Labour

Well here we are! Currently at Isambard, there is a baby, a mommy, 3 cats, and me. And everyone is asleep except me. This is a good thing. Peanut was born on December 5th, juuuuust after midnight after a 20 hour labour, laughing gas, an epidural and some forceps work. This was, except for the forceps, exactly according to plan. The labour started at about 4 am, at home, with gently accelerating contractions. Over the next eight hours they became stronger until we reached Five minute intervals between One minute contractions for One hour, also known as 5-1-1. At that point we decided to go to the hospital, though neither the doula nor Father In Law Chauffeur were there. (He had offered to drive us until we figured out he was asking for permission, thus his role in this) As soon as we determined to go, the relevant parties arrived. Though we were at 5-1-1, the standard deviation was pretty high, so we delayed long enough for a cup of tea. Tea finished, and we were off to the Nice Lady Hospital. At NLH, the volunteers quickly dispatched us to the wrong area, and between stopping for contractions we were bounced around and landed in the right place. At this point, the Project Manager was unable to lie down or sit down, so we were made further uncomfortable by that fact that all the initial spaces for a pregnant lady are a) small, and b) designed to lie down. BUT...as soon as we got into our room (where "everything will happen") we had lots of wonderful space, enough for our doula and us. The PM is kicking butt at this point, and the doctor quickly determines that she is 3 cm dilated, and things are just tickety-boo. Then they leave us alone... for a long time... which was very nice! We contracted, and walked, and the PM got in the shower for about 2 hours and the doula and I massaged her and held her up and helped her breath, and the contractions kept on coming, about 5 minutes apart, and HARD. The PM would fortify herself with a little laughing gas from time to time. She would later claim that it did nothing, but listening to her trying to talk after taking it was pretty funny (speaking as someone who has done Whippets, and knows what of he speaks) The doctor came back in, and re-examined the PM and discovered she was... 3 centimetres dilated. So they said, gleefully, "we'll break your water, that will help; but the contractions will get more severe". So they did that. And boy did the contractions kick up... and never stopped. Contraction after contraction without a break or respite. And the PM began to flag a little... this is now about... 8 pm? But we had a plan, and that plan was (if it could not be tolerated) we would mitigate the pain with an epidural. The doula and I tried twice to get her through contractions with encouragement in the shower, but the third time she asked for it she said, without a waver in her voice, "It. Is. Epidural.Time" so we stopped encouraging her and got busy with the epidural. The anaesthetologist was a massive dude, and a good thing, because it took all four of us, (him, the nurse, the doula, and me) to hold the Project Manager still while he injected her. He was one of our heroes. At this point we're about 6 cm dilated, and the epidural is perfect. The PM can feel everything, but nothing hurts, and away we go again. The contractions increase in severity and excitement over the next 2 hours, taking us to about 10 pm. Now the pushing begins. You may note that we missed the transition phase, where Peanut's head moves from the cervix into the birth canal. We did miss this! Thanks epidural! The pushing was wild. My little tiny PM is pushing like a rock star, which involves pulling her knees towards her shoulders, and trying to turn herself inside out. She pushes and pushes and pushes and pushes. As she does so, we can see the tip-top of the head and every time she pushes it comes within 5 millimetres of the opening and then retreats. And this gets discouraging. At about... 11 pm, the doctor comes in and says, "huh, let me check something" and she sticks four fingers where four fingers shouldn't fit, especially as there's a baby's head there, and she determines that Peanut is facing the wrong way, and the mystery of the unproductive pushing is resolved. So the doctor turns Peanut around. If I never have to see the PM in that much pain again, I will be a happy man. But now we have movement! The PM explains as how she is unable to get this baby out without help, and the doctors start working on the forceps procedure. This means... more drugs! Wonderful drugs! This means that the PM will be insensate below the waist, so her pushing will be prompted, not instinctive. She is racing the doctors. Every push brings Peanut closer in, and the doctors are still not ready to help. There are now 9 people in the room, and it is a little crowded. Finally all is ready, and they get the forceps in, and they begin to steer. Doctor makes it clear that the forceps are not to steer, they are to steer while the PM pushes. It's now juuuust before midnight. There's pushing, and talking, and screaming, and bustling, and pulling, and incredibly bright lights, and it's all a blur, really. At about 12:04, they pull Peanut out, and she is, as far as I can tell, dead. Purple, floppy and silent. And that lasts for about 10 seconds. At some point they steer me in to cut the cord, which I do, and they ask me to tell the PM the sex of peanut, which I do... and that's about when I lose it (in a manly way, of course). They put Peanut on the PM's chest, and I get sat down, and try breathing for a while. At this point they have to do some intimate sewing on the PM, so they put Peanut on MY chest, and then I weep. I cried more than Peanut did. Also, Peanut pooped on me. Copiously. But that was ok. There! Now you know how that turned out. Oh yah, and Peanut is a girl.

No Peanut yet...

... but... IT IS REALLY EMOTIONAL TO BE 9 MONTHS PREGNANT IN ADVENT. All the hymns are about Babies coming. All the psalms are about prophecied babies. All the sermons are about babies coming... It's a bit much. We are two days overdue. We will see the doc on Wednesday, and then likely be induced on Friday.

The night before Peanut...

Tomorrow is our actual real due date with Peanut. I don't think we're going to have him/her before next week, but that's ok. We're managing our own expectations pretty severely, but our hopes are evident. We want a natural birth, low stress, with a labour that progresses at home before going to the hospital, but we'll likely end up being induced, 10 days late, in the hospital. It's like falling off a cliff in a way. What is going to happen is in no way in any doubt, and the only question is timing. It's an eerie feeling to make appointments or say bye to people and know that the next time I see them that my life will be fundamentally altered. Also it is time to eat. So unless I blog again this week, or tonight, or something, this is my last non-father of a baby blog entry

Friday fun!

Well I'll be damned. It's Friday morning, and my inbox is empty and my calendar is clear. NOW what do I do? My work is going great, time to bring it up to another level, and that'll be lots of fun. I think we're done laying down plans and procedures, and now it's time to swivel our focus to response related and get more information out faster. Now I need to figure out how to layer Google Maps together. Hard.

Theatre fun

The Project Manager and I are doing a show in Prairie Metropolis' theatre festival. So far, the highlights have been: Our venue has repeatedly walked the line of being banned as a venue by scheduling other acts immediately before, immediately after, and, once, during our show. Our venue has been very grumpy about our need to close and lock the doors for 30 minutes while do our sound check and set up our chairs. Our hosts are possibly in the process of ending their relationship, messily. This means that He threatens to remove all his equipment, including the sound system, and She is stressed and wants to revisit the amount of money she's getting. Our rented microphones have two volume settings: library-whisper, and monster-truck-announcer. Our rented microphones change between these two settings randomly. Our sound guy is a genuine saint, but has never done sound before. Ever. He gets better every night. It is very hot in PM, so the venue is waaaaaaaaarm inside, and sweaty. But, you know, we get to do what we love for appreciative audiences.

Puzzle pieces

I have been pondering why it is that the couples we know without energy, without pizzazz, seem to last not as long as the ones who are deeply weird. I have a good pair of friends who are eccentric, actors, home reno-ers, ambitious, brash and professional. They live in a little house with lots of personality, and they have parties like no one else I know. We have several friend couples who are... generic. Big house, SUV, work in the day, TV at night, vacation in Hawaii once a year. Sometimes they own a dog. They never do anything fun. Here's the differences as I see them: 1) There is no doubt that the odd couples I know LIVE in the places they live. If they were not there, everyone would notice. The world would be substantially different. 2) The generic couples could disappear in a moment and be replaced by other identical couples, and no one would know. 3) Either partner could disappear from the relationship and be replaced by another clone; a man in shiny shorts with flip flops and a ball-cap, or a Jennifer-Aniston-haired woman with an expensive travel mug and a subscription to Slice TV. 4) Generic couples have no projects in common; maybe sometimes the dog. Why is this on my mind today? Because today I saw the WEIRDEST couple I know. She is a totally strange person, the weirdest I know, and her husband is the DARNDEST fellow. And they are awesome. 100% genuinely each other in each others company. So here's the metaphor: People are like puzzle-pieces, and the more odd corners and weird colours you have, the stronger you fit when you find the right other piece.

Too Much Coffee Man!

I have had waaaay too much coffee. I am in some kinda trouble, I think. I will read 'til I sleep, that is my plan. Drinking too much coffee, for me, is like I imagine it would be to sleep with an ex-girlfriend: Familiar, Exhilarating, but you KNOW there's going to be an awful consequence later.