On the Day Oliver Was Born

Oliver's first birthday was on Friday. I was feeling sad that I had to work that day, so in the hospital's gift shop, I picked up this book for him. It made me feel better about being away. The book, I decided, would be read every year on his birthday. I like it because it talks about how everything on the earth prepared for his arrival, like the leaves on trees giving off oxygen for him to breathe. It's a very sweet book.

But while I celebrate Oliver's arrival into my life as one of the sweetest most meaningful things that has happened to me, the day he was born was a difficult one. The days and weeks that followed were so painful and scary, that I have found myself looking back this month, reviewing the events, crying, and processing. His birthday was joyful, as we have so much to celebrate; but for me, it's also an anniversary. When I was preggo, I blogged about how birth stories are told over and over again because each person has their own journey, signifcant and powerful, and often times painful. My friend Becky's husband is a psychologist, and he asserts that it's actually a form of PTSD, and that's why women talk so much about their stories- the conversations are what heals. So it only makes sense that in the middle of June, I began revisiting the events of Oliver's birth.

Two days after being induced, Ollie was delivered by C-section, and I spent a painful and lonely night in the ICU, by myself. That much I have written about. 6 days after we were first admitted, we went home, Oliver buckled in his carseat for the first time. Everything was going as expected, although my breast milk hadn't come in. The physicians and lactation consultants assured me that it would, and suspected that the C-section along with stress was delaying the process. Keep pumping every 3 hours, they said, and it will come.

Michael and I brought out little guy through our front door for the first time, and after eating dinner, we all laid down for naps: Michael upstairs, me in a recliner with Oliver on my chest. Less than an hour later, I woke up with the worst chills I had ever had in my life. My eyes shot open and my arms and legs shook. The chills caused convulsions that made my incision more painful than it had ever been before. I yelled for Michael. No answer. I yelled, and yelled, and finally called him on his cell phone. When he walked downstairs, confused. I had to repeat myself several times for him to understand my instructions, because I couldn't take a decent breath from the chills. Get a thermometer and call the on-call OB, I told him. I was spiking a huge fever. Pack the bags again, I told him-I knew we were headed back in.

My teeth chattered and I moaned all the way back to Abbott, Oliver back in his carseat for the second time that day. Michael, having felt that my skin was burning hot to the touch, would only give me a pillow and not a blanket, and tried to turn the AC on when I wasn't looking. "Turn....off....the....damn...AC...you.....sneaky...bastard," I chattered.

After I was wheeled up the OB after-hours emergency unit, the sweet nurses asked how Oliver was. I stood up out of the wheelchair, hunched in pain and chills, and began to sob. "My milk isn't in, and it's day four!" was all I could say. And there I was, a blubbering hormonal mess, apologizing and hiccuping sobs on my way to the bathroom to pee in a cup.

That night, Michael dropper-fed Oliver for hours at a time-he was ready to really eat, and I couldn't help him. I soaked my bed in sweat, felt like I was outside of my body, and told Michael to ask people to pray. "Something is really, really wrong," I cried. Michael infomed me later that I had also said I was afraid I might die. Michael listened to this as he continued to try and satiate our baby's appetite with drops of formula, awake most of the night.

Over the next few days, it was discovered that I had two major infections, one of which entered my blood stream. I needed two transfusions for persistent anemia, and Lasix to try and shed the excess 12 pounds of fluid that I had retained after the C-section. They decided to send me home on IV antibiotics, which required a PICC line (like a deep IV)- which took five attempts to place.

We got home 12 days after I was induced. While I was more than ready to be home, I was overwhelmed and afraid. I was still encouraged to pump every three hours, drink 8 ounces every three hours, and feed Ollie every three hours. Every six hours I hooked myself up to my IV antibiotic, which took 45 minutes. And at least every 2 hours I had some medication to take. I had stairs to navigate, a baby to care for, and a lot of pain. Michael had to go back to work, his paternity leave having been used up when I was in the hospital.

The dark parts of those days were complicated by guilt and anger, at the loss of a "normal" birth experience. My milk never came in. I hardly acknowledged the first time that I held Oliver because I had so many drugs in my system. We spent the first night and day mostly apart from each other. And the worst part is, when I did get to see him, I was feeling so awful, that I didn't feel like I was bonding to him. The beauty of my son, the miracle of his birth, didn't overwhelm the pain enough to outweigh it. I feel really bad about that.

I want so much to celebrate the day Ollie was born, and even the whole experience. My hope and expectation is that, as the days and years march forward, the pain will become less. I'll get there. The guilt and sadness I have from those rough first days will start to fade more and more, leaving the sweet memory I do have of holding Ollie to my chest, all curled up, his little breath tickling my skin.