Two weeks ago today, I awakened with pain in my back. I had been having contractions on and off through the night. However, a week prior, I had been to the hospital with contractions, which turned out not to be labor. So, because Kinnie was not due for another two weeks, I assumed that this again would be a false alarm. I went to the basement, laid on the couch, and turned on the TV. As the morning progressed, so did my contractions. I did not want to make another unneeded trip to the hospital, so I did everything I had read to slow them. I laid down, I went for a walk, I took a warm bath. All to no avail. By late morning, Brian and I decided to call my doctor's office. They agreed to see me.
By the time we arrived there, my contractions were occurring every 4 minutes or so, and were painful. I was checked by a nurse midwife, who advised that we head to Labor and Delivery to be monitored. When we got there, things started happening fast. I was placed on monitors, had an IV started, and was bombarded with nurses and doctors preparing me for my c-section. It was about the time that they had Brian dress in scrubs that I asked if we were headed to surgery quickly. I was told that, indeed, we were, and that my case had bumped others out of line.
I was wheeled to the operating room, with Brian at my side. When we had our false alarm a week earlier, my whole family arrived within an hour. This day, no one had had a chance to get to the hospital yet. We got to the operating room and I got out of the wheelchair and walked to the operating table. It was cold and sterile, but for the warmth of the staff in the room, who seemed to see this as a beautiful surgery, insomuch as a surgery can be beautiful.
It was the most surreal experience, and yet one of the most vivid memories I have. I sat on the table as I was given a spinal block. I cried a little, not because of the pain, but because everything was happening so fast, and I was scared. My legs quickly went numb, starting at my feet, the numbness working it's way up to my lower ribs. The nurses and doctors laid me down. My arms, which I could still feel and control, were laid out on either side of me, and a drape was placed across my chest so that I could not see anything below my arms.
My doctor and others gathered around me, and I could feel the prodding and pushing on my abdomen as they prepared to make my incision. The sensation was indescribable. I felt no pain. But I felt that there was a lot going on behind the drape.
My mom arrived just before they began the surgery, and was allowed in the operating room with us. I was so grateful that she and Brian were right next to me.
Things were relatively quiet as the surgery began. Within a few minutes, though, Kinnie was pulled from my belly. The anesthesiologist pulled down the drape to let me see her, just for a moment. Then she was taken aside, and Brian and my mom went with her. She was cleaned up and checked out, while my doctor began to sew me up. Kinnie was talkative as they worked on her, but didn't cry.
The moment that is most clear is when they brought her to me, and laid her on my chest. I was still in the middle of surgery, and couldn't hold her. But her cheek was against mine, her heart next to mine. Tears welled up as I felt something new, and something I could not have imagined. She was so soft. She was here, and safe, and healthy. The hardest part was over.
Kinnie was taken to the recovery room while I remained in the operating room for another 15 minutes. I joined her then, along with Brian and my mom. We were all in awe of this little being. She weight 6 pounds 13 ounces, and was 19 inches long. She had long hair, that was a medium brown color. She had adorable rosebud lips, big cheeks, and a button nose.
The rest of the day was spent with family visiting, meeting Kinnie. I was so grateful that on her first day of life, she was held by so many people who adore and love her. We didn't sleep until 2 in the morning, not because Kinnie kept us awake, but because of the emotions we were riding.
It was the best day of my life.
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