Just six short years ago my youngest (and last) baby boy was born. Oh, how the time flies, doesn’t it? Thirteen days ago (August 3rd), I shared the birth story of my oldest son and now it’s time to share the story of my second (and to reiterate, LAST) son’s birth story.
Shortly after my older son turned two, I decided that it was the perfect time for him to have a baby sister or brother. So in January of 2006, my now ex husband and I started trying. Since I got pregnant with my oldest on the first try, I assumed that would happen the second time. WRONG. It took 11 months to get pregnant…which, if you’re doing your math correctly = November. I personally know women who go through years of fertility struggles and my 11 months pales in comparison to their stories, but at the time I concerned that there may be an issue.
The thing was, my ex and I weren’t getting along so well anymore. He was working his ass off to support us (side note – I was still working full time at that point), so in addition to the fact that we had a toddler and hardly saw each other as it was, he made some bad financial decisions and things were really on the fritz with our relationship. Honestly, just mustering up the desire to “try” was hard enough, but to have to go through it for 11 (long) months was almost torture…..especially since I had this sinking feeling that he’d leave me after I had the baby (which he did).
But, I really, REALLY wanted another baby – by the same father, so I spoke with my OB/GYN and he suggested having my ex-husband’s sperm tested, which we did twice. The first time his count was low, but the second time was normal, so my doctor prescribed a fertility drug called Clomid (sp?). I was supposed to take it when I started my period in November, but I never got it (my period that is). I thought I was getting sick (as in a cold), but it turns out I was pregnant, so I ripped up the prescription and celebrated! Literally, the first thing that came to my mind was “OMG, I got pregnant in November with my first baby and please, oh please, don’t let this one be born on my oldest’s birthday”. That literally haunted me everyday while I was pregnant.
The pregnancy wasn’t as delightful as the first time around for me. I had TERRIBLE heartburn and ended up on Zantac for most of the pregnancy. My first time around I would have sucked up the pain, but it was different the second time. Plus I was exhausted, which was in large part due to the insanely long hours that I worked at my job. I’m talking a 14 or so hour day every Friday. Every week. It was so hard and don’t forget that I had a todder, too. I worked up until about eight weeks before I was due. I knew that once I had the baby, I couldn’t keep my job because of the crazy hours, so I had planned on being a SAHM. Plus, I wasn’t feeling so hot with the pregnancy, so I quit my job at the end of June that year.
And can I just tell you how relieved I felt on 08/03 (my other son’s birthday) when the day had come and gone and the baby decided to stay put. I was sick over it all day that day.
Shortly before that, I ended up on “light duty” because of high blood pressure. I ended up having to see my OB several times a week because of it. Then on a Thursday, 08/16, my blood pressure was so high, my doctor sent me straight over to the hospital to be induced. The thing was, my OB was leaving for vacation that Saturday and I figured he just wanted to make sure he was there for the delivery so he’d get paid. That theory was pretty much confirmed for me when I got to the hospital and my BP was just fine. I figured he had rigged the BP monitor in the office to have an excuse to send me over. That was FINE with me, because I was done at that point and just wanted to have the baby out.
A little while later, I am in the hospital, he broke my water, gave me whatever he gave me to induce me and I was on my way. Except an hour or two into it, I would have a contraction and the baby would stop breathing, so I had to have an emergency C-section. I was so scared going into it. I mean, I had never been so scared about anything else in my life. Ever. But the baby needed to come out and fast. They prepped me pretty quickly and before I knew it, I was in the OR. I had only been in the operating room for a few minutes, when I asked my ex if I’d been cut yet and he was like “ya, your guts are out all over your stomach”. Reassuring.
The C-section itself wasn’t bad. What I hated the most was that I didn’t get to hold my baby for about three hours after I had him. Nothing. Once he was out, they had to put me back together, which they ended up doing wrong apparently. They ended up having to take me apart a second time and then had to re-put me back together. Anyways, after they were done putting me back together, I fell asleep for a while and I kid you not, it took everything I had to wake myself up so I could see my baby. Whatever they gave me during the procedure knocked me on my ass, but once I was up, I managed to stay awake. That’s when the fun began. They gave me something during the surgery that made me barf every time I moved for the rest of that night. I couldn’t even turn my head to the side without puking all over myself. That was fun, especially since I couldn’t get out of bed or shower until the following day.
The next day, I was up and about, though. I didn’t take the pain meds that the nurses kept trying to push on me (perks) and I forced myself to get up and walk around. I just wanted to be back to normal, but maybe I over did it. I came home on a Saturday (yes, your math was correct – that was only 3 nights in the hospital) and the following Saturday, a week later, my incision re-opened in four small-ish sections and I was taken to the hospital in an ambulance, which was the most embarrassing thing in my entire life. All my neighbors were peering out the windows at me. It was mortifying I tell ya. What was worse was that I had to go alone because my ex had to stay home with the kids until someone could come stay with them. Lucky for me, I knew one of the nurses who worked in the ER and I was seen fairly quickly.
I ended up having a visiting nurse come to my house every day for 13 weeks and during that entire time, none of the four openings in the incision healed. I ended up having to have a procedure done in the OB’s office and he was just crossing his fingers that it worked because I seriously don’t think he knew what else to do with me at that point. What he had to do was scrape the skin from inside the wounds that wasn’t healing out and then he stitched the “new” skin together. It did end up working and once that healed, I was fine. Thank god.
It was a crazy ride and a few weeks after my incision ordeal was over, I had my tubes tied and never looked back. Then a few weeks after that, my husband did leave, like I knew he would, but I did just fine without him and never would have met the love of my life, Chris, if things didn’t work out the way they did.
My little guy is absolutely perfect and I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.