the baby. For the first time, it really looked human.

You may notice I am referring to my own child as “it”. We did not want to find out the sex of the baby before it was born because we wanted to be surprised. That, and I thought it was fun to drive everyone crazy. “What do you mean you aren’t going to find out??” Of course we were going to find out what we were having, just not until the little bugger popped out. People would ask Dave and me, “Do you want a girl or a boy?” Dave always answered with the same canned response, “I don’t care as long as it’s a healthy baby.” And I would add, “Right. As long as it’s a healthy baby girl.”

Months passed and I was really enjoying being pregnant. It didn’t prohibit me from living my life. My first trip to Las Vegas was when I was 5 months along. Granted, I could not drink or smoke, but watching everyone else was almost as entertaining. Almost. Dave and I spent time in Southern California with friends. I even played golf. At 6 months, my mom and I flew to Paris to meet my sister. She was flying from Ukraine where she was stationed for the Peace Corp. Again, nothing was stopping me from enjoying myself, except for my dietary restrictions. At every meal, my mom and sister would order wine. My sister ordered a cheese plate at least once a day. I was not allowed to drink the fabulous wines or eat the exotic cheeses. Ordering Crème Brule at every meal was my way of compensating. It did the trick.

As my due date was approaching my sleep habits were truly out of sorts. I could no longer sleep in the bed because I would end up using Dave as a support to keep from rolling over, and I was getting up every 15 minutes to pee. The couch was my new sanctuary, if you can even call it that. At least I was able to lie on my side and rest against the back in between the urgent trips to the toilet.

Three days after my due date I was having a lot of cramps. I had been having them for weeks but these seemed more frequent. Around 8am, I made Dave take a walk around the block with me to see if that would help. I was more annoyed than alarmed, and called my friend at work to complain. She asked me if I had been timing the cramps, and I told her no. They were just cramps, why should I time them? It took a conversation with my friend to come to the conclusion that I may actually be in labor. Upon making this revelation, I discovered that the “cramps” were occurring in 3-7 minute intervals. I called the doctor’s office and they told me to call back when they were 3-5 minutes apart. This made no sense to me if they were already 3 minutes in some instances, so I voiced my concern. I am sure they knew what they were talking about, as this was an every day, 100 times a day thing for them, but I still felt it would be best for me to go in and get checked out. The office assistant reluctantly told me to come in.

Since this was our first baby, we had everything ready to go. The packed bag with the birthing plan (what a joke…and a waste of time) was already in the trunk of the car. I decided since there was no real sense of urgency, it would be ok to load the dishwasher, take a shower and shave my legs. Dave and I then hopped in the car to start our 45 minute car ride to the doctor’s office. The entire time we were joking about how this was going to be a false alarm and we were go feel so stupid when they told us to go home.

We arrived around 11am and were escorted back into one of the exam rooms. My Ob/Gyn came in the room and Dave and I were laughing and apologizing for wasting her time. While she was conducting her invasive exam, Dave and I looked at each other in silence, rolling our eyes. The doc then said, “Well, you are 6 cm dilated and 100% effaced and if I keep poking around in there your water is going to break. You can head straight to the hospital and get your epidural. We will call ahead to let them know you are on your way.”

It was at that moment I realized I hadn’t eaten anything that day so I asked her, “Can we stop at the Wendy’s drive-thru on the way since it’s right across the street?” The woman looked at both me a Dave (Dave had lost all color in his face with the news) then said, “Um, no you cannot stop at Wendy’s drive-thru. Get to the hospital. I knew it was going to be a long day.

Five minutes later we were walking through the doors of Carolinas Medical Center - Pineville and making our way to the maternity ward desk. I walked up to the desk and said, “Hi, I’m Merydith Blank. I believe you’ve been “expecting me”, and let out a loud cackle. I am my best audience most times. The woman behind the desk said, “You’re the one who’s 6 cm already? You’re awfully cheerful for being on the verge of delivering a baby.” What was she talking about? I wasn’t even in pain. Yet.

I got settled into my spacious room with a view. We had our own little private patio directly outside of our room. Turns out I would not step foot onto the patio, nor did I have any desire to. The nurse came in and determined I was now at 8cm. Things were moving along quickly. I still felt very little pain. The nurse actually talked me out of an epidural. I was given a dose of Stadol instead, and was told it would take the edge off. It felt like I had drunk 5 margaritas in 5 minutes. I was wasted. Dave and I were still cracking jokes with each other then all of a sudden there was a harsh pain coming from the depths. I let out a groan and Dave said something stupid, I cannot remember what it was now. I just remember telling him to shut the hell up to which the nurse replied, “OK Dad, now is the time when Mom isn’t going to things are quite as funny.” No joke. All of a sudden, I was ready to rip his head off. Why did I let that woman talk me out of the epidural? What kind of sick and twisted sadist was I dealing with?

The doctor on call was not my regular OB/Gyn, but I had met him during my rotational visits in the last couple months of appointments. He seemed like a nice enough guy. When he walked in to check on my progress and saw I was 9cm dilated he asked me, “Why didn’t you get an epidural?” Well, Dr. Jerkface, young Nurse Naturalist thought I could handle the pain. I asked him if it was too late, and by the grace of God, he said it was not. He had the anesthesiologist paged to set it up. Meanwhile, my baby was already standing apart from the crowd and had flipped into posterior position, something that only happens in 4-10% of all births. Not Breech, but sunny side up. Even though it was still head first, it was facing up instead of down. In my drunken stupor, he had me get on all fours facing the wall and proceeded to try to flip the baby back into normal position. All I could do was laugh at the thought of the picture anyone was seeing if they happened to walk by the door. I turned to look at Dave and noticed a room full of concerned doctors and nurses scurrying around the room. “Wha’s goin’ on?” I slurred.

After all the drama, more drama ensued. I had the epidural, but despite Dr Big Hand’s efforts, the baby was still posterior, and stuck. With every contraction, its heartbeat went down. We all came to the conclusion that the best plan of attack was a C-section. They prepped the O.R., the prepped Dave, and they prepped me.

I was wheeled into the O.R. and laying flat on my back with my arms outstretched on either side of me. I felt like a drunken knocked up cheerleader making a “T” on the table. Dave and the Dr. were nowhere to be found. I later learned they were talking Wisconsin football in the hallway. Seriously?? They finally made their way into the room and the surgery was about to begin. All of a sudden, in my field of vision, I see a fly dancing around on the Dr’s side of the blue sheet. Of course I had to make a comment. “I don’t think that’s very sanitary.” The doctor retorted with, “It’s all a figment of your imagination, Merydith.” Yeah right. There was a fly.

After a grueling 30 minutes of “a little pressure”, which caused me to vomit into a kidney shaped bowl out of the side of my mouth (good thing I didn't stop at Wendy's), while still lying on my back, the baby was out. At 6:32 pm on July 11^th 2003, the doctor lifted up the baby with its genitals (the baby’s not the doctor’s) clearly in Dave’s face so there was no mistake made and said, “Call it, Dad.” Dave said, “Mery, we have a beautiful baby boy.” I’ll be honest, I was disappointed. I knew I was having a girl. I would have bet my life on it. What did I know about boys? This was all wrong. I wanted them to check again. How could this be happening? Maybe if he put him back in and tried again, a girl would pop out?

As the doctor was finishing up pushing my intestines back into my body cavity, Dave brought our baby boy over to my head, still woozy and aching from all the events of the day. I am referring to me, not the baby. Dave said, “Mery, look at him.” I turned my head and there we were, face-to-face. His little arm had broken free of the swaddled blanket and his tiny hand reached out and raked my right eye. It was over. I was in love. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. “I made that” is all I could get out as I sobbed. Dave laughed at me. I then corrected myself. “We made that.” 

 Zachary Lawrence Blank 

Born 7/11/03, 7lbs 15oz