Reilly Robert"s Birth
Updated March 05, 2015.
Dec. 4, 1997
7lbs 1 oz
Happily, my first son was born healthy and wonderful (apgars of 8 and 9), but I was left with a persistent sense of having failed. Labor had been a three day catastrophe. By the time my son was born, bonding was totally forgotten, I scarely noticed him. For years, I kept reminding myself that the important part was that my beautiful son was healthy and whole. I kept telling myself that I was being an awful ingrate to focus on a suboptimal birth experience.
For all my efforts to be rational, I started my second pregnancy burning with the resolve to do much better.
My second child, Reilly Robert, was born 14 years after my first pregnancy. This pregnancy was a happy surprise, which came along when I was 39. We had given up trying for a baby and were discussing adoption. The first trimester was full of exhaustion and nausea, followed by a euphoric second trimester, where I enjoyed a feeling of near invincibility. Every check up just compounded the good news. I especially appreciated the smooth ride, because my health insurance had dictated my choice of doctor and hospital. My only choices were part of a large medical group of 10 ob/gyn's with dozens of staff people, and a waiting room the size of a small auditorium. I dubbed the place "Mc Doctors" and joked with my husband about the drive thru window, they were surely planning to install. At the first appointment, my doctor explained that this practice assigned each doctor a shift at the hospital.
I would be attended by whatever doctor was on duty when I delivered, so I was not to count on him (True). I was asked to trust that all the doctors had the same philosophy and would be kept up to date on anything I might wish them to know. (False, my medical records never made it to the hospital. The attending doctor didn't know my name. The nurses seemed to doubt that I ever had any prenatal care. Certainly, no one knew whether or not, I was planning on an epidural.)
At the start of the third trimester, my luck seemed to fail. I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes and I was really scared. The hospital had a special clinic for diabetics and the ladies there were very sweet and helpful. This was good because contacting my ob/gyn required picking through two levels of phone menus to leave a voice mail message with my doctor's receptionist. My doctor promised that as long as I followed the prescribed diet nothing bad had to happen. He said that despite the diabetes, it was far from certain that I would go into labor classified as a high risk patient in need of drastic interventions and constant monitoring. I followed the diet scrupulously and monitored my blood sugar with four tests a day. When my ketones levels grew too high, I agreed to set an alarm and drink a glass of skim milk at 2:00 am each morning. I followed the diet to the letter and was 16 pounds lighter at 38 weeks than at my first appointment. Sadly, my blood monitor was overstating my blood sugars by 25 to 40 percent, so the first 7 weeks were even more of an ordeal than they needed to be. In the afternoons, I would be nauseous with a numb tingling in my face. With shaking hands and blurred vision I would perform a blood test only to get a reading of 86 (very normal when the symptoms were screaming blood sugar crash). I would describe the episodes to the diabetic clinic nurses and my doctor only to be told "everyone feels wretched when they are pregnant". When my monitor began to produce readings just too crazy to be believed, my monitor was replaced and life got much easier. Now my careful attention to diet and scheduled walks were rewarded with readings consistently in the healthy ranges. An ultra sound at 34 weeks revealed a baby absolutely within normal ranges. My doctor declared all was very, very well. I was allowed to feel that disaster had been averted. He even returned to scheduling my appointments biweekly instead of weekly. I was back on top of the world. Or at least as happy, as I could be on a diabetic diet and four finger stab tests a day.
Dec. 4, 1997
7lbs 1 oz
Happily, my first son was born healthy and wonderful (apgars of 8 and 9), but I was left with a persistent sense of having failed. Labor had been a three day catastrophe. By the time my son was born, bonding was totally forgotten, I scarely noticed him. For years, I kept reminding myself that the important part was that my beautiful son was healthy and whole. I kept telling myself that I was being an awful ingrate to focus on a suboptimal birth experience.
For all my efforts to be rational, I started my second pregnancy burning with the resolve to do much better.
My second child, Reilly Robert, was born 14 years after my first pregnancy. This pregnancy was a happy surprise, which came along when I was 39. We had given up trying for a baby and were discussing adoption. The first trimester was full of exhaustion and nausea, followed by a euphoric second trimester, where I enjoyed a feeling of near invincibility. Every check up just compounded the good news. I especially appreciated the smooth ride, because my health insurance had dictated my choice of doctor and hospital. My only choices were part of a large medical group of 10 ob/gyn's with dozens of staff people, and a waiting room the size of a small auditorium. I dubbed the place "Mc Doctors" and joked with my husband about the drive thru window, they were surely planning to install. At the first appointment, my doctor explained that this practice assigned each doctor a shift at the hospital.
I would be attended by whatever doctor was on duty when I delivered, so I was not to count on him (True). I was asked to trust that all the doctors had the same philosophy and would be kept up to date on anything I might wish them to know. (False, my medical records never made it to the hospital. The attending doctor didn't know my name. The nurses seemed to doubt that I ever had any prenatal care. Certainly, no one knew whether or not, I was planning on an epidural.)
At the start of the third trimester, my luck seemed to fail. I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes and I was really scared. The hospital had a special clinic for diabetics and the ladies there were very sweet and helpful. This was good because contacting my ob/gyn required picking through two levels of phone menus to leave a voice mail message with my doctor's receptionist. My doctor promised that as long as I followed the prescribed diet nothing bad had to happen. He said that despite the diabetes, it was far from certain that I would go into labor classified as a high risk patient in need of drastic interventions and constant monitoring. I followed the diet scrupulously and monitored my blood sugar with four tests a day. When my ketones levels grew too high, I agreed to set an alarm and drink a glass of skim milk at 2:00 am each morning. I followed the diet to the letter and was 16 pounds lighter at 38 weeks than at my first appointment. Sadly, my blood monitor was overstating my blood sugars by 25 to 40 percent, so the first 7 weeks were even more of an ordeal than they needed to be. In the afternoons, I would be nauseous with a numb tingling in my face. With shaking hands and blurred vision I would perform a blood test only to get a reading of 86 (very normal when the symptoms were screaming blood sugar crash). I would describe the episodes to the diabetic clinic nurses and my doctor only to be told "everyone feels wretched when they are pregnant". When my monitor began to produce readings just too crazy to be believed, my monitor was replaced and life got much easier. Now my careful attention to diet and scheduled walks were rewarded with readings consistently in the healthy ranges. An ultra sound at 34 weeks revealed a baby absolutely within normal ranges. My doctor declared all was very, very well. I was allowed to feel that disaster had been averted. He even returned to scheduling my appointments biweekly instead of weekly. I was back on top of the world. Or at least as happy, as I could be on a diabetic diet and four finger stab tests a day.
