Or, All the Boring Stuff After I Actually Birthed a Baby
[Author’s Note #1: This story follows right on the heels of The Birth of Australis: Part II — which, if you only have time for one, is definitely the more worthwhile read. Oh, and Part II is technically preceded by Part I, but that one’s kinda boring.]
[Author’s Note #2: This story also references the birth of my first child. You can start the full story here or read the condensed version here.]
[Author’s Note #3: Once again, be forewarned that this is a birth story. Expect blood, sass, general nudity, and a lot about my butt. Seriously — consider skipping this post.]
Act IV: November 6th — 6:35am to 11:00am
Ten minutes after my daughter’s Hollywood entrance, I was ready for a nap.
Well, that’s a bit misleading. I had actually been ready for a nap since 3pm the preceding day. But, the intervening hours of labor and delivery meant that I was now really, really ready for a nap.
Alas, there’s no rest for the wicked — a description which certainly applied to me that morning. Little of my [already paltry] social graces remained by 6:30am. In other words, I was metaphorically stripped down to ferality — and, of course, literally stripped down to nudity.
Somewhat unsurprisingly, though, I was the only one bothered by the latter condition. (That is, I was the only one bothered by the nudity. Everyone was bothered by the ferality.) The birth center bathroom was still crowded with all four of my support people: Willa, the midwife; Cara, the labor and delivery nurse; Tina, the director of the birth center; and Taylor, my husband/doula/midwife.
After my blessing of Australis, Taylor shifted away from the toilet to afford more room to Willa and Cara, who were now in full-on medical mode.
I continued cradling my daughter against my chest. She, in turn, continued cradling my nipple in her mouth. Tina snapped a few more pictures with our DSLR, then set it on the counter and sighed. “Oh, that prayer was beautiful. I love that I got be here for that.”
“Thanks,” I slurred. “It’s from the… you know, the — Peter’s sermon… in Acts. On Pentecost.”
So, obviously, everyone could tell what that meant.
Thankfully, Tina didn’t challenge my drunken explanation. “Well…” she sighed. “I’m really sorry to duck out, by my kids will be waking up soon, so I have to go. But I’ll definitely see you again soon!”
I swung my gaze toward Tina and blinked hard. “Yeah! Um, yeah, that’s totally great. Thanks for coming, I really appreciated it.” I paused, then unnecessary added, “Although you didn’t have to.”
Tina laughed. “Are you kidding? This is the best part of my job!”
I laughed too. If this was the best part, then the others must truly be terrible.
I quickly entered a fugue state in which I was continually asked for — but probably not legally qualified to give — consent.
Can we clamp the umbilical cord? Can Taylor hack through said cord with these tiny medical scissors? Do you want us to refrigerate your placenta? Ew, would you really feed it to your dog? Can I put this hat on Australis? Ok, now can I do a fundal massage?
That last question — to which I very grudgingly assented — was followed by an incredibly painful cramp and another gush of blood. [Note: This post-birth technique — which is basically an induced uterine contraction — is incredibly important for reducing the size of a baby-less uterus. This, in turn, also reduces the size of the gaping wound recently vacated by the placenta, thus slowing the bleeding from said gaping wound. But more on that later.]
“Owwwwww,” I moaned. “Oh my gosh, that’s awful. Also… that’s why the toilet.”
Cara laughed, then said, “Yeah… this catches some mamas by surprise, but the afterpains are significantly worse with your second baby. They’ll be that bad when you nurse, too.”
“Great, can’t wait,” I muttered.
Cara’s revelation was followed by more requests.
Can you move the towel so I measure the baby’s heartbeat? Ok, now can you cover her again? May I do another fundal massage? Can you shift this way? Now that way? Ok, are you ready to return to the bed?
Taylor held Australis so that I could comply with the final request. I vaguely remember laying on the bed, atop a mound of underpads, while Willa assessed the aftermath of my daughter’s arrival.
“I’m just going to check up on how your bottom is doing,” she explained — much to my alarm.
“My bottom?” I shrieked. “What happened to my bottom?”
My entire pelvic floor felt like it had just emerged from a meat tenderizer, so I had no idea how much I had torn. Sure, I barely tore with Bo — but maybe my luck had finally run out. Horrified, I pictured a fourth degree tear ripping from my vagina right through my anal sphincter (aka “my bottom”). [Note: I know someone to whom this happened. It’s not an enviable experience.]
Thankfully, however, this was just another case of overly vague medical terminology (which is a surprisingly common issue). Willa looked up in surprise, then realized the source of my confusion. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot that you’re science-y. I meant, ‘I just need to examine your vagina, perineum, and rectum.’”
I immediately relaxed. “Oh, ok. So why did you say ‘bottom’?”
“It’s just a gentler way to say all of that. Most people don’t like hearing the medical terms, especially if they don’t have an analytical background.” — which is fair enough.
I could barely keep my eyes open as Willa proceeded with her examination — even when she finally announced, “I don’t see any signs of tearing. Your ‘bottom’ is fine.”
Nevertheless, I revived enough to clarify, “Wait — so I got a zeroth degree tear?”
Willa’s response was both exasperated and amused. “Yes. You got a zeroth degree tear. But, we midwives usually just say that you had ‘no tearing’.”
I relaxed against the bed, then realized that I was about two feet short of the pillows, having wriggled toward the edge to facilitate Willa’s examination. I sluggishly wormed my way back toward the top, being careful to stay above the underpads. When I looked up, though, I had a frustrating shock.
“Where’s my pillow!?” I demanded of Taylor.
He looked up from our daughter, who was cuddled under a towel against his bare chest. “What? Just use that pillow,” he answered, gesturing to a fluffy white blob on my side of the bed.
“No!” I snapped. “I’m not ruining another pillow. Get me the stained one.”
Taylor shifted so that he could sort through the pile of pillows, which had gotten scrambled in the pre-delivery hubbub. He eventually found his goal: a pillow splotched purply-black with the remnants of my hair dye. I immediately collapsed onto said pillow.
Taylor shuffled Australis back onto my chest, and we had our first moment of rest as a family.
“We have to call my mom,” I realized. I glanced at the clock: 6:43am. For a second, I wondered if it was too early to call — but then I remembered that she had called me almost three hours previously, so apparently no time is too early.
My mother answered on the first ring. “Is the baby here?”
“Yeah,” I breathed. “Yeah, she’s here.”
“And she’s ok?”
This was a slightly harder question to answer. I paused, then said, “Um, mostly — she’s super bruised up, but alive and safe.”
“Oh, thank God! I’ve been praying the past hour.”
I breathed out a laugh. “Thanks. We needed it.”
My mother laughed too. “Well, Bo is still sleeping, and your sister is resting, so everything’s good on our end. Do you want to FaceTime later? When Bo wakes up?”
“Yeah, for sure. How about we just call you when we’re ready?”
“That sounds great.”
After hanging up, I sank even deeper into my hair-dyed pillow and returned to a state of hazy half-consciousness. There is nothing quite so glorious as laying on one’s back after months of being unable to do so — or, at least, that’s how I felt in that moment.
Taylor kissed me, then Australis. It was a beautiful moment, and it became even more beautiful when I realized, “Oh — she looks just like your mom did.”
Taylor gazed down at our daughter. “Yeah, she does. Even the little bit of fluffy hair, like what she had after chemo.”
[Note: Australis has since outgrown her physical resemblance to my late mother-in-law, but I hope that she will permanently resemble her grandmother in their shared qualities of loyalty, empathy, and zest for life.]
In this sweet moment, I could feel sleep knocking at the door. However, it was not to be. Instead, I was once again barraged by an endless stream of questions.
Can I do another fundal massage? Now can you shift so we can replace these bloody pads? Are you ready for another fundal massage? Ok, now can we replace this next set of bloody pads? Well, how about *this* set of bloody pads? Alright, can you move back to the toilet?
The final question roused me from the bed — but just barely. I reluctantly handed our daughter back to my husband, left my phone on the bed, and followed Cara into the bathroom.
[Note: I later discovered this low quality daddy-and-baby selfie on my phone.]
I situated myself back on the toilet and shivered in the cool air. Now that I was done with labor, the birthing room felt like a meat locker.
“Do you want the robe?” Cara asked.
I nodded, and she retrieved it from who-knows-where. My eyelids immediately started to droop once more.
That is, until Cara crouched in front of me and held up a hypodermic needle.
I was instantly on alert. “Uh, what’s that!?”
She sighed. “It’s Pitocin.”
I shook my head and tried to focus on the nurse’s face. My mind was working slowly, but not so slowly that I couldn’t discern Cara’s implication. “Pitocin? But I thought the uterus-squeezes were working?”
“Nope. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and it hasn’t really slowed down.”
I eyed the needle cautiously. “What are my options?”
Cara raised an eyebrow. “Well, you can either get Pitocin right now… or you can continue to bleed out, lose consciousness, be transferred to a hospital, and then get Pitocin there. So I’d go with Option A.”
I groped for an Option C. “But maybe we could wait a little longer, and it’ll slow down on its own?”
“Honey, it’s been an hour since you gave birth. It’s clear your bleeding isn’t slowing anytime soon.”
So much for Option C. “Ugh, fine,” I relented. “Does it hurt?”
Cara held up the needle. “Nah. Look — it’s tiny!”
A cursory Google search suggests that she likely used a 20-gauge needle — which kinda qualifies as “tiny”, I guess. I closed my eyes and sighed. “Ok. Go ahead.”
I felt Cara insert the needle into my thigh. She was right: it wasn’t that bad. And then she depressed the plunger.
My eyes snapped open, but Cara was already removing the needle.
“You lied to me!” I seethed. “That hurt!”
Cara shrugged. “Yeah. The needle doesn’t hurt, but the Pitocin does.”
“But… you lied to me!” I repeated. I was completely flabbergasted that a medical professional could so flippantly bend the truth.
[Note: After the events of the past seventeen months, I am less flabbergasted by this reality.]
Even so, Cara was unapologetic. “If I had told you that it would hurt, then you would have tensed, and that would have made it hurt even worse. So really, I was doing you a favor by lying to you.”
I was dumbstruck. “Uh… thanks, I guess?”
She nodded confidently. “Anytime!”
I took the opportunity to pee and delicately pat dry my lady parts. Cara looked on in mock boredom — or maybe in real boredom — and then helped me back to bed.
Taylor settled Australis back on my chest, and I settled back into my flirtation with sleep.
Unfortunately, sleep and I were unable to consummate our relationship.
Willa had assured me that I could rest during this period of time — after all the hubbub of delivery, but before they measured my daughter’s height and weight. However, she also kept coming over and changing my bloody underpads, which kind of put a damper on my rest. I was disturbed to see that she and Cara weren’t just immediately stowing the soaked pads in the biohazard waste bin. Instead, they carefully weighed each bloody mat on a large scale — a scale normally reserved for weighing babies. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learned that they had scooped some blood out of the toilet for good measure. Even still, I was surprised when my bleary gaze beheld Willa approaching with somber face.
“Your bleeding is still too heavy,” she announced without preamble. “We would like to give you Cytotec, another drug that will slow your bleeding.”
I groaned. “The Pitocin wasn’t enough?”
Willa shook her head. “Unfortunately not. Your uterus seems resistant to all our attempts to staunch its bleeding.”
“And there’s no chance that the Pitocin is just taking a while to kick in?”
Another head shake. “It’s been an hour. That injection will have done most of its work by now.”
“But it’s not enough?”
“Uh, no. You’ve lost 1.2 liters of blood.”
Behind Willa, Cara raised her eyebrows. The look seemed to say, Oh, and Option B could also end with a blood transfusion, if that’s what you really want.
I paled — or, I would have, if my cheeks had had any color left. “Ok, fine. How is it spelled?”
“Uh — what?”
I wearily rolled my eyes. “I’ll need it for my blog.”
“Um… C-Y-T-O-T-E-C. The generic is misoprostol — M-I-S-O—”
I cut her off. “I only need to know one of them. I can look up the other stuff later.”
“Well, yes. ‘Cytotec’ will get you there.”
“Ok, great. So it’s another shot?”
“Actually, no. This one is in pill form, and it’s best administered rectally.”
It took a moment for me to process that statement. “Um — what!?”
“Well, you can take it orally, but it won’t work as fast — and the side-effects are significantly worse.”
“Like what?”
“Nausea, diarrhea, stomach pain, vomiting —”
“Ok fine!” I snapped. “I’ll take it up the butt!”
Once again, I allowed Taylor to take our daughter, then shuffled to the end of the bed and pulled my knees up to my chin. It felt eerily similar to how I pictured giving birth in a hospital: on my back, fully exposed.
“I am humiliated,” I muttered.
“How is this any worse than when we watched you give birth?” Cara scoffed.
I snorted. “I feel like an impotent turtle. Like, I can’t think of any other position —”
Willa interrupted my musings. “Ok, are you ready?”
The true answer was that I was not ready. At least, I wasn’t mentally ready. However, so soon after giving birth, I had basically no control over my pelvic floor. So, while my mind may have been hesitant, my butt was embarrassingly ready for anything.
My exhausted body quivered with anxiety as Willa slowly counted out, “One… two… three….”
Finally! I relaxed just in time to be shocked as she finished, “Four!”
I rolled onto my side and indignantly eyed the midwife. “Four!? What happened to ‘one, two, three, done’?”
Willa shrugged. “I had to administer four pills, so I was counting them out for you!”
I was shocked to realize that, apparently, “one” and “two” had also been accompanied by pill insertions. My butt was farther gone than even I had realized. I had definitely assumed that the Cytotec would be a single pill, the size of a barn.
Annoyed at my erroneous assumption, I snarled, “But you hadn’t told me what number you’d be counting to!”
“Sorry! It was ‘four’.”
“Yeah, well, I realize that now,” I grumbled.
Willa ignored my annoyance. “We’ll continue checking your bleeding, but I’m confident it’ll slow down soon.”
And with that, I was allowed to return to my favorite purple-black pillow.
Thankfully, Willa was right. Within a short time, it was clear that the Cytotec had done its work. I was no longer in danger of bleeding out and/or being transferred to a hospital.
Plus, I was feeling more awake, even despite my lack of sleep. My circadian rhythm was lifting me — and Taylor — into some semblance of civility. Like, I no longer felt as though I had been up for twenty-four hours, given birth, and lost 15% of my blood. Instead, I felt more like I had been up for eighteen hours, given birth, and lost 5% of my blood. So it was an improvement.
My stabilized condition and improved mood allowed me to turn my mind to other things: namely, a squalling newborn who clearly wanted to nurse — but for reals, this time.
Cara supervised as I prepared to [actually] nurse my daughter for the first time. I exposed my breast, brought her toward my nipple, and realized —
“Uh, what do I do again?”
— that I had completely forgotten how to nurse a newborn. (You know, as though I hadn’t just written about newborn nursing — at great length — in The Birth of Borealis: Part III and Part IV.)
Thankfully, Cara wasn’t judgmental. “Nose to nipple,” she prompted.
Ah, yes… the old nose-to-nipple trick. It worked — Australis successfully latched on the first try, and she eagerly set about suckling.
[Note: It’s sweet to remember my daughter’s artless introduction to nursing. These days, she’s much less innocent — more like, her first word most mornings is either “nurse” or “boobies”.]
“Wow, I feel so dumb,” I admitted. “Like, I can’t believe I forgot how to feed my kid.”
Cara shrugged. “It happens! And you’re coming off a long night. You should cut yourself some slack.”
I sighed. “I guess. But yeah, it’s definitely been a long night.”
“For me too, honey. When Willa texted me that we had a second-time mom with irregular labor, I thought that meant that you’d be getting here, like, now.”
I was suddenly indignant. “Didn’t she tell you that I had a history of irregular labor?”
“Well, yeah. But I didn’t think that, like, hour-apart contractions were enough to qualify as active labor, so I was up past eleven.”
I felt a niggle of guilt, since I had also had that thought the previous evening. I pushed down the guilt and admonished, “Well, I don’t feel bad. I did everything I could to make sure that everyone got enough sleep.”
Cara held up her hands. “I’m not saying I blame you! I just gambled and lost. But I’ll be fine. I’ll go home after this and take a nap.”
“You and me both,” I sighed. Then I jerked to the side and whimpered.
Cara straightened up. “Yeah, I told you those afterpains would be awful.”
“Oh my gosh, this is horrible,” I gasped. “This is like a full-on contraction.”
“Do you want some ibuprofen?” Cara asked.
I shifted again. “Ow. Uh… I don’t know. I plan on being a milk donor again, and I don’t want to be deferred.”
“Oh, I can send you the deferral list. Advil’s one of the medicines that’s ok for donating.”
[Note: Conspicuously absent from said list are “Pitocin” and “Cytotec” — but it turned out alright, because I didn’t start pumping for several days, anyway.]
“Really?” I asked.
“For sure.”
“Ok great, then yes, definitely I want some Advil.”
Cara laughed and brought me the pills — which, thankfully, I ingested orally.
After Australis and I settled into our nursing session, Willa and Cara vacated the room — presumably to give us our space, or maybe just to take short naps. Either way, I was glad for the privacy, and both women clearly needed the rest.
I leaned into my husband, who smiled down at Australis and me. “I’ll never get over this,” he said. “It’s so awesome that you get to nurse our children — and that you choose to. It’s so good for them.”
His comment triggered a sudden realization. “Oh no,” I breathed. “She didn’t get any of my birth canal microbiome.”
Taylor: <grunts in confusion>
“Because she was born in her amniotic sac. She was basically a C-section baby — as in, the first germs she met were outside of my body.”
“Oh,” Taylor acknowledged. “So… what do want to do about it?”
I briefly contemplated our original plan, had I undergone a C-section: swab inside my birth canal, and rub the bacteria in and around our baby’s facial orifices. Frankly, the thought turned my stomach at the best of times — and now, after losing a river of blood through that same birth canal, I couldn’t bring myself to carry out our plan.
So, I answered, “Uh… I guess do nothing, and hope for the best? Like, hopefully she’ll have a good immune system anyway?”
Taylor shrugged. “I think that’s a good plan.”
So that was that.
Our conversation lulled for a few minutes, before I suddenly realized, “Wow. I’m starving.”
Taylor’s stomach rumbled in response.
“Can you grab me my sunflower seeds?” I asked.
My husband crawled out of bed to comply. As he did, he remarked, “You know, this is not, like, real breakfast. You’d have to eat the whole bag to get back even half the calories you just burned.”
“Yes, but it’s what we have,” I huffed.
Taylor raised an eyebrow. “But what will I eat?”
I paused with the bag poised at my mouth. “Uh… any of these seeds that I don’t eat?”
Taylor: <grunts in amused disagreement> “I think Chick-Fil-A would be a better option. I’m sure there’s one nearby.”
He pulled out his phone and did a quick search. “There is! Kind of. It’s 3.4 miles away.”
“Great!” I enthused. “Then it won’t take long for you to drive there and back!”
Taylor: <grunts in amused disagreement, again> “Yeah, no. We’ll just get delivery.”
“Are you sure? That’s so expensive.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
We spent the next five minutes struggling through a DoorDash order. I blame our fatigue — and also our lack of delivery knowhow. (That latter aspect has certainly improved since March 2020.) When Taylor finally hit “submit”, we were informed that our food would take nearly half an hour to reach us.
“Are they delivering it via camel?” Taylor quipped.
I shrugged. “Ok, well, in the meantime, I should probably text some other people.”
Taylor: <grunts in confusion> “Shouldn’t you rest?”
I shrugged again. “Nah, like, I gotta follow up with Nova, at least.”
I limply typed out messages to a few of my closest friends, then gave up. “Well, everyone else will find out later,” I decided with a yawn.
“Yeah, like from Instagram, right?”
“Uh, no. We still have lots of people that expect a personal announcement.” I flicked over to a Note entitled People to notify of Australis, then scanned through the list. “Like, your entire family, and all of our Bible study and MOPS and stuff. Basically, we’re like 20% of the way through this list.”
Taylor: <grunts in social torment>
I laughed. “Look. I can do most of it. But, like, you have to be the one to tell your dad, at least.”
Taylor nodded. “Yeah, I’ll do that right now.”
I waited for him to finish texting, then asked, “Think we should FaceTime Bo?”
Taylor: <grunts in affectionate agreement>
I called my mom to see if our son was available to chat with us. [Note: I use “chat” loosely. Borealis didn’t actually start speaking until the following summer.] A few seconds later, our son’s image was on the phone — and I freaking lost it.
I mean, I had cried a little bit when Australis was born, but I think most of that was just relief. However, when I saw Bo on my phone screen, I started blubbering like an absolute fool — so much so that he looked at me with obvious dismay.
“It’s ok,” I tried to say through my sobs. “I’m just — I just miss you. Look! Here’s your baby sister!”
I tilted the phone down to point at Australis, so I barely caught my son’s look of alarmed confusion. Clearly, our attempts at introducing big brotherhood — which are principally reported in A Firstborn Prepares for a Sibling — were less-than-effective.
“Oh, you’re still in your pajamas!” I observed. [Note: Considering this was just before 9am, pajamas were not unusual attire for my son. However, my sense of time was distorted by the events of the preceding night, so I had the misperception that he had been lounging in his jammies for hours — which, admittedly, also would not have been unusual.]
Bo looked down at his outfit, then squawked incoherently. (Thankfully, he has become much more of a conversationalist in the intervening years.)
My mother turned the phone back around to face her. “How are you doing?” she asked. Then, after seeing my tear-soaked face, “Oh my gosh, are you ok!?”
“Yeah,” I breathed. “Yeah. I’m ok. We’re all ok. I’m just… like, really tired. It’s making me super emotional.”
“Ah, well, that’s understandable. Don’t worry — everything is good on our end. Do you know when you’ll be getting home? I mean, there’s no rush! But your dad is hoping to drive over on his way to a flight.”
I looked to Taylor, who shrugged. “Well,” I started. “The rule is that we can’t leave before four hours… but, considering I lost so much blood, I think they’ll probably keep us for a little longer.”
“What? How much blood did you lose?”
“Over a liter. They had to give me Pitocin and.. Cyto-something.”
My mother gasped. “Oh my gosh, so you actually had a hemorrhage!?”
I looked to Taylor again. This time, he nodded and mouthed, One liter.
“Um, yeah, I guess so,” I answered lamely.
“So do you think you had one with Bo?”
I thought briefly of my first postpartum experience: appearing “white as a sheet”, soaking through a towel on the way to the hospital, exhibiting very low blood pressure, and eventually losing consciousness. I laughed at the weight of evidence. “Uh, yeah. I for sure lost more than a liter.”
[Note: It seems like the reason for my hemorrhages was “uterine atony” — i.e. lack of uterine muscle tone… which definitely makes me feel like these events were due to negligence on my part.]
“Well, I’m glad that you and Australis are all right,” my mother concluded. “And also Taylor. Although, he wasn’t really at much risk.”
“Yeah, well, he’ll be the one driving us home through Denver, so it’s not like he’s in the clear.”
My mother laughed, and we said our goodbyes.
Sometime during that call, Australis had detached from my boob and had returned to sleep atop my chest. I stowed my phone and leaned against my husband. He kissed the top of my head, and for a moment, I was totally at peace.
Taylor seemed to feel the same way, too. He gently lifted one of our daughter’s hands and examined her fingers. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Ten fingers, ten toes….” He trailed off at my skeptical expression. “What?”
I laughed. “Are you quoting me, quoting you? From The Birth of Borealis: Part III?”
Taylor looked away. “Uh… no?”
“Yeah. Right.”
I laughed again as I thought about what a challenge it had been to write that series. I had consulted with a number of people who were actually involved (principally Taylor and my mother), but I had benefitted most from my own recollections, guided by a robust outline.
And then I realized, “Oh shoot, I have to outline this, like, right now.”
Taylor: <grunts in confusion>
“For when I write out The Birth of Australis. It’ll be hard to organize everything if I don’t have a timeline of what happened, when.”
Taylor: <grunts in understanding>
I created a new Note on my phone and quickly typed up the main events of the past twenty-four hours.
[Note: I am currently working off of said outline. Yes, it feels very meta to be writing about the method by which I am writing… about the method… by which I am writing. Also, I’m kicking myself for leaving that outline so skeletal. Good thing my memories are still predominantly intact.]
I finished up my outline just as we received a knock at the door. To my surprise, it was Tina, carrying our Chick-Fil-A!
“Oh my gosh, you’re back!” I marveled. I glanced at the time and realized that the birth center had been officially open for nearly fifteen minutes. I was once again very grateful that I had given birth before sunrise, and before anyone else was in the building.
Tina laughed. “For sure! It’s my day to work, and I just had to come check on you! How are you doing?”
I gestured to the baby sleeping on my chest. “Uh, good, I think! And even better now that our food’s here!” Then I noticed a wet spot on my chest. “Oh, except she just peed on me.”
Tina laughed again. “I’ll grab you a towel!”
She walked our food over to the bed, then wiped the urine from my skin.
“Thank you,” I whimpered. “I would be embarrassed right now, if you hadn’t already seen me in a worse condition.”
Tina grinned broadly. “Oh, don’t feel like that! I’ll leave you to eat, but I’ll come check in on you later.”
The director left, and we unboxed our food like starving people. The Chick-Fil-A was as cold as though it had, indeed, arrived via camel, but I nevertheless wolfed it down and immediately had a stomachache. Taylor ate at a slightly more measured pace, but even so, it was mere minutes before our breakfast was gone.
I yawned. “Wow… Now I could take a nap.”
Taylor clucked sympathetically. “You should, babe. I know Willa will be back to weigh Australis, but I think you still have some time.”
So with that, I closed my eyes and drifted in and out of sleep. At one point, Willa poked her head into the room to check on me. I think my comatose appearance dissuaded her, because she exited the room and allowed me to snooze for a few more precious minutes.
But, all good things come to an end, and this nap was no exception. Around 9:45am, Willa entered the room once more — this time, with Cara in tow. When I cracked open an eye to acknowledge their presence, the midwife warned, “I’m sorry — I have to turn on the lights.”
Taylor and I groaned as light flooded the room. If anything, I now felt even more groggy, so I hoped Chauffeur Taylor felt better than I.
Willa shuffled over to the bed and produced a knitted basket.
“Uh — what’s that?” I asked.
“This is for weighing the babies,” Willa explained. “So the baby ‘flies’ in the basket. It makes for really cute pictures.”
I made to hand her Australis, but she commanded, “No, not yet. Let me tare the scale first.”
I impatiently waited while Willa hooked the basket onto what appeared to be an analog luggage scale. She tinkered with the apparatus until it was — presumably — zeroed, then pulled off the basket and laid it at the foot of the bed.
Gesturing to the knit bag, she instructed, “Ok, take off her hat and lay her down here.”
Taylor had already risen and walked around to my side, so I placed our daughter into his waiting hands. She immediately woke and expressed her dislike of being separated from my warm chest. As she bleated piteously, Taylor carefully laid her in the knitted bag, gathered its handles, and placed them on the scale’s hook.
Willa ignored my daughter’s cries as she scrutinized the meter. “Um… it looks like eight pounds, zero ounces, right on the money.” Then, turning to Taylor, she added, “You should grab the camera.”
Taylor dashed to comply, then took a series of pictures that almost all turned out poorly. This was the best one — and basically the only shot in which you could actually see our daughter’s face.
After snapping that photo, Taylor quickly put down the camera and helped Willa remove Australis from the bag. Cara produced two tape measures — one linear and one circular — and the pair of professionals efficiently gathered the rest of my daughter’s birth measurements. With that done, Cara placed my still-mewling baby back upon my chest, under the sheets. Her cries diminished, but didn’t altogether vanish.
“Well, I can get you a diaper now,” Willa said. “Since we’ve gotten her weight. Do you have her going-home outfit?”
I waved vaguely toward the labor bag. “Yeah, in there. Taylor, can you get it?”
Taylor moved toward the bag, but Willa said, “Ah, not so fast. There’s one more thing we have to do before you can get her dressed.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?”
Cara held up a piece of paper and said, “We have to wrestle with your daughter’s feet.”
Willa shot the nurse an annoyed look, then sighed and admitted, “Well, sometimes it turns out like that.”
My eyebrows moved even further up my face. “Yeah. I remember that going super well with Borealis,” I quipped. I tightened my grip on my daughter’s body as Willa reached for one of her feet.
Not surprisingly, Australis’s commemorative footprints leave something to be desired — mostly, the “foot” part. One print is recognizable, but the other attests to my daughter’s violent struggle to free her appendage from Willa’s grasp.
But, as soon as she had two foot-esque blobs on the page, the midwife announced, “Well, that’s about as good as it’s gonna be.”
So that was that.
I moved Australis’s legs back under the covers while I waited for her diaper and pajamas — both of which Taylor retrieved from our labor bag. He helped me force her into her first outfit, and as we did, I became increasingly unable to ignore the bruising on our daughter’s face. I added a knitted headband to the ensemble, but the accessory did little to conceal the issue.
In the bright light, I could finally glimpse the color of my daughter’s eyes. No, not her dark grey-blue irises — the completely red ring of sclera around her irises. In short, she looked like a demon baby.
“Oh my gosh, her eyes!” I shrieked.
Willa sighed. “Yes, well, the pressure that bruised her face also bruised her eyes.”
“But it looks so bad!” I continued. “Is she gonna be ok!?”
Willa nodded. “Most likely. This happens a lot in childbirth, and it’s almost always just a cosmetic issue.”
I was relieved to hear that my daughter’s red eyes wouldn’t affect her vision (probably), but I was admittedly a bit concerned about their appearance. After all, I didn’t want to send out birth announcements while my daughter looked like some anime villain.
“How long do you think it will take to go away?” I asked.
“Oh, probably no more than a week.”
I sighed, but there was nothing I could do for the time being — nothing except put all our pictures in black-and-white (as I did for A Firstborn Becomes a Sibling).
“On a different note,” Willa continued, “We are nearing the time that we can legally discharge you — although, because you bled so much, I’d like to keep you for an extra hour, just to be on the safe side.”
I grunted with annoyance, but I wasn’t overly surprised. “Yeah, well, I guess I kinda figured that,” I acquiesced. “So, in the meantime, can I take a shower?”
I smothered laughter at Willa’s shocked expression. “Absolutely not,” she answered.
“You are in no state to be standing up for an extended period of time — let alone in the heat?”
“Well, then why do you even have a shower in the bathroom?” I shot back.
“For laboring women, not postpartum ones!”
I laughed. “But if anyone needs the shower, it’s the postpartum women who don’t want to sit in their own blood! Like, ew.”
Nevertheless, Willa held firm. “You will not be taking a shower. You may take a bath and use the herbal bath soak we provide.”
I was intrigued by the herbal soak, but I wasn’t yet willing to give up on a shower. “Well, what if one of you stood there to catch me if I passed out?”
Now it was Cara’s turn to smother laughter. I thought I heard her mumble, “I’d drop you,” but Willa talked over her jibe.
“You really want one of us to stand there and watch you be naked in the shower?” the midwife asked.
She had me there. “Uh… Taylor?” I tried.
But, my husband shook his head. “Nah babe, you should just do the bath. You can rinse off the blood afterward, but you should be resting right now.”
I sighed in defeat. “Ok, I’ll do the herbal bath.”
Willa nodded. “Great. I’ll ask Tina to bring in the bath soak.” And then she turned and left.
Before she followed, Cara warned, “Hey — I’ll be back after your bath to do all the discharge stuff.”
“Great. I’m not going anywhere,” I shot back.
The nurse laughed and left.
Only a few minutes passed before Tina knocked on my door, but those minutes were interminable. We had finally reached the part of our stay during which we were overwhelmed by a desire to leave. I didn’t want to take a bath. I didn’t want to go through another wearisome discharge process. I just wanted to go home and see my son.
Nevertheless, Tina’s arrival did bolster my mood. I mustered a tired smile in response to her exuberant grin.
“Ah, you’ve come so far!” Tina enthused. “You are so tough.”
I barked out a laugh. “Hardly. But thanks, Tina.” I could see that she was about to argue, so I continued, “So what’s this magic bath soak you have for me?”
If possible, Tina brightened even more. “Oh, you’ll love it. It’s like a tea for your bath. It helps reduce inflammation and theoretically speeds your recovery! And it smells awesome, too.”
“So… like a sitz bath?”
Tina laughed. “Yes, actually! Exactly like a sitz bath.”
She produced a bag of herbs that might have been this exact postpartum bath tea. Striding over to the tub, she commanded. “You wait there. I’ll draw the bath, and then you can come over when you’re ready.”
Tina drew a very small bath, then returned to work while the tea steeped. Meanwhile, I nestled back into the pillows for another quick snooze. The director returned about ten minutes later, checked the bath water, and announced, “Ok, I think it’s steeped enough.”
I sat up and pulled Australis from my chest. She had returned to sleep following her fight with the special footprint paper, but now, as I transferred her to Taylor once again, she released a surprisingly alert squawk.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “She’s your problem now.”
Taylor: <grunts with amusement>
Willa had slipped into the room some minutes before, and she now helped me off the bed and over to the tub.
When got there, I yelped, “Ah! It’s so dark!”
The water indeed looked like strongly-brewed herbal tea — or maybe like a weakly-brewed black tea, or an especially muddy puddle.
“That’s how you know it’s good!” Tina encouraged.
Willa chuckled, but said, “Tina’s right. This is good for your bottom. I mean, your—”
I cut her off before she could detail all the body parts that would benefit from a sitz bath. “Yep, got it. Doing the tea bath. No showers for me.”
Willa looked on as Tina helped me into the tub, then slowly walked out of the room. I hoped she would finally get that nap she so obviously needed. The days-long cluster of births was taking its toll.
Tina, for her part, got me settled in the bath, then asked, “Is there anything else you need right now?”
I looked around. I wanted my phone, but realized that the witch’s brew in this tub probably wasn’t the best thing for electronics. “Uh, I think I’m good for now,” I decided.
Tina smiled and exited the room, and I was left to soak in the tub. I was immediately bored.
Well, maybe Taylor will surprise me by talking? I thought.
He didn’t.
After a few minutes of sitting in silence, I called, “How long do you think I have to sit here?”
Taylor: <grunts ambivalently>
I groaned. “No, actually. Like how long have I been in here?”
“I don’t know, maybe three minutes?”
“Ugh. So, like, how much longer do we have to go?”
“Um… seventeen?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m gonna drown if I have to sit in here for that long.”
But, I didn’t. Admittedly, it would have been challenging — though not impossible — to drown in three inches of water. Even so, it wasn’t super comfortable sitting in the micro-bath, especially as the water cooled and became tinged with red. I was under no delusions as to the source of that rosy pigment. The physical and mental discomfort was enough to keep me plenty awake.
Finally, Taylor announced, “Ok, I think that’s probably long enough.”
“It’s about time,” I muttered. Then, looking around the empty room, I realized, “Uh… I guess you’ll be helping me out?”
Taylor: <grunts in resignation>
He wrapped Australis in a muslin and laid her in the middle of the bed. She let out a few peeps, but otherwise seemed content. (This was, of course, back when she was our easy child.)
Meanwhile, I had pulled the plug and was watching the brick-colored water drain from the tub. “Will you help me rinse off?” I asked.
Taylor’s eyebrows shot up. “Like in the shower?”
“No, like, stand here and make sure I don’t fall.”
I rose to a crouch and twisted the nobs until a trickle of lukewarm water gurgled out. I splashed the water onto my legs and waist, wishing once again that I could just shower off.
But, soon enough, I was dried off and back in the bed — and this time, I was also dressed.
No mesh-panty-and-pad ensemble for me: I had learned my lesson and packed some adult diapers instead. I had also donned a nursing bra and a long, flowing dress that I had worn for a number of special occasions: graduations, conferences, and most notably, my high school senior pictures. I had packed makeup as well, but decided to forego cosmetics until I could shower first. [Note: I mostly packed the makeup in case we got stuck at the hospital again.]
Several minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and Cara poked her head in.
I cocked an eyebrow. “When did you start being all polite? I expected you to just barge in here.”
Cara shrugged. “I want you out of here, and I figure the fastest way is by pandering to your prudish sensibilities.”
I laughed at the boorish sarcasm. (At least, I hoped it was sarcasm.) “Ok, so what do we need to do for discharge?”
“Basically only stuff that you’ve heard before. Nurse your baby, clothe your baby, blah blah blah.”
I laughed again. “Wow, your enthusiasm is hard to take.”
Cara flashed a wicked grin in response, then launched into a spiel that I had, indeed, heard before — well, most of it. However, Cara had a surprisingly breezy take on parenthood.
“So, what do you know about alcohol and breastmilk?” she asked at one point.
I was glad Taylor and I had previously researched this topic. “Uh, blood and breastmilk have the same affinity for alcohol,” I answered. “So, like, a 0.08 BAC means that the breastmilk is 0.08% alcohol. And, I’ve heard that’s a lower ABV than for orange juice.”
[Note: Numerous sources — including the chart on this webpage — support this assessment. Admittedly, I wouldn’t normally give orange juice to a newborn, but it’s still an interesting comparison.]
Cara nodded sharply. “Exactly. So, the rule is, if you can find the baby, you can feed the baby. If you’re too drunk to find the baby, then you can’t feed the baby — partly because it’s hard to feed a baby that you can’t find.”
“Uh, alright,” I responded hesitantly. To be fair, there is some conflicting data on this topic: most assessments just show temporary effects (like disrupted sleep and irritability), while others foreswear any alcohol whatsoever. Nevertheless, it was jarring to hear a medical professional express such a blasé opinion on the matter.
[Note: I do tend to stay on the safe side with alcohol when breastfeeding, but I’m not a teetotaler like I was during pregnancy.]
Furthermore, all that talk of breastmilk made me realize that I should probably feed Australis again. She was beginning to stir, so I brought her to the other breast and was delighted when her latch was quick and painless. If only my first breastfeeding experiences had been so smooth!
“Anyway,” Cara continued. “You’re already parents, so you’ve probably got this all figured out.”
Taylor snorted, and I muttered, “Yeah, hardly.”
[Note: Remember, this was contemporaneous with stories like Even Blankets Do Hard Time or A Firstborn Prepares for a Sibling. We did not have it all figured out.]
The nurse ignored our protests. “So what’s your plan for sleeping?”
I rolled my eyes. Under normal circumstances, I would have given a more staid answer. But these were not normal circumstances, and I was running out of patience — so I snapped, “Well, we want our baby to die, so we’ll be cosleeping.”
[Note: Obviously I didn’t want our baby — or any other baby — to die from cosleeping. Furthermore, the practice’s poor reputation is not entirely deserved. Ultimately, it’s like most choices: painting one option as entirely good and smearing the other as entirely bad is ignorant and irresponsible.]
So, given my waspish retort, I didn’t expect Cara to calmly answer, “I think that’s a good choice. You know, it’s amazing how many babies die from cosleeping and then go on to live completely normal lives.”
I couldn’t help it: I laughed. Cara’s flippant response was so shocking, I couldn’t imagine actually repeating it.
In fact, in that moment, I thought, Wow, I’m going to have to transcribe this conversation someday, and I don’t look forward to it.
But, that’s just what it means to write down a birth story.
Thankfully, the rest of the discharge conversation wrapped up quickly, and soon we were preparing to leave. I couldn’t believe that we had arrived a mere eight hours earlier — and now, here I was, waiting for Taylor to return with our carseat. (I had voted against that extra step, but I had been overruled.)
As I waited, I looked around the room. Almost everything had already been cleaned, but my latest trip to the toilet had left unexpected splatters of blood. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry for leaving a murder scene,” I apologized to Cara.
She scoffed. “Honey, you ain’t seen nothing if you think this qualified as a murder scene.”
“Oh? So what qualifies as a murder scene in your book?”
“Like, when a mama says, ‘No, I’m not ready to give birth, I just have to go pee” — but then she takes like three steps and gives birth all over the floor. Then I’m left holding the underpads like, ‘Uh, thanks for that.’”
I grimaced at the thought of making such a mess. I very much dislike having people clean up after me — hence, the toilet. (Also, sitting was just a good position.)
So, lamely, I responded, “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
Cara shrugged. “It’s what I get paid for.”
I didn’t know what to say to that — but thankfully, our conversation was cut short by Taylor’s return with Australis’s carseat.
He was followed close behind by Willa, who clearly had not yet napped. Her entire body sagged with exhaustion, and I once again felt guilty for going into labor when I had.
Taylor and I spent the next several minutes wrestling Australis into her carseat, under Cara’s very critical eye.
“If you want her to be safe in a crash, you need to pull the straps super tight. No, not like that — even tighter. Ok, that’s barely tight enough.”
When we had finally earned Cara’s approval, Willa said, “Well, it seems like you’re almost ready to go. Do you have everything together?”
I glanced around once again. “Uh… I think so?”
“Well,” she answered, “we still have your placenta. Do you really want to bring it home and feed it to your dog?”
I looked at Taylor with a tortured expression. This was not an easy question. On the one hand, I hate to let anything go to waste — but there was no chance that I would eat the placenta, so our dog seemed to be the obvious back-up recipient. On the other hand, roasting my first placenta in the oven had produced the most gag-inducing odor, and our dog had been really weird about eating it — like, I think it probably smelled way too much like me.
Taylor held my gaze for several seconds, then decided, “Nah, toss it in biohazard.”
I was mostly relieved, even though my placenta would be going to waste. [Note: I had tried to arrange to donate the organ, but I was ineligible for some reason. Sites like this one list physical locations that will accept donated placentas and/or umbilical cords, but Colorado is conspicuously devoid of options. Next time, I’ll do a better job of searching out a valid donation method.]
Willa nodded. “I’ll put it in biohazard.”
With that decided, I announced, “Then yes, we have everything together. We’re ready to go.”
Act V: November 6th — 11am to noon (ish)
Emerging from our birth room was like waking from a dream. I blinked stupidly in the late morning light and looked around with fresh eyes.
I saw the wall that honored babies born at the birthing center, and I smiled at the realization that “Australis” would soon appear on that wall. I marveled at the beauty of all the different birth rooms — how each was so different, but so familiar and comforting. And there was Tina — and I swear, I’d never seen her look so radiant. She sat there at the front desk, grinning as though she had woken up before 5am to watch me labor.
“Let’s get you set up for your two-day postpartum appointment,” she said gently. “Does Friday at 1pm work?”
I laughed. “Yeah — I mean, we have nothing on our schedule but this, so we can be there at one.”
“Great! Then I’ll get to see you then, too!”
I was glad to hear that I’d see Tina again soon, but I suddenly realized that I probably wouldn’t see Cara again — maybe ever.
I turned back to the nurse, who stood a few yards away from our little group. “Uh, I guess this is goodbye,” I started.
“Yep! It’s been fun,” she quipped.
I shook off her sarcasm. “No, seriously — I’m sorry I was so sassy, but I really appreciated everything you did for me this morning. I needed your bluntness.”
Cara smiled. “You can count on me for that.”
I was surprised to find a tear trickling down my cheek. I quickly swiped it away and hoped she hadn’t seen. “Um, be well, I guess.”
“You too.”
And with that, the nurse returned to clean up my micro murder scene.
I watched her go, then turned to Willa. “I’m sorry again that you’ve had to work so hard. I hope you get lots of sleep, and we’ll see you on Friday?”
Willa gave me a skeptical look. “Don’t be silly. I’m walking you down to your car — you can save your goodbyes for then.”
“What? Why?” I asked.
Tina cut in. “We want to make sure that you get home safely! We can’t come in your car with you, but we can at least make sure that you get there!”
I relented, since I knew I wouldn’t win this fight. “Ok, let’s go.”
Taylor led the way, carrying the carseat. We exited the birth center and were once again in the atrium of the medical center.
I pointed to a spot on the floor and muttered, “Hey, that’s where I had a contraction,” but neither Taylor nor Willa responded. In this moment, they were emotional twins: introverts completely depleted by a lack of sleep and an intensely emotional night. I realized I’d probably do most of the talking on our way home. [Note: This is not unusual in our marriage.]
Recalling my entrance eight hours beforehand, I realized that I was still bothered by Willa’s nonchalance about my willingness to take the stairs. I had wanted her to be more impressed — or, at least, to seem more impressed — and I thought that this was the perfect opportunity to redeem myself and/or garner her praise. So, as Taylor and Willa headed toward the elevator, I made a bid for the single flight of stairs. Until —
“Don’t you even think about it!”
— Willa stopped me with all the tenderness of a rabid honey badger. I startled and turned toward the midwife. “What? Why? You had me take the stairs last night. I mean, this morning. When I got here.”
Willa gave me an exasperated look. “Yes, and you might recall that that was before you pushed out a baby and put your pelvic floor through major trauma. There’s no way I’m letting you take the stairs, now.”
I considered fighting her edict, but the truth was that I didn’t really want to take the stairs: I just wanted to seem tough. However, I suddenly realized that Willa’s opinion of me probably wouldn’t be influenced by such a small “victory”. After all, she had just watched me endure my second natural childbirth, so she had likely already made up her mind as to whether or not I was tough.
So, I just took the elevator with everyone else.
The walk from the elevator to our car was only about fifty yards, but I think it took at least five minutes. I needed to rest every few steps — and even when I was moving, I wasn’t moving fast. [Note: My agonizingly slow gait was just a teaser for the snail’s pace I maintain whenever I try to bring my kids anywhere these days.]
But, Taylor and Willa assured me that they didn’t mind — and even though they were probably lying, those assurances helped allay my concerns.
When we finally reached the car, Taylor commanded, “No, I do not need help with the carseat — I need you to sit down and rest. Right now.”
I immediately complied — because as much as I wanted to help, I wanted much more to sit and rest. I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes. It seemed like only a moment before Taylor was seated beside me, grinning in relief.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Willa!”
But, I needn’t have worried. The midwife lingered a few feet from the car, clearly unwilling to walk away before I got a chance to say goodbye.
I rolled down my window and called, “Thank you Willa! I appreciate everything you did for us. I’m sorry that I was so sassy.”
Willa nodded in acknowledgement, then sighed heavily. “Trust me, you were far from the sassiest mother I’ve had.”
Somehow, I believed that. Laboring mamas can get nasty. But, rather than expounding on the faults of other women, I concluded, “Well, thank you again. We’ll see you Friday!”
The midwife walked away, and we were officially on our own.
Taylor pulled carefully out of our parking spot, a tired smile still on his face.
“Please drive safely,” I pleaded.
Taylor: <grunts sarcastically> “Yeah. I was planning on doing the opposite.”
I ignored his jest and ordered, “Well, don’t.”
Taylor: <grunts patiently>
Our conversation lulled for a few minutes. I got out my knitting — which was infinitely easier to do in the daylight, while not in labor — and silently watched our surroundings flash by.
“Australis’s first car ride,” Taylor observed. “I feel a little bit better about this one that I did about Bo’s.”
I laughed at this dramatic understatement. Our daughter was clothed, fed, and safely ensconced in a carseat, while Bo could have claimed none of those attributes. Admittedly, though, his second car ride had been very similar to this one.
“Do you think he’s gonna like her?” I asked after a few minutes.
Taylor nodded. “Yeah, I do. I think it might take a little while, but I think they’re gonna be great friends.”
I smiled at the thought and continued to look out the window — glancing down periodically at my knitting. After a while, I stowed the baby-blanket-in-progress and just watched the passing scenery.
It was a stunning autumn day — one in which the bright sunlight filtered through leaves of ochre and amber. The world felt boundless, as though it was opening up to me for the first time, and anything was possible — even a best friendship between my two children.
“Yeah,” I finally agreed. “I think so too.”
You made it! We’re officially done with The Birth of Australis.
If you’re curious what happened next, you can find out in A Firstborn Becomes a Sibling, which was written back in November 2019 — you know, when these events actually took place.