A Wellness Lesson?

I broke my foot at my wedding.

As best as I can tell, that's when it all began. 3 years and 8 months ago, my lesson in wellness (for lack of anything better to call it) started. And it wasn't a lesson I began by choice.

So, I wish there was an awesome story to go along with my broken foot, but there isn't really. There wasn't some death-defying activity involved, just a fabulous night spent dancing with my closest family and friends. While wearing a very heavy wedding dress. (I must pause to say how awesome I still think my dress was. Lace and beading all over, and tons of tulle and a HUGE train.) Anyways, I danced every single dance at my wedding... the polkas, the chicken dance, the cupid shuffle, the swing ones, the slow ones, the fast ones. Everything. And doing that, even though I was wearing black & white peddle pusher-like dancing shoes, in my heavy dress was too much for that tiny bone in my (rather small) foot.

I didn't even notice anything until the next day when we were getting ready to go to the brunch. I couldn't put weight on my left foot. I thought then (which now seems ridiculous) that it must have just been a tight tendon or something, so I passed on my cute heels and opted for flip flops, but was still hobbling around all day. (What makes this part of the story even "better" is that we honeymooned in the Smokey Mountains, and since I thought it was just a tight tendon, I thought taking hikes--of like 8 miles--would do me some good. I couldn't understand why it didn't make it hurt less, but rather more. <total forehead slapping moment 3 years later>)

When two months later I was still unable to go running because of foot pain, I decided to go to my Dr. She immediately referred me to a specialist, they took an x-ray, and came in with a boot. It was broken. I was to wear the boot for 6-8 weeks. Ugh. But that's not even the worst part! The worst part is that because I had been so delinquent in my going to the doctor, my hiking, and all the repeated attempts at running, I had caused permanent damage to my foot. I would likely never be able to wear heels as comfortably as before, and most likely, the doctor said, my running days were over. (I should clarify that I was never really 'a runner', but a 'half jog/half run/half walker.")

And then it was winter.

And then we were both (suddenly) unemployed.

And then my husband was out of town 4 days of 7, and I spent most evenings alone.

And then it was winter.

And then we moved to TX, and I cried out of sadness multiple times each day.

And then I was unemployed for 4 months.

And then my appendages started falling asleep.

You know, when you lose feeling and then the 'pins and needles' start? Well, I'd wake up most every night, in the middle of the night, with something having fallen asleep. It was painful and annoying. And, though this wasn't the first of odd things happening, it was definitely the most noticeable.

And then I gave up all junk food for Lent. And GAINED weight. It was at this point, because we finally had medical insurance again, that I went to the doctor. After loads of testing, they finally figured out there was something up with my thyroid. Among other things, most of which have been previously documented, deal also the c-word, but in other parts of my body, but aren't specifically related to this story, my thyroid was enlarged and had a 'nodule.' After several tests, they determined it wasn't cancer, but that I needed to be on medication to reduce its size and hopefully lose the nodule.

After 11 months of working with one particular doctor (whose office I left crying every time because of her and her staff's rudeness), I switched to a new one. (Seth was quite convinced I needed a new one, the tears being only half the problems I'd had with them. <another forehead slapping moment all these years later> I should have switched MUCH sooner.) I continued to gain weight the entire 11 months, because though I was trying to live a healthy, active life, if your metabolism isn't working, you have a huge uphill battle to fight, and I wasn't able to overcome that.

During this time, I had met with about 5 different specialists (for all the variety of things going on with me), given up all added hormones to my body, done loads of food allergy testing, done elimination diets for the better part of 4 months, and met with my naturopath every couple weeks to monitor progress. And yet, still, the pounds kept coming, and I kept having these weird things (appendages falling asleep, etc) happening.

After meeting for the first time with my new doctor, she switched my medicine around, was convinced that she could get things corrected fairly quickly, and stated she didn't understand why my previous doctor had been unable to. Neither did I. I went back three months later for my physical and to check how my thyroid was responding, hopeful that it would be under control, or nearly under control, and that I would then be able to start losing the weight I'd gained. And that's when I got the news.

I was pregnant. Pregnancy for me meant being sea sick 24/7. The only thing that made me feel remotely human was lying horizontal with my eyes closed. I couldn't bend over, I couldn't walk, I couldn't watch tv, and I certainly couldn't read (which, for this avid reader was life-altering. Plus, the thing I normally do when I have to just lay around, I couldn't do. I didn't know myself.) I did nothing but lie flat for the better part of 9 months, just wishing the queasiness would subside. I didn't eat very much (who wants to eat when you feel sea sick?), but I was also extremely inactive. For the first time in years, I actually lost weight. That didn't last long though, because towards the end of the third trimester I started to feel less sea sick, and started eating again, but the heartburn and hugeness caused me to continue to be inactive. Overall, I gained a reasonable, relatively small amount of weight while pregnant. (But that's not much consolation to me as I'd already been adding pounds for years, and any more just felt like a death sentence.)

But, since giving birth (7 months ago!), I've had the most-varied, most worst-luck health-wise. I have had: a sinus infection (actually had it when Austin was born, and it took several weeks to go away), two root canals, a crown, an allergic reaction to penicillin (which was new to me, I'd been pumped with it while in labor, so this reaction, on Christmas, was a total shocker and a bummer), severe food poisoning, an ear infection, an unexplainable rash covering both arms, several bouts of vertigo, a bum hip, another sinus infection, stomach flu, two rounds of different types of allergy testing, and most recently have sprained my ankle. I honestly don't think I have had a string of 7 days where I've felt healthy/been uninjured more than twice in the last 7 months. Seriously.

And so, the pounds have continued to add on. I haven't worn my wedding ring for over a year and half. The thought disgusts me. And now, I'm looking at the calendar... I'm looking at the fact that I'm going home in 3 weeks for the first time since August of 2008 (for Heather's wedding), and I'll be approximately 50 pounds heavier. I guess part of the reason I'm even writing this note is to tell everyone back home in advance so I don't have to see the shock on their faces when I see them for the first time. I'm sure that people who see me on a regular basis (i.e. TX folk) have noticed too, but that's been more gradual, and thankfully, no one has said anything.

But the biggest reason I'm writing this is to ask for support, love, encouragement, and most of all, prayer. I just want to be healthy. I want to not be sick, not be injured, and not feel dizzy (vertigo) or queasy so that I can again be the healthy, active person I am. Inside. Underneath all this extra weight. I want to go on walks with my family and enjoy it. I want to not be hot all the time. I want to get on the floor and play with my son and not struggle to get back up again. It's embarrassing. Embarrassing and gross. I hate what the mirror shows me. And I hate how this weight has affected what's on the inside as well. I'm not the same person I used to be. My personality has been affected. That's the worst.

So, back-home folks... consider yourself warned.

So, people who love me... pray. I'm ready for this wellness lesson to be over. Please ask God to finish the lesson, give me assistance in regaining health (and fitting into my clothes and ring again), and knowledge about why I've gone through this. What it's all been for, I have no idea. But, whatever it is, I'm ready to take the final and move on. Enough is enough.

The Magic Words

I was recently reading a book about raising your kids to be mindful of manners. It's called Emily Post's The Gift of Good Manners: A Parent's Guide to Raising Respectful, Kind, Considerate Children. I only read the first section as that section stops at 12 months. (I plan to pick it back up in the fall to read the next section, starting at 13 months.) I LOVED it. Now, of course, I do have 'a thing' for manners, etiquette, and all things Emily Post, so it's possible that I enjoyed the book more than you would, but anyways, that's not what I'm writing about.

In one of the chapters, it encouraged using the "Magic Words" when speaking to your children, even before they can speak themselves, because it'll become habit for you and likely will for them when they do get to speaking. Well, even though I have a thing for etiquette, I didn't immediately know what the authors were referring to. I had to use the paragraph's context to understand what they were encouraging me to do. I was like "oh! saying 'please' and 'thank you!' <insert forehead smack>"

I recently coordinated a community-wide weekend of yard sales for Park Forest (my neighborhood), and well, ....perhaps I need to give some background... I used to be involved in my neighborhood's community organization as Secretary and Event Coordinator (it was kinda like an HOA, but voluntary, and not about rule-setting, but community-building). The President then moved and the Treasurer resigned (unrelated incidents), and that left the organization hanging by a thread. Me. So, after much time and many requests for help, I changed the bank accounts, changed websites (created my first one!) and email accounts. Everything is now solely in my hands. That fact is something that I don't exactly mind, I mean, I took it on of my own free will, but it does get tiring sometimes.

Eventually I decided that we needed to have some sort of event, and figured that something that allowed people to be involved at their comfort level is how we should go. I created a survey and a community-wide weekend of sales was determined (by the neighborhood at large) to be a good idea. I moved forward. I created flyers (and recruited help to deliver them to all 250 homes!), posted it on our website, emailed about it, had a friend post it on Craigslist, and then sat back to watch it happen. A lot of people participated, and I'd say overall the event was a huge success for our first attempt. And then I got the email.

A Park Forest resident emailed me the details of her sale, that she had decided to not do one herself again next year, but that she hopes we do it as a community again as she'd like to participate instead as a buyer. And then she wrote: "...so I hope this becomes a yearly success. Thanks for all your efforts." I must have read that last line 30 times! I just kept looking at it over and over and over again. It made me teary-eyed. I hadn't set out to do this for the thanks or 'reward' in it. I had done it because building neighborly-ness in my community is one of my biggest passions. I almost felt as if I was doing it more for myself than for others. It felt almost selfish! And yet, here in this email, this woman (whom I've never met) was melting my heart by one simple line: Thanks for all your efforts.

I wrote her back and said that I sincerely appreciated her thanks, and that while unnecessary, they were really appreciated. Her reply was again short and sweet "I don't know why people don't say it more often." Seriously, that was her entire email. She didn't address me, she didn't sign her name, nothing. Just those words. And, yet, again, I can't stop re-reading the email, and it's been heavy on my heart all day. She implies a good question, I think... Why don't we say/write it more often? I mean, how long did it take her? 5 seconds? This woman doesn't know me (and I don't know her), and yet, by writing 5 little words to me, she's made my week!

I guess they really are Magic Words.

Question Your Own Decisions, Not Someone Else's

It seems like people feel it's ok to question someone's decision. I'm not sure why, but it sure seems like it's happening a lot lately--to me, to friends, to family. Almost as if it's increasing in prevalence.

I mean, if someone decides to quit their job, sell their house, go on a vacation, buy a new car, that's up to them. Why question them in such a way as to seem condescending? Saying something like "Why did you buy THAT car?" makes it sound like: "You're an idiot to have bought that specific car. Dummy." If what you ask, instead, is something like "Oh, that's interesting, I'm not familiar with that car, can you tell me more about it?" says: "I'm interested in knowing more about your decision, not judging you for your decision."

It seems to me that asking these sorts of questions, questions that may potentially help you in making a similar decision (such as you're in the market for a new car as well) are nice, friendly, fellowship-building, even potentially helpful. If my just having bought a specific car makes you think about your own car needs, I'm happy to share with you about why I bought what I did (a 2012 Mazda5, for the record). But, if you're going to grill me about it and then leave having decided I made the wrong choice, well, I'd rather not chat with you about it. I don't need any judgement from you, thank you very much. And besides, who bought the car: you or me?

And if I start out telling you that I just got a new car by prefacing it with the fact that I've been crying for a week because I'm going to miss my old one, and the reasons why I'm going to miss it, but that I'm excited because the new car has x, y, z, well... shouldn't your response be something like "Yes, I see that it has x, and it seems perfect for you! I'm happy you're happy." I emailed our family about our new car, and the best response was my SIL's. Simple and sweet: "Happy for you. :-)" That's all I wanted to hear. I want people in my life to be happy that I am happy. (And, if the occasion should ever present itself, to mourn when I mourn.) I'm making decisions within my family for my family, not yours. If it's not what you would do, then, well, good. Don't do it. Doesn't matter to me what you do within/for your family.

And if my husband and I decide to take a particular vacation and you say: "Why are you going on THAT vacation?" ... well, again, it screams judgement. How about something like "Tell me why you decided on that particular vacation."? I'll then be under the assumption that you're interested in knowing more about me, my decision, my family than about deciding for yourself whether you think it's the right choice for me. I welcome opportunities to get to know one another better, but let's be respectful while we're at it! Because, whose vacation is it: yours or mine?

Lastly, if you're close enough to be on the 'need to know' list, then you probably already know why they chose to do/have done/are whatever it is you're questioning them about. Why feel the need to ask them detailed questions? Is it any of your business? Some things can be seriously sensitive subjects, so let's respect each other and not ask a million questions about it. Be happy that they're happy. You questioning why they're going on a vacation, or how many kids they do or don't have seems incredibly rude to me. Why do you care where I go on vacation!? What if someone's infertile, and their hearts have been breaking for years over this issue? You off-handly asking "So, when ya gonna have kids?" might just be a dagger to their heart! I have a friend who'd I'd like to ask this particular question, but I bite my tongue literally every time I see her, because how do I know she's not been trying for forever? Last thing I need to do is make it worse. And besides, it's her family, not mine. I'm happy if they're happy.

As most people know, Austin was our awesome accident. Awesome, yet an accident. We couldn't love him more or love our new life more, but when we first found out, "Congrats!!!" was NOT the word we wanted to hear. I had one person ask how long we'd been trying. I responded we weren't. "Oh, not trying, but not NOT trying, right?" I then decided to prove a point by going into detail about how we were in fact still preventing, but that our chosen method of prevention failed. I'm not sure my point was made, but I felt like shouting at this person! If you don't know me well enough to know the particulars going on in my life, then why do you feel like you have the right to ask me about the details? And then to show judgment about that? Seriously. Do we need to go back to "If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all." combined with "Think before you speak." combined with "It's none of your beeswax."?

I'm not saying I have it all figured out or do this 'right.' I mean, I have thought about the correct way to respond to someone when they announce they're pregnant (given my own experience I've decided Congrats! isn't the way for me), and I still lack a solution that seems 'good enough.' A good friend responded "REALLY!?" when we told her, and this spoke volumes, and is probably the response I remember the most because it conveyed that she was sensitive to our situation (knowing we probably weren't all that happy about it. we weren't), and that she was shocked and excited and in the moment with us. It might have seemed rude to outsiders, but it was perfect for me. Exactly what I needed to hear. One person responded "Ok, so what are you experiencing right this minute?" Also perfect. I think the answer to the question I've been asking myself is that there is no one-size-fits-all answer. If you don't know the person well enough to know how they want you to respond to their news (vacation, new car, baby, etc), then what makes you think it's ok to ask a million questions about it? Why not just simply smile and tell them that you're happy if they're happy?

The old me. The new me.

An (Almost) Unbelievable Story about Customer Service

The following story might seem like 'a yarn,' 'a stretch,' embellished, or just plain not true. Yet, sadly, it is a 100% true story, with my opinions checked as much as possible. Seriously!

First of all, look at the nearest calendar. Find February 26th. That's the day it all began...

Seth and I went for our yearly eye exam at our local (in network) optometrist's office (right at Forest and Webb Chapel) to have our eyes checked. I needed a renewal on my contact prescription, and though Seth has 20/20 vision, still needs his eyes checked, even if only for their health. So, we went, Austin in tow, one got examined while the other waited in the sea shell-full waiting room. (You would not believe the number of sea shells in this office! pictures, actual shells, etc..!) Anyways...

I got my new prescription (which was different from last year), and went next door to Pearle Vision (they share a wall) to obtain my samples. (They always give you a sample for each eye that you get to test out before you actually purchase new contacts. It's to make sure they're correct.) I went home with one for each eye. I got a call about 5 days later, however, saying that the samples they sent me home with were incorrect (they never stated in which way they were incorrect) and that I needed to come up there to pick up my new samples. I did. I didn't notice anything different between the first set of samples and the second set. I must note that I hadn't kept the original packaging for the first set of samples, so I have no idea what the difference was. Knowing what I know now, I doubt there was any difference. But I'll get to that in a bit.

About a week went by with me using this second set of samples when I realized that I didn't think my left eye's prescription was correct. It seemed too fuzzy to be a brand new prescription. Then we went on vacation.

It was March 26th (exactly a month since my first appointment) before I could go back to have the Dr. re-check my eyes and tweak the prescription. As I had previously done, immediately following the exam, I went next door to pick up my sample. It was explained to me that they never carry samples of my type of lens (I have astigmatism) in the store. This was contrary to my experience over the last two years and I stated so. I was abruptly cut off and told that I must certainly be mistaken. This is when things started to seem "funny."

I was called about 5 days later and told that my new sample was in, so I drove up there to get it. Now, I know this location is about .8 miles from my home, but to get a then 5-month old loaded up, out of the car, into the store, back into the car, back into the house for what seemed the millionth time, for a sample contact, was starting to push my patience. I, having started to get the feeling of being jacked around, kept the container for this new sample. After about a week, I concluded that it was perfect, and called PV to have them order me a box for each eye, using the new prescription for the left eye. About a week goes by.

I get a call that my contacts are in and I can pick them up. I go up there (again, hauling Austin around as previously described). As soon as I get in the door and tell the 'receptionist' my name, she pulls out the tray labeled with my name (you know those flat, plastic trays eye Dr. places always have?) and starts groaning. Oh! OOh! ugh. ah! Once she pulls out the tray, she moans and groans for a good 30 seconds, never once explaining to me what's going on. She goes in the back and talks to someone. Further gasping and groaning occur. She comes out and says "Your contacts aren't here." I reply that I'm confused because there are two boxes in the tray, the tray with my name on it, she's holding the tray, what does she mean? It literally takes me asking Yes/No questions for 5 minutes before I finally understand that yes, contacts were ordered for me, but the wrong ones were ordered. No apology. I'm told that she'll personally re-order my contacts and call me when they're in. !

A week or so later, she calls. I go back up. Now toting a 6-month old as previously described. I pay for the contacts and come home. Immediately I check the boxes with the sample container from my second, left-eye sample and realize that they ordered me an incorrect prescription for my left eye. They ordered the original prescription. ugh.

I call the Dr. office, and that receptionist walks next door to tell the PV people that there's been a mistake, they've given me the wrong contacts. After talking to pretty much everyone in the store, they agree to order me another box, and... you guessed it, they'll call me when they're in. While on the phone with them, I explain the story from the beginning, that I couldn't understand how one business could get a single customer's order so completely wrong and never once apologize about it or offer a consolation of any kind. I proceed to ask if they could get an extra contact for each eye for me given all my hassle. They agree.

So, a week later when I go to pick up my correct contacts, they hand me a box plus a single contact container. I hand over all the previous incorrect contacts, and come home. I didn't even once look at what they were handing me! You might be thinking what I am now.. why didn't you check the contacts while in the store!? I guess I can only blame it on having Austin in tow, and my simmering anger which when the two are combined causes me to not think completely logically. Because guess what happened....

I get home and notice that the contact box looks different than normal. Then I notice that it says "3 lenses" on the packaging. I rip it open to find indeed, there are only 3 contacts inside. So, instead of getting 7 for the price of 6 (because of all the hassle), I got 4 for the price of 6. I literally screamed! I couldn't fathom that they had once again inconvenienced me to this degree. Seriously!? I call, shaking, trying to maintain my composure and a somewhat-even voice and explain to the manager what happened. (I must also add here that I've been speaking to the 'manager' each and every time I called since the very beginning.) I explain that the box only has 3 rather than the typical 6, that I couldn't believe I have been further hassled by this place and I'm still not done dealing with them! She agrees to order three more contacts, and mail them to me. "Would that be helpful?" "YES!" I shouted back.

Well, last Tuesday I got my envelope from Pearle Vision containing 3 contacts. 3 INCORRECT contacts. They're the original, aka wrong, prescription. I'm trembling with anger as I call and immediately ask for the manager. The chick answering the phone says "Ma'am, we mailed you your contacts." "yes, and they are the wrong ones." click. "Hi Ms. Spofford, Yes, I just got your contacts in and mailed them to you the other day." "I know. I just got the package. They're the wrong ones." silence. I then go on to say that they are the first prescription, the wrong prescription, and that I couldn't believe that they have been messing with me since February and not once had anyone apologized to me. Her response!?!? "Well, ma'am, I can do that, but you see... blah blah blah." She never once apologized!!!!! She did, however say she'd re-order my contacts and mail them out to me. Well, it's 8 days later and I still don't have them.

Though, once I do get them, I feel like I still need to make a trip up there because what am I going to do with three contacts that are wrong? Hold onto them? No. Throw them away? Seems like a waste. So, once I get my correct contacts in the mail, I plan on making a visit up there, sans Austin, and speak to this lady face to face. I pray I hold my temper in check!

Side note: After receiving the 3 incorrect contacts in the mail, Seth suggested I call corporate to complain, asking for a regional or area manager. (He's very familiar with that process as he deals with high-level managers at Michaels all the time. I thought it was a brilliant suggestion!) Well, I did that, and guess what? There isn't one! This store, along with 2 others, is privately owned which means no regional manager, and the guy promised to forward my complaint to the owner and that I'd hear back from the owner within 2 days, and a week later I still have heard nothing. Seriously. ugh. Actually, double ugh.

Guess where I will NOT be going to have my eyes checked next year???? (And for my neighbors reading this, please also spare yourself and your family by going elsewhere. Please.)

The Sinus Infection was One Complication Too Many!

For those who are reading this, I must first issue a warning. The following note is about the birth of our first son, Austin Thomas Spofford. As a person who believes in telling "the whole truth, and nothing but," some might find the content of this a bit disturbing or TMI (or the like). If you think you might fall into that category, stop now. If you are interested in why the birthing process took 22.5 hours, read on, but consider yourself warned! :-)

In order to fully tell the story, I must 'back up' a little. Two weeks prior to his birth to be exact. I had a sinus infection. I had been suffering from the pregnancy-induced stuffy nose for a month or so, but I didn't start my nasal rinses (if you don't currently do those, you MUST start, I'm a HUGE fan!) as quickly as I apparently should have, because I ended up with a sinus infection that I just could not get rid of. As it was already difficult to breath at 9 months pregnant, this added factor caused all sorts of complications: I had been missing out of all sorts of fun family activities (TX State Fair, etc), and bailing on responsibilities of all kinds. So, come Monday, the 18th, I finally called my Dr. and requested an appointment and medication. (I had an appointment scheduled for Wednesday, the 20th, but could NOT wait any longer.) So, I got z-pack (is that how that's spelled?), prescription nasal steroid something-or-other, and was told to start taking Mucinex D. Then, my water broke.

Well, it was actually 5am Tuesday morning, but you see my point. I had just gotten back in bed from the umpteenth trip to the bathroom when I felt this sharp-ish pain/poke that caused my eyes to pop open in the cartoon-ish way (think: Wylie Coyote). I then thought "Am I peeing myself?" I went back to the bathroom, and as liquid continued to pour out, I shouted to Seth that it was time to get up, that I was pretty sure my water had broken.

All would have been perfectly fine if I had taken my SIL's advice to "get my bag packed already." See... I was still a little bit in denial that I would soon be a mom, and so my bag sat half-packed for weeks. And given that I had tested Group B Strep positive (GBS+), my water breaking meant we needed to immediately head to the hospital. But, I wouldn't leave before I'd had a shower (minus washing my hair), and we still had to pack our bags, take care of Georgia Mae, tidy up a few things, contact Seth's work, etc. We ended up leaving the house about 6:15, and after stopping at the McDonald's drive-through for food, OJ, and coffee (one of the best decisions we made that morning!), we made it to the hospital shortly before 7am.

They were in the middle of shift change, and since my contractions were light to nonexistent, they had us wait in the waiting room while they readied a room for us. After taking us back to the room (one with a great view!), they did this litmus-strip-type test to check that the liquid was indeed amniotic fluid. The first couple of tries came back negative (I had showered). They checked all sorts of other vitals, waiting for more fluid to test. At approximately 8am, they got a positive reading, the admission process was started, and we called family (and posted on FB).

I had been feeling pains every 5 minutes for about a minute in length since we had been in the car. They were so light and manageable, that they readily agreed to letting me roam the halls (once they'd checked all vitals) to speed the process along and deal with the pain. I would have liked to be at home for all of this time, managing things in my own way. I mean, that is why we took Bradley classes, after all. But, again, given the GBS+ness, I had to be connected to penicillin every four hours for a half hour. They gave me my first dose at 8:30 or so, and thus I could be disconnected from the tubes (I had a hep-lock rather than a full-on IV) and walk around the room, use the bathroom, walk the halls, go to the waiting room, etc. This was great. I thought: I could do this for a long time! When we arrived, I was something like 1 cm.

By noon, I was something like 2cm. The most painful thing thus far had been when the short-digited Dr. (not my regular Dr. who's a female and approximately 6 feet tall) 'checked me.' I about thought I was going to flying through the roof! At this point, I was reconnected to the tubes--IV fluid and penicillin. The Dr. was beginning to get concerned about the slow progress of my cervix. (Once your water breaks, they generally believe that the baby needs to get out within 24 hours, and here we were 7 hours in, and only at 2cm (of 10).) He suggested that since I would be connected to the machine (which was the epitome of everything I didn't want in regards to my perfect birth), that we add some Pitocin. After conferring with a knowledgeable friend and our Bradley teacher, we asked if it could be delayed, but eventually agreed on the condition that it be stopped as soon as the penicillin was done, and I could be released from my connections. So, Pitocin was started.

During the time where drugs were flowing into me, I had the bands around my belly, monitoring his heart rate and the contractions. The contractions got much stronger really quickly, and with each increased contraction, they got more and more worried about his heart rate. It was already at the low end of 'normal' and so when it dropped, it dropped down to scary levels. So, I was forced to lay flat, on either of my sides which was the the worst position for managing the pain. During that, they also decided to put me on an oxygen mask as my stuffy passages weren't allowing (so they thought) for enough air for me and for him. So, here I am, strapped up with bands, IV with three liquids, laying on my side, breathing through an oxygen mask. Yuck. I was able to convince them to let me walk around a little bit after this, but they wanted to monitor him every hour given his recent 'poor performance.'

It was during one of these next monitoring sessions (I don't remember how many later), that they decided he needed more fluid as so much had already come out and he wasn't 'floating' any more. So, a tube was inserted which was pumping me full of fake fluid (which of course came pouring right back out, via gravity!).

By the next time I was re-connected to get my next dose of penicillin (about 4pm), I was only 3-4 cm, so they again recommended Pitocin to get things moving more quickly. It was then that the contractions got really bad (bc of the Pitocin). This caused his heart rate to make really drastic drops again, so at one point the nurse came rushing into the room (they had lost his heart rate via external monitors), and after a brief attempt to get it back via the bands, inserted a heart monitor into Austin's scalp. It was done so quickly, and there was already a tube there, that I didn't even notice pain or anything. These new situations (the tubes 'down there') meant no more using the bathroom by myself, and I was either to get a catheter or use a bed pan. As someone who was still trying to use as few interventions as possible, I ended up using the bed pan several times. (Not a fun experience.)

Now that I had tubes coming out of me 'down there,' the IV was the least of my concerns. I mean, there was no getting out of bed at this point anyways, so they decided to leave the Pitocin connected, doing it's thing. It had also been almost 12 hours, and my cervix was still no where near where it needed to be. Thankfully, now that they could reliably monitor Austin, I didn't have to have the uncomfortable (as an understatement!) bands around my belly. I still had to have the oxygen mask on, and they really liked me on my sides (which I hated!) because Austin's heart rate seemed 'happiest' with me like that. The Dr. came in and told us that he wanted us to consider getting an epidural. "Either you get an epidural now, and hopefully cause your body to relax, and your cervix to do it's thing, and if we need a C-Section you can be awake. Or, the next time his heart rate drops like that, I'll take you for a C-Section anyways, and you'll be asleep." (His heart rate was getting scarily low. I don't remember numbers, but the nurse showed Seth everything, and we knew the Dr. wasn't just saying that.)

So, picture this: Austin's heart rate monitor tube, a tube pumping me full of fake fluid, an oxygen mask, laying on my sides, lots of IV tubes coming out of my arm. Whew! Then the contractions got. really. bad. I was doing everything I could from my confined position to deal with the pain, and Seth was right there the whole time, doing everything he could do. The Pitocin caused me to dry-heave too, so once the contractions started coming really close to one another and really intensely the entire length of the contraction, I was laying on my side, hovering over the infamous pink bucket, hanging onto my oxygen mask with the other hand.

The other thing that I experienced (that I had not heard about) was the shaking! I was shivering like I was in the middle of a WI winter with just a t-shirt on. I didn't feel cold; I actually felt hot and asked the AC to be turned up several times. I just could not stop my convulsing. Add to that the dry-heaves every few minutes, laying on my side, tubes, tubes, and more tubes, oxygen mask, and the level of severity my contractions had gotten to, I was rapidly wearing out. I cried to Seth that though I was fully disappointed in myself, I was honestly thinking "either they take him via C-Section right now, or they call for the epidural man. I cannot sustain us both any longer." I'm crying as I write this because I did not want pain medication. Some want it, get it, and are happy with their choice, but as someone who set out to have a natural birth, it just seemed like thing after thing was getting in the way of that dream/goal. I was also getting really emotional at the time because I felt like I was failing him. His heart rate had been so scary so many times (even after the unreliable bands had been replaced with the reliable scalp monitor), that I kept beating myself up about it. I thought: "I have nothing left here. I need him out, for his sake and mine." We both cried, and then Seth went and got the nurse to call for the epidural.

Within minutes the man with his magical cart came wheeling into the room. (It literally seemed like 2 minutes, if that.) The man asked me to sit up, face sideways, sit cross legged, and bent over my knees. Well, anyone who's been pregnant (or had a bowling ball inserted into their shirt) knows that bending over yourself like that is almost impossible. There. is. a. stomach. in. the. way! I was still convulsing and so as the guy tells me to hold still I shout "I can't! I can't help the shaking!" And then a contraction passes (all with dry-heaving and convulsing included), he tells me to expect a couple pinches (why do they always describe shots as 'pinches'?), and within 30 seconds it was over, and he was taping the tubes to my back. He explained the push button, gave me some initial dose, said that he regularly saw epidurals relax the woman's body enough that the cervix just decides to get with the program, and rolled himself and his cart back out of the room. It was crazy!

Now that the pain was being managed, I wasn't working so hard, and immediately I felt cold. I got blankets, was allowed to lay on my back, stopped dry-heaving, stopped convulsing, had a catheter inserted (as I had no other option at this point). It was about 8pm and they did another round of penicillin and 'upped' the Pitocin. I was "about 5" cm. Enter magical time! We turned the Rangers on, Seth went and ate dinner in the waiting room with his family, I called a couple people. It was wonderful. (Seth later says that we had previously fully underestimated how much the epidural would impact him!)

By midnight (only a few hours later) I was at a 10, and it was time to start pushing. What was funny (in the ironic way, not the humorous way) was that as we had been getting ready Tuesday morning to go to the hospital, I nonchalantly said to Seth "If he's going to come early, wouldn't it be cool if he came on 10-20-2010?" And now, 20 hours after my water broke, we were at that point! So, the Pitocin was turned off, and I started pushing.

Now, I should also say here that though I was managing the pain with the epidural, I was using it as lightly as possible. They said "don't allow pain, but allow pressure." Well, I allowed a little bit of pain. The pain was nothing once I wasn't shaking, could lay like I wanted, and wasn't dry-heaving every other minute! So, when it came time to push, I could pick up my legs, feel what I was supposed to be doing 'down there,' etc. We ended up pushing for several hours (he was born at 2:28am). That sounds terrible to some people. "You pushed for 2.5 hours!?!?" But, it wasn't really like that. I mean, his heart rate was still uncomfortably low and would drop with each contraction, so they only allowed me to push with every third or fourth contraction. And, once the Pitocin was stopped, they went back to every 5 minutes or so, so I didn't really do that much work during the 2.5 hours. Sometimes she'd only let me push once rather than three times with each contraction.

Once I got to the point where she summoned the Dr, the room flooded with people. I mean, like 15 people came into the room. At that point, Austin must have gotten really shy because I didn't have another contraction for like 20 minutes! Then we were back to pushing, and once his head was out, the Dr. had to remove the umbilical cord from around his neck (explaining the heart rate issues), and then out he came!

I was asked if I wanted a mirror which I passionately refused, but Seth's glad he got to see the 'whole enchilada.' He cut the cord, they whisked Austin away to the warmer, rubbed him clean, did foot prints, vitals, etc. I turn to Seth and say (I kid you not) "Did that just come out of me?" I mean, it wasn't that I didn't feel him exiting my body, but it's a totally crazy experience that nothing can prepare you for. I knew there was a baby in my belly all those months, but nothing can fully explain to your brain what that means until he/she is out, making movements and noises all apart from you. It's crazy wonderful.

So... That's the story of Austin's birth. In the end, Seth and I are both really glad with how things turned out. It's not at all what we hoped for, practiced for, or wanted, but it was the way the birth was supposed to go. We honestly believe that. I'm thankful that the staff wasn't overly pushy with interventions, that they let us decide what and when and why (except the scalp monitor and antibiotic). I'm also really glad that though I got an epidural, I could feel the birth of my son. (I mean, who in their right mind is ready to ask for major surgery before even trying pain medicine!?) I think, though, that if I hadn't had to have the oxygen mask, if I had been able to take good, deep breaths whenever I needed/wanted, that I might not have had to have so many interventions. That is why "The Sinus Infection was one complication too many!"