Exhausted but surprisingly relaxed, we checked in to Abbott 2 hours before our scheduled C-section time. At this point, all reports of "a planned C-section goes so much smoother than the first" were confirmed. Instead of a 20-minute prep, the getting -ready part took hours, allowing us time to listen to music and have my feet rubbed by a practitioner in integrative medicine. It was kind of spa-like, except my robe was starchy instead of soft, and I had to pee in a cup instead of simmer in a sauna.
We headed down the hall and dropped Michael off in a waiting area, with the nurses telling him they'd be back to get him in about 10 minutes. He sat there for a better part of an hour while the effects of that reflexology foot-rub disappeared as soon as I heaved myself onto the narrow table. They started by placing an arterial line, which in non-medical speak is like a very deep IV, in addition to the "normal" IV; its purpose it to measure blood pressure more accurately than the cuff-squeezing. Given my cardiac issues, it was a requirement for me to have it done before the surgery could begin. They bent my hand backwards and taped it down, gave me injections to try to numb my wrist, and then tried to fine my artery. For a half an hour. After about 10 minutes, I was done being tough and just started to cry. I was pretty sure that the anesthesiologist who was doing the procedure was close to crying as well. I have horrendously difficult veins and arteries, due to lots of past medical procedures and scarring. A nurse offered me her hand, and I squeezed it with apology until at last the arterial line was placed.
I sat up, wiped tears from my face, and hunched over in impossible positions for the spinal block injection. Which also took several painful attempts and about another 15 minutes. (And might I add that while countless women sing the praises of epidurals and spinal blocks for pain control, the placement of such interventions is supremely odd. You are asked to curl your back around your ginormous belly, with your chin to your neck, and lean over to such a degree that you can actually see the feet you've been unable to visualize for the past 3 months. Then you are told to hold extremely still in this position while they make multiple injections into your spine. This is precisely the moment that you ask yourself why, oh why, did I not keep up with that prenatal Yoga DVD regimen?)
I thought of Michael, who was no doubt staring at the clock in that waiting room, and worrying. After all injections were complete, I was on my back again, panicking with the realization that after this, I still had to go through the surgery. I was sweating, exhausted, upset, and very fearful. I thought of stories I've heard of women who come in to deliver their babies, only to put their clothes back on and announce that they've changed their mind, they're going home, thank you very much. I'm going to be one of those women, I thought. I would just get up off this table and walk out, having had enough for one day. But then I realized that I couldn't feel anything below my chest, a small complicating factor. And my legs were strapped down to the table. Were they strapped so they didn't flop off the table? I wondered. Or because women have tried walking out?
Just then, Michael walked in, asked the nurses why I had been crying, and held my hand as he sang me love songs. Which made me cry more. Until our son was born, and his cries rivaled anything I could muster that day, in volume and persistence. I think that in my stupor I actually asked, "can you guys fix that?"
But the crying did stop, shortly before Michael walked back to me, holding a pile of hospital blankets. It was my turn to cry again, adoring that little pile of blankets, not having seen what was inside, but knowing that it was absolutely beautiful.
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