baby – Felker Family Blog

Caleb’s Afterbirth – Body Slammed

Over the years, I’ve heard various people say something to the effect of: “Your body will never look the same after having a baby.” While this is very true, it could also be said that your body will never feel the same after having a baby…something akin to getting body slammed by the Incredible Hulk…at least for me.

The day after I came home from the hospital, I hopped dragged myself onto the scale, excited to discover how much weight I had lost so far. Ummmm what!?! I had just delivered an 8 lb. baby, but only weighed 7 lbs. less than I did when I left for the hospital. Granted, I was unbelievably sleep deprived at the time and couldn’t recall my middle name, but I was *pretty* certain the numbers weren’t adding (subtracting?) up. Not only had I delivered an 8 lb. baby, I had also shed a placenta (email my mom for a pic), my amniotic fluid, etc. Staring down at the scale in disbelief, I caught a glimpse of my feet over my (still) very large belly. The light bulb popped on. When I was at the hospital, I had been pumped with far too many fluids and was clearly over hydrated. No wonder every part of my body felt so stiff and uncomfortable – it felt like I had been pumped to maximum capacity with an air compressor! It took two weeks before everything shrunk back to its original size. Check out the pictures below for a visual reference –

IMG_2011-04-30-0507 — My elephant feet/legs, four days after Caleb was born

IMG_2012-07-12-5726 — A comparison shot, taken a few days ago

Unreal right!? I don’t want to be one of those crazy “birth mom-zilla’s,” but I’m pretty set on refusing an IV next time around!

I also continued to recover from the second degree tear that occurred during labor. Each trip to the bathroom was quite the affair, and took ten minutes to complete the care procedure. Thankfully, (or not so thankfully at all), I was still constipated, so I didn’t find myself bowl movementing much. But man, when I did, it felt like I was having another baby. Awesome. Oh and random tangent – am I the only one who found determining whether to put underwear or a bra on immediately after showering a huge dilemma? I could never decide if I’d rather bleed or milk all over myself, and in the midst of my analysis paralysis, I naturally ended up doing both. Ah motherhood…so wonderfully humbling.

The severe pelvic pain (PGP) I developed in my third trimester was a slow recovery and continued to be an issue for about three months postpartum. This meant that I continued to require assistance to: sit/stand up, roll over, walk any notable distance, get in and out of a car, and go up and down stairs. I slept in our living room for the first month after giving birth, because it was still too painful to get in and out of bed. I thought dealing with this was difficult while pregnant…add a newborn into the mix, and Sean suddenly found himself the caretaker of not just one crying baby, but two.

In the midst of the above mentioned challenges, I also began suffering severe back spasms for no apparent reason. At seemingly random moments, my back would wig out and render me immobilized. It was the weirdest thing…it was like I became paralyzed temporarily. One of my more lucid memories in those first few weeks was finishing up nursing Caleb at 2 am, looking forward to sleep, when my back suddenly went into spasm. Sean took care of Caleb, while I remained stuck (literally) in the glider for the next hour until my body just worked it out. I sat there and cried quietly as I watched the precious minutes pass, knowing I desperately needed sleep before Caleb was up again needing to nurse, and the opportunity was passing before my eyes. Since then, my back has continued to experience problems which I am currently in physical therapy to alleviate. The other day, the therapist told me my job as a stay-at-home mom puts me in the same category for back strain/injury as a construction worker. Who knew!?

Readers – did you, your wife, or a friend experience any of these ailments (or others) after giving birth?

More posts in the ‘Afterbirth’ series:

Caleb’s Afterbirth – the Hospital (Part 1)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – the Neighbs (Part 2)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Breastfeeding Blues (Part 3)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Am I an Incompetent Parent (Part 5)

Also, read about Caleb’s birth:

Caleb’s Birth Story: Rated PG-13 for Language, Nudity, and Drugs 🙂

And here’s the 10 ways pregnancy crushed my dignity:

Part 1 – Constipation
Parts 2 & 3 – Appetite and Weight Gain
Part 4 – Mourning Sickness
Part 5 – Incontinence
Part 6 – Crazy Hormones
Parts 7, 8, & 9 – Pain, Pain, Pain
Part 10, the Pinnacle – Diarrhomit

Caleb’s Afterbirth – Breastfeeding Blues

Ok, first things first, if the term “breastfeed” makes you uncomfortable and you can’t believe I used the word in a public forum, I am shaking my head and rolling my eyes right now. In fact, if you’re squirming at this point, you would probably benefit from reading this article by Tim Challies: “Exchanging the Natural for the Unnatural” (thanks for the article, Sarah).

Here’s the bottom line – God used my experience with breastfeeding to refine my character and teach me about life in general – but before I flesh that out, I’ll continue Caleb’s afterbirth story where I left off:

Regrettably, Caleb’s difficulties with breastfeeding did not end at the hospital – in truth, breastfeeding didn’t start going “well” until Caleb was five months old. And then, well, he went through a “fun” biting stage at 10 months and bit me so hard – breaking skin – that I was forced to completely wean him off that side due to unbearable pain, and the wound’s inability to heal with constant irritation. (Biting…possibly the reason God invented two breasts??) I continued nursing for 4 months after that, and learned to embrace my lopsidedness for those remaining months 🙂

For the first 4 months, Caleb’s biggest problem was staying awake, and despite our best team effort (undressing him every time, blowing on him, tickling his toes/face, dripping cold water on him, etc.), we just could not keep him awake for the life of us (I suppose that shouldn’t have come as a shock since he peacefully slept through labor of all things!) Because of this, each nursing session was an event and took about an hour to complete (of which he actually fed for maybe20 minutes). In the beginning, this added up to a whopping 8-10 hours a day – excluding pumping time.

20 minutes may actually be an overestimate, because on day 5, we had to call his doctor because he hadn’t peed in 16 hours, and we feared he was dehydrated (a very serious issue)! A piece of advice for all you 5-day-olds out there – if you want to really put your parents in a panic and take a few years off their life, just stop urinating…that simple. Ugh, talk about freaked out! Just barely keeping it together at that point, we immediately ran out to grab formula to supplement my breast milk. We then had to feed it to him through a syringe (think baby bird), in order to avoid “nipple confusion” (is this even real?? who knows). Do you see what I mean when I said in my earlier hospital post that breastfeeding is not as simple as you’d think!?

Now, I do not consider myself a crunchy mama, but I have done quite a bit of research on the myriad benefits of breastfeeding* and am a big advocate for breastfeeding children during their first year of life, if at all possible (I do realize, however, it is not always possible, and I do not mean to condemn anyone in this post). I was really committed to making it work, but when we were forced to supplement with formula, I began doubting if I would be able to. I was giving it all I had in me and my heart sunk at the possibility of not being able to give Caleb the best I could offer. During Caleb’s entire first week home, I sobbed every night in the shower, pleading with God to help Caleb start eating. I was so scared that he was failing to thrive and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I have never felt more helpless or utterly reliant on God in my life. Caleb needed to eat, and I could not force him to do it. God had to intervene.

From there on out, it got (slightly) better. I say better because I was no longer concerned that Caleb was going to die (I know that sounds ridiculously dramatic, but that is sincerely how my sleep deprived self felt at the time). For Caleb’s first three weeks of life, we supplemented him with pumped breast milk via a syringe, to ensure he was not dehydrated. I also began attending a breastfeeding clinic to get assistance, and to weigh Caleb weekly for two months (which was debatably helpful). I was told by Caleb’s doctor and the lactation consultant at the clinic that Caleb needed to be gaining an ounce a day, and he simply wasn’t achieving that (or even coming close…he was gaining maybe half an ounce per day). I was repeatedly told I needed to “push” Caleb harder and that he was not gaining enough weight. Beyond a doubt, no other event has ever come close to generating the overwhelming amount of anxiety and self pressure caused by fearing for Caleb’s health.

I know my next comment will put me in the direct line of fire of all the die hard breastfeeding fanatics, but truthfully, I did not enjoy breastfeeding whatsoever. I did not feel a “special bond” through it any more than I would have had I given him a bottle, and forget nursing Caleb until he’s 4 years old. For the first three months, there was not one day I did not consider quitting. Perhaps the difficulty of my experience taints my feelings, but I found breastfeeding to be highly stressful, demanding, and inconvenient. Even at one year old, I was still breastfeeding Caleb five times a day in accordance with the Dr.’s orders (due to his small size), and was unable to be away from him for more than three consecutive hours that entire year (six if I pumped). Furthermore, it was painful in the beginning, it hurt my back, it drained my energy, it made participating in two weddings extremely complicated, I hated pumping, nipple shields were a nuisance, I developed two breast infections, it was inconvenient when out and about (particularly when Caleb figured out how to remove the nursing cover and expose me to the entire world), he bit me on numerous occasions to varying degrees, and I was lopsided at the end.

My purpose in sharing all that is not to whine, to scare anyone, or to demonstrate how ‘awesome’ I am for pushing through, but actually, to encourage. Those are my candid thoughts, and I know I am not the only one who struggled or is struggling with breastfeeding. Breastfeeding can seriously suck (no pun intended, hehe), and there’s no doubt that it requires an enormous amount of sacrifice. Sacrifice of your body, your privacy, your comfort, and your freedom. Those were not easy things for me to give up, and I think I grew a lot as a person and in my faith through my many struggles with breastfeeding.

For those of you who have struggled, are struggling, or will struggle with breastfeeding, my suggestion is this: rely on God, persevere, and remind yourself that part of love is sacrifice, and it comes at a price. John 15:13 says “greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.” Breastfeeding, however random, has taught me more than anything else what it means to deny myself and lay down my life (particularly in those first few months). Before I finish, I want to make it abundantly clear that I do NOT look down on you if you did not breastfeed your child(ren). As much as my prideful self wants to take full credit for this accomplishment, I am completely aware that God intervened and it was His grace and strength that saw me through.

Caleb, if you read this one day, (and are super awkwarded out…sorry), I just want you to know that I love you very much and I was happy to do it for you even though it was hard for me. I am so thankful God carried me through the difficulties and matured me in the process. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat son.

Readers – what is your experience with breastfeeding?

*If you are interested, here is a great resource on why breastfeeding is important (and other related breastfeeding topics).

More posts in the ‘Afterbirth’ series:

Caleb’s Afterbirth – the Hospital (Part 1)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – the Neighbs (Part 2)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Body Slammed (Part 4)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Am I an Incompetent Parent (Part 5)

Also, read about Caleb’s birth:

Caleb’s Birth Story: Rated PG-13 for Language, Nudity, and Drugs 🙂

And here’s the 10 ways pregnancy crushed my dignity:

Caleb’s Afterbirth – the Neighbs

What more could possibly be said about Caleb’s ‘afterbirth,’ you ask? Well, our hospital experience in the days following Caleb’s birth was rough, but it was just the beginning of the most difficult month of our lives to date – no contest. Even now I wonder how we ever made it out alive, and I am certain it was purely by the grace of God. (In fact, it amazes me how anyone who has had a newborn lives to tell about it…yet I guess we continue on with only minimal brain damage. Though that is highly subjective…the minimal part).

Upon discharging from the hospital and arriving at our apartment, we were so thrilled to be in the comfort of our own home. Sean and I immediately laid down to catch some desperately needed sleep. SLAM! Shake. SLAM! SLAM! My eyes popped open but my body was unable to move. What was that!? Still in a daze, my mind sluggishly searched for an answer to the rude awakening.

Then it all came flooding back – the neighbors. As good fortune would have it, our apartment shared a landing with another apartment that housed six of the rowdiest college students at Long Beach State University who were fraught with boredom if they weren’t hosting beer pong tournaments on their patio Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights between the hours of 8 pm and 5 am. As a result, broken bottles and vomit were a staple of our stairwell (and no, not my vomit).

Even with all their higher education, they also didn’t seem to understand the concept of shutting a door quietly or climbing stairs without stomping. I never did grasp why all SIX of them found it necessary to do these things, which inevitably shook and reverberated throughout our apartment, jolting us to consciousness each time they occurred (which was often – there were six of them)! As if Caleb wasn’t already pushing us to our sleep deprivation limit. We tried talking to them about it but found more action was required, which resulted in this:

Believe me, sign making was not on the list of things I thought I’d be doing on Caleb’s fourth day of life.

More posts in the ‘Afterbirth’ series:

Caleb’s Afterbirth – the Hospital (Part 1)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Breastfeeding Blues (Part 3)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Body Slammed (Part 4)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Am I an Incompetent Parent (Part 5)

Also, read about Caleb’s birth:

Caleb’s Birth Story: Rated PG-13 for Language, Nudity, and Drugs 🙂

And here’s the 10 ways pregnancy crushed my dignity:

Caleb’s Afterbirth – the Hospital

The following is the story of Caleb’s after birth, and I do not mean of the placental type. (Although I do have a picture of Caleb’s literal afterbirth…thanks mom). I want to make it clear from the outset that I am not blogging about this to complain, seek sympathy, or to make any claim that my experience was more difficult than anyone else’s (which is also true of my pregnancy posts and Caleb’s birth post). There are three primary reasons I blog about my recovery and the period of time immediately following Caleb’s birth: 1. It was a momentous and exceptionally difficult time in my life and I find it therapeutic to write about. 2. I believe others who have had similar experiences can find fellowship in it and others who have yet to experience it can learn from my experience. 3. I wish to fight the “facebook fairytale” notion that perpetuates the facade that if you are only awesome enough or try hard enough, birth/parenthood will be a breeze (more to come on this thought in part 2).

With that said, before I delve into the details of my experience, I want to meditate on those things I am grateful for to keep myself grounded and maintain a thankful heart. First and foremost, I am thankful for Caleb and the many blessings he has brought to our family. I am thankful he was/is completely healthy and aside from feeding issues, had no medical problems. I am thankful I have an amazing husband who was involved and supportive. I am thankful for modern medicine and educated health professionals. I am thankful I had medical insurance that helped pay for some of the costs. I am thankful I was fortunate enough to give birth and recover in a relatively comfortable setting, especially when compared with a situation like Mary’s.

————————————————————————————————————

The time is 6:47 pm on April 26th, 2011 and I had slept four hours in the last 60, spent 19 hours in labor, and just pushed a baby out of an inappropriately small tunnel. As I was getting stitched up, I thought: “phew, I can finally relax.” HA! Hahahahaha! Little did I know that by the end of the next 48 hours of my life, I would be wishing I could trade the “recovery” stage for giving birth an extra two times. (FYI: That last statement was not meant as hyperbole).

By 7:15 pm, the buzzing room filled with six medical professionals who had converged for Caleb’s birth quickly dwindled down to just one lone nurse who I could barely understand. As the excitement of the last couple hours died down, I suddenly realized that the massive amount of fluids they had pumped into my IV were making me feel like a water balloon about to explode. Although utilizing the convenience of a bed pan appeared attractive(?) at first, it soon became evident that my bed pan was no match for the alarming quantity of pee I had amassed. (Just think “Dumb and Dumber” here. “Harry, I’m still going and this bottle’s getting full! Hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry!!!”)

I wobbled as quickly as I could over to the toilet and unloaded the remainder of my bladder for what I swear was five glorious minutes of relief. I also unloaded what seemed to be several transfusions worth of blood which sort of freaked me out, but apparently this is normal. After finishing off an entire roll of toilet paper, Sean and Caleb went to the nursery and I got ready to transfer rooms. Although I had little previous experience with newborns, I had taken parenting classes and read enough to know Caleb was going to need diapers…however, I was unaware I was going to need them as well.

After my diaper was situated (which consisted of a pad, a larger pad, a larger larger pad, and elastic mesh underwear to hold it all together), I was wheeled over to my recovery room. Unfortunately, Long Beach Memorial is an incredibly busy hospital and the maternity ward was overflowing that night, so I was required to share a recovery room with another girl and her baby (and of more consequence, Sean would not be able to stay the night with me). Months later, when I received my hospital bills, this arrangement was referred to as a “semi-private” recovery room. Let’s just get one thing straight Long Beach Memorial: A room is either private or public…the end. There is no such thing as a “semi-private” room and let me assure you, there was absolutely nothing private about it. The room was teeny tiny and as the newcomer, I got the bed closest to the door and the smaller space which, when surrounded by my curtain, was approximately 8 ft by 5 ft. I had exactly enough room for a small food tray to the right side of my bed and Caleb’s bassinet to the left. Until then, I had never considered myself claustrophobic.

Upon arrival, I was introduced to the nurse who would care for me for the next 11 hours. She began explaining things to me that seemed important but she had a very thick accent, spoke extremely fast, and I was so exhausted I didn’t have the energy to ask for clarification. At 8:45 pm (just 2 hours after Caleb was born), Sean came back from the nursery to say goodbye since visiting hours ended at 9 pm. After scarfing down some hospital food (which tasted like a gourmet meal after not eating all day), a different nurse came in to help me change my diaper (oh joy?) Even with the pressure of Caleb off my pelvis, I still had a phenomenal amount of pelvic pain (which lasted three months postpartum), as well as a very sore and freshly stitched up “area.” I don’t know if this is standard, but rather than offering to help me get out of bed, the nurse just stood there and stared at me (I felt weird asking for help, because I figured if that was part of her job description, she would obviously step in). Three minutes later, I had managed to inch my butt over to the edge of the bed and then use my arms to swing my legs off and stand up. And I didn’t even get a round of applause…?

Soon thereafter, Caleb was brought into my room. My nurse said a few things to me that again seemed important – yet were undecipherable, and left. Let me attempt to describe to you what I felt at that point. It felt like I had lied about my experience on a job application, got a job on the bomb squad, was sent out on my first assignment, the rest of my squad deserted me, and I was solely responsible for disarming a highly volatile and fragile explosive device for which I had received no hands-on training. And was mauled by a bear 3 hours earlier. And was so sleep deprived I could barely remember my own name. Truly, I do not think I have ever felt less competent or less prepared for a situation in my life, and I was not expecting to face it without Sean. I knew there was always that little red button I could push for help, but I was certain I was only supposed to push it if someone were flatlining.

I slowly and painfully maneuvered myself out of bed to get Caleb, and I vividly recall feeling scared I was going to drop him because I was so unsteady. I carefully got back in bed and attempted to nurse Caleb since I figured feeding was on the approved list of things to do with a newborn (though it was not incredibly successful). He then cried for the next hour while I desperately tried to rock him and calm him down. He finally faded off to sleep, and the next thing I remember was being jolted awake at 2:30 am by my roommate who was on the phone with her boyfriend. Since she was about an arms reach from my bed, I could hear the entire heated conversation. “I JUST had a baby and you are out PARTYING!? What the bleep do you bleep bleep and you bleep bleep how could you bleep….bleep bleep bleep bleep….” So for the next 30 minutes, I found myself involuntarily tuned into what could very well have been an episode from MTV’s popular reality TV series, “Teen Mom.” While I felt for the girl and her situation, I also felt like punching her in the face.

I think I would be stretching it to say I got two hours of sleep that night (NOT consecutive). Every time I finally began drifting off to sleep, a baby would start crying, my teenage roommate would start talking on her cell, or a nurse/doctor was coming in to check on one of the four of us, give shots, or take/return a baby to/from the nursery for tests. Honestly, my most vivid memory of that entire night was staring at the clock, desperately hoping it was 8 am when visiting hours began and Sean could return. Not exactly how I pictured my first night of motherhood, but I have since learned that parenthood requires a high level of adaptability and this was my first crash course.

When Sean arrived at 8 am (in other words, the end of eternity), I was so relieved I would finally have some help. Not that he knew what he was doing any more than myself, but it was nice to have someone there who could navigate it with me (and was in much better physical shape). Poor Sean felt so bad about leaving us the night before that he got minimal sleep as well, and hadn’t been eating. Regrettably, lack of appetite was one thing Caleb and Sean shared in common (other than their cute, distinctive noses!) 🙂

While I was pregnant, I always felt more apprehensive about breastfeeding than about giving birth. This was well warranted because breastfeeding is hands down the most stressful thing I have ever done. You’d think it would be pretty easy and natural considering it’s God’s design and has been around for awhile, but it can actually become fairly complicated. Since there are two parties involved (and one is a non-talking, non-reasoning lump), there is only so much a mother can do if her baby is not catching on. Even though I was doing everything as instructed, Caleb was not latching well, could not stay awake, and was generally uninterested. Not really sure what his issue was – maybe he thought if he refused to catch on to this new method, we would just give up and reattach that convenient tube back to his belly button? Boys…so lazy 😉

I had read a lot about breastfeeding to prepare myself in advance, and one guideline that was continuously repeated was the need to be in a quiet, calm, relaxed state of mind in order to be successful. However, it was impossible to achieve this state of mind when sharing a closet-sized room with a girl who had invited her entire extended family (and extended extended family) to visit. In a steady stream, her family and friends (who curiously were mainly of the male persuasion) came in and out of our room, knocking back my flimsy curtain each time they walked by. Not to mention the nurses who continuously busted open my curtain with little regard as to what random dude was in the room at the time or whether or not my milk makers were hanging out. My blood pressure is rising just thinking about it.

Thus began a vicious cycle for the rest of that day. I just could not get in “the zone,” and this reality made me increasingly anxious each time I breastfed. Combine that with Caleb’s sleepiness, disinterest, and lack of skill, and suffice it to say that breastfeeding was going terribly. I asked to see a lactation consultant, but because the maternity ward was so busy, I was not able to see her until the next day. The nurses were also incredibly busy and came in and out long enough to check everyone’s vitals to make sure we were all still alive. They also didn’t seem to know much about breastfeeding (?), and while one attempted to help by giving me a nipple shield, I later found out she gave me the wrong size (which actually set me back a few steps).

My roommate was discharged late in the day and a new roommate was not assigned, so Sean was thankfully able to stay with me my second night. God definitely knew what He was doing because there is no way I could have made it through that night by myself without developing an ulcer or a permanent psychological disorder. As difficult as the first night was, the second night was much more grueling with Caleb. At midnight, I guess it hit Caleb that he would not be allowed back in that warm, cozy sac he came from, and decided to let us know just how angry he was about it. From midnight until 7 am, Caleb slept for *maybe* an hour, and cried for the rest. And by cried I mean screamed – much, much louder than his small lungs should have reasonably been capable of. Sean desperately tried to calm Caleb down and did not sleep all night, while I somehow managed to sleep one pathetic hour through all the crying (Caleb’s AND Sean’s that is…hahaha!)

By 7 am, both of us were exhausted beyond what we thought was physically possible, highly emotional, and I was still in a great deal of pain. I hadn’t showered or even brushed my hair since admitting to the hospital and I felt so dirty and gross, but lacked the strength to do anything about it. Our nurse finally came in and asked how our night went and after relaying the events of the night, she said nonchalantly: “ohhh, you should have called, I would have walked Caleb in the halls.” I now count this as one of the biggest missed opportunities of my life. After hearing this demoralizing news, I began pushing that little red button, but alas, it was just too little too late.

With the events of the last three days weighing on us, Sean was feeling intensely overwhelmed and suffered a panic attack. So, yeah, good times had by all.

We soon acquired a new roommate who was clearly in cahoots with my previous one, as she also came with an overbearing entourage of squealing visitors I daydreamed of tasering. Seriously LB Memorial, are there no limits on visitors? I am certain the number of people in my room standing shoulder-to-shoulder were breaking at least ten different fire codes. Originally I had planned to have a few close friends come visit us in the hospital, but after my roommates had invited enough visitors for the entire maternity ward (plus I just wanted to focus on Caleb and make sure he started feeding well), I decided to wait until we got home.

About an hour before discharge, I was finally able to see the lactation consultant who was unhelpful at best, detrimental at worst. After watching me attempt to breastfeed, she aggressively stated “well, he’s had his time to mess around…now we need to start getting serious because this is just unacceptable.” She then proceeded to give me a different sized nipple shield than the one the nurse had given me (which I also found out later, again, was the wrong size…and even more wrong than what the nurse had given me!!) What a disaster! Now, not only was I using a (very) wrong-sized nipple shield, I was now also feeling discouraged, insecure, and scared out of my mind that apparently Caleb was going to die because he was not eating well. After 20 minutes she moved on, and that was quite alright with me!

At this point in time, I had never felt so anxious to get out of anywhere in my life. I was beyond done. Sick of my confining, claustrophobic space, sick of all the strangers in my room, sick of constantly being poked and prodded, sick of no opportunities to sleep…I just wanted to go home (now I understand why home births seem so attractive!!) All I desperately wanted was to be in a familiar place with my family where I could focus on and enjoy my son. At long last, my nurse brought me the glorious discharge papers, and I could not sign them fast enough.

Ok, so to wrap up this very long post, I will impart two pieces of wisdom from this challenging experience for those of you who have not yet come to this place in life:

1. I CANNOT emphasize this enough – if it is at all within your options, deliver at a hospital with private rooms. As much as I loved my OB, if I could go back, I would have first chosen the hospital I wanted to deliver at and THEN chosen my OB based upon which OB’s were affiliates of that particular hospital. Sean would have been able to stay with me my first night, we would have gotten *much* more sleep, breastfeeding would have been much less stressful, and the general transition to parenthood would have been smoother. I don’t know about other moms, but I felt incredibly nervous, overwhelmed, and vulnerable after giving birth. You are constantly getting poked and prodded and getting naked in some fashion or another to feed your baby or change your pads. I would have felt infinitely more comfortable in a more private environment where I wasn’t forced to share every intimate moment of this significant and life-changing time with complete strangers.

2. For goodness sake, ASK FOR HELP! The entire time I was in the hospital I asked for help a maximum of five times. It wasn’t a pride thing – I just knew the maternity ward was busy and I didn’t want to be a bother or ask the nurses to do things that weren’t part of their job descriptions. However, not asking for help/bringing important needs to the attention of my nurses resulted in skipped medication, little help with Caleb when he was crying, little help with breastfeeding, and no help getting around. Next time that little red button and I are going to be BFF’s 🙂

More posts in the ‘Afterbirth’ series:

Caleb’s Afterbirth – the Neighbs (Part 2)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Breastfeeding Blues (Part 3)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Body Slammed (Part 4)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Am I an Incompetent Parent (Part 5)

Also, read about Caleb’s birth:

Caleb’s Birth Story: Rated PG-13 for Language, Nudity, and Drugs 🙂

And here’s the 10 ways pregnancy crushed my dignity:

10 Ways Pregnancy Crushed My Dignity: Part 10, the Pinnacle – Diarrhomit

If you haven’t yet read the intro to this series, you should do so before reading on for some context.

Ok, so I’ve already covered the constipation, appetite issues, weight gain, “morning” sickness, incontinence, crazy hormones, back pain, rib pain, and pelvic pain. What could possibly be left, you ask? Well, ironically, the worst night of my entire pregnancy was instigated by something that had nothing to do with pregnancy, but was made so much worse by the fact that I was pregnant and already miserable. The story goes something like this:

Midway through my pregnancy, Sean and I were hanging out on the couch watching TV, when I was suddenly hit with the absolute *worst* cramps I had ever experienced in my entire life. They were toe-curlers for sure – I couldn’t breathe, talk, or move when they occurred. Approximately 30 minutes after their onset, Sean had himself convinced that I was experiencing labor contractions – MUCH too early. As we debated whether or not to go to the hospital, I paid closer attention to the pain and decided they felt more like intestinal cramps than uterine cramps. I eventually convinced Sean that I was not going into labor and that my body would resolve the issue on its own. At that point it was past midnight, so I told him he should just go to bed because he had to get up extra early the next morning.

The cramps continued increasing in intensity, and I vividly recall lying in a fetal position on the floor outside our bathroom with my face smashed into the carpet, butt up in the air, rocking back and forth as I prayed that God would relieve the pain quickly. Two hours (and a semi-permanent carpet imprint on my face) later, I finally got that familiar feeling which confirmed my pain was indeed intestinal. Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking – “oh crap…not another poop story.” Mm hmm, that’s right…another poop story. Uncomfortable? Read this book to help you overcome.

I mustered up the courage to drag myself off the floor and tried my darndest to get things moving. Unfortunately, it was slow progress (remember, I was ridiculously constipated and probably had about a weeks worth of backlog to unload before clearing the way for any of the new stuff). I made my way back and forth between the toilet and my balled-up position on the floor, and this pattern continued for about 30 minutes. As the cramps became worse and peaked in potency, the overwhelming pain began triggering waves of nausea (recall that I was easily susceptible to nausea during my entire pregnancy).

By the time 3 am rolled around and I had taken five or six trips to the bathroom, I eventually managed to de-clog the gatekeepers and was feeling optimistic that the next round could be the winner. I dragged myself off the floor once again and plopped myself on the toilet – just in time for the floodgates to open. It literally felt like I was pooping out my last six meals – in liquid form. As awesome as this felt, it pushed my growing nausea over the top. It was the point of no return – I knew the vomit was coming whether I liked it or not. I yelled at the top of my lungs for Sean (who was asleep) to “bring me something to barf in NOW!!” With an impressive fireman-like response time, he jumped out of bed, ran down the hall, and I heard him dump the contents of our trash can in the middle of the living room. At the same moment he yelled “hold on, I’m bringing the trash can!”, an explosive amount of vomit erupted from my mouth – all over myself, the bath tub, and the floor…all the while diarrhea-ing out my seventh and eighth latest meal 🙂 And Sean says I’m not a good multi-tasker…

So that’s when Sean arrived on the scene – and let me tell you, it was quite the scene to behold. After assuring alarmed, half-asleep Sean that my vomit was red due to the hot cheetoes I had consumed the day before and not blood, he said “I’ll be right back,” and left before I could ask where he was going. He quickly returned – camera in hand. I’m pretty sure I said something like “are you serious right now!?” To which he replied “oh yeah, dead serious…we eventually have to show the baby all the havoc he has caused.” I at least convinced him to let me clean myself up, flush the toilet, and return to my cocoon on the floor before he proceeded to take pictures of the vomit-filled bath tub. So in case any of you questioned the validity of this story – here is the evidence:

I’m sorry, I know this picture is absolutely disgusting and it is 100% not kosher to post something like this on a blog (or anywhere for that matter), but I just couldn’t resist. Again, I apologize. *Snicker snicker* haha! I should really write a sequel to the “everyone poops” book called “everyone vomits” with this picture on the cover…it’s sure to be a hit.

Well that little incident of “diarrhomit” as I like to call it definitely brought quite a bit of relief, but I was still in a significant amount of pain even after that. As Sean cleaned up the toilet, floor, and bath tub (what a sucker), I returned to my fetal position and continued to wait. Finally, after three of four more rounds, my body finished purging what I later discovered was moldy raspberries. Apparently there’s nothing like moldy raspberries when it comes to making your body want to explode out of every orifice…it’s such a shame too, raspberries used to be my favorite fruit.

So there you have it…it was the food poisoning and resulting diarrhomit that ultimately takes the dignity-crushing cake of the whole 9 months. Others come very close, but I do declare that the combination of labor-like cramps, stained toilet, vomit-covered bathroom, and trash-filled living room makes this incident the trophy winner.

I hope you enjoyed reading this series and got something out of it – maybe a laugh, encouragement, education, your own bout of nausea from that picture above, or increased empathy for those who have difficult pregnancies. Oh and just in case you’re wondering, the doc told me my next pregnancy would be just as awful. So for all you sadists out there, I’m signing off until next time…

The other 9 ways pregnancy crushed my dignity:

Part 1 – Constipation
Parts 2 & 3 – Appetite and Weight Gain
Part 4 – Mourning Sickness
Part 5 – Incontinence
Part 6 – Crazy Hormones
Parts 7, 8, & 9 – Pain, Pain, Pain

Also, read about Caleb’s birth:

Caleb’s Birth Story: Rated PG-13 for Language, Nudity, and Drugs 🙂

And here’s the adventures we had after Caleb’s birth:

Caleb’s Afterbirth – the Hospital (Part 1)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – the Neighbs (Part 2)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Breastfeeding Blues (Part 3)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Body Slammed (Part 4)
Caleb’s Afterbirth – Am I an Incompetent Parent (Part 5)

Baby Katie Beth

Last week a couple at our church gave birth to a precious little girl. Unbeknownst to them prior to her birth, she has a rare syndrome called Zellweger syndrome (or possibly another similar condition, tests are still being run). In either case, the prognosis is not good and she has been given between 6 months and 2 years to live. We have only spent one evening with this couple, but we have heard many praises sung about their character through mutual friends at church.

The reason I wanted to blog about this is two-fold. One, I’d like to ask all you who follow our blog to please take a minute right now and pray for them and their daughter, Katie Beth. Here is a picture of her (isn’t she so cute!? Look at all that hair!)

Secondly, (though we have yet to become better acquainted), I honestly haven’t been able to stop thinking about this couple since their little girl was born. This is partly because my heart has been aching for them and the pain they are surely enduring, and partly because, as we have been following their updates, God has really been doing a work in my heart through their response to the situation. I have been incredibly inspired by them and personally convicted as a result. Here are a few things they have written that have hit me like a ton of bricks:

-“[6 months to 2 years is] not as much time as we had hoped to have with our daughter, but we’re thankful for the time we have.”
-“On the way home we talked about how happy we were to be doing this together. There isn’t anybody else I’d rather be doing this with…we thought of couples we’ve seen pass through our community that might not be able to handle this type of stress in their life. But we’ve been in training for five years now, and, at least so far, our spirits are strong and we’re as in love as ever. God works in mysterious ways I guess.”
-“Your prayers are working, and we’ve been blessed to see God working such miracles firsthand.”
-“We continue to have hope that, no matter what happens, we can raise her up in the way that is right as an act of worship to God whom we thank for the wonderful opportunity to care for one of his children.”

Do these words convict your heart like they’ve convicted mine? Put in their situation, would you have a similar God-centered and positive outlook? As I read those words and spend time thinking about this family, God continually brings to mind all the absolutely ridiculous and comparably inconsequential things I complain about. Watching this family deal with such a difficult and devastating situation with such love and thankful hearts, has swiftly knocked me upside the head and put things into perspective for me. It reminds me of the verse in 1 Corinthians 1:27b that says: “God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong.”

Their clarity of mind and big-picture perspective in the face of such unexpected adversity moves me. I only pray that if I ever experience anything like this that I would have a similarly joyous heart. What a wonderful example of a couple who trusts the Lord and His plan so fully, and is truly living out 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 “be joyous always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” This is not to say they aren’t grieving and experiencing pain (I’m sure they are), but I believe they are able to remain uplifted because they are grounded in their relationship with Christ and ultimately know their lives rest safely in God’s hands.

I’ll leave you with this prayer that has been on my heart:

Jesus, I pray that you would love on this family right now. I pray for healing and nothing short of a miracle for Katie Beth. Continue to give this family so much peace, hope, and joy. In times of sadness, let them know and experience your intense and passionate Fatherly love. Give them the strength to love little Katie Beth with such fervor. You have paired this couple with this precious little girl for a reason, and I pray that you would continue to use this family to bring glory to Yourself.

Jesus, please give me an ever-increasing heart of gratitude. Help me to maintain an eternal perspective and help me to remember to praise Your name in all circumstances. More than anything, thank you for loving me so much that you would send your son to die on my behalf. I am humbled and in awe of your never-ending and unconditional love.

[An update to this post was published on November 22, 2012. Click here to read it.]

10 Ways Pregnancy Crushed Melissa’s Dignity: Part 6 – Crazy Hormones

If you haven’t yet read the intro to this series, you should do so before reading on for some context.

Just in case you forgot that I (Sean) was somehow involved in the whole baby-making process, Melissa and I thought it would be interesting for me to weigh in on her pregnancy from my perspective.

I think we can all agree that hormones are a potent and terrifying force in the human body. Just think back to that horribly awkward phase in middle school when your acne was so substantial that your pimples were producing prolific sub-pimple populations of their own. Poor Melissa, when she became pregnant it was like hitting puberty for the second time. Just a couple weeks into the pregnancy and BOOM, her entire body looked like a pepperoni pizza. Actually, I think it was even worse than puberty…I mean, she was getting zits in places I didn’t even know you could get zits. Sadly, Melissa was so sick during her pregnancy I think the only thing that ever “glowed” were her pimples. Typically Melissa doesn’t get many pimples (previously she had only had like 3 non-face zits in her whole life), so you can imagine why it was a shock to her system and a little dignity crushing.

Moreover, Melissa has a young-looking face and oftentimes gets mistaken for a teenager. Aside from the fact that pimples are just irritating, they further indicated to strangers walking by that she was, in fact, 16-years-old. We kept wondering why we were getting so many condescending “raised eyebrow” stares at the mall one day, when we finally realized that Melissa’s already young-looking face coupled with the army of pimples made us look like the “impregnated teen by creepy older man” scenario.

The specific hormone associated with pregnancy is called “hCG,” and in the first 10 weeks after becoming pregnant, the amount of hCG in a woman’s body will double every two days. In other words, there was over 10 BILLION times more hCG in Melissa’s body after just ten weeks of pregnancy. In my mind that was a perfectly good excuse for any and all irrational behavior exhibited by my wife…and there was a lot to choose from.

Under normal circumstances, I cry much more often than Melissa. In fact, I think know I cried at the end of Terminator 2 when Ah-nold destroyed himself in molten iron and sacrificed his own life to save humans from the threat of an evil robot takeover in the future. So you can imagine my surprise when Melissa began crying more often than myself…and the sources of her tears much less meaningful (if this is possible), than a robot laying down his life for his friends.

Have you seen all those “first response” pregnancy test advertisements? I could have saved the 20 bucks because I knew she was pregnant three days before she peed on that “first response” stick. What gave it away? She was sobbing in the shower with absolutely no explanation as to why she was crying. I’ve heard girls sometimes cry for no reason, but this was a first in our relationship. A few weeks later, I walked into our bedroom to find Melissa lying face down on the bed, her tears soaking the bedspread as she sobbed. Concerned, I rushed over and exclaimed “what is wrong!?” Her reply was something to the effect of: “when I was walking to the grocery store, my legs got itchy…and now I’m really tired and sad.” Now Melissa prides herself on the fact that she is not typically subject to mood swings, irritability, and emotional overreaction, so there was certainly a loss of dignity when she felt her emotions were spiraling out of control.

While “irrational emotionalism” is a well-known side effect of hormonal changes, I would like to point out a much less documented, yet no less mind-boggling effect which I have labeled “obsessive indecisiveness.” If a decision relating to the baby needed to be made, regardless of how small or inconsequential, there was suddenly a minimum of 20 hours that would be devoted to research, deliberation, and agonizing comparisons before a conclusion could be made. That ended phase 1. Phase 2 commenced with changing our minds, then compiling 100 hours worth of additional data to justify the change. I think phase 3 was crying, accompanied by an argument about why the decision was taking so long. Finally, in phase 4, we would re-change our minds back to the original decision to go with the jungle-themed jumper, rather than the forest-themed jumper. Oh, and when I say change “our” minds…I really mean that one mind was changing, and the other mind was shooting itself in the face.

This pattern was manifest most notably in the process of registering for gifts. We registered on Amazon.com, which is a wonderful site. The only problem is that the vast wealth of product information and incredible variety of choices can create a hormone-induced feeding frenzy for the obsessive-indecisive mind. For most products on amazon, I am impressed if there are more than 100 customer reviews, but there is actually a baby toy on amazon with over 1,700 opinions. It is a rubber giraffe that squeaks. That’s it. This is how I know that obsessive-indecisive disorder is real, and it affects millions of pregnant women every year. Your loved ones may be suffering from this condition if they make comments like: “I think the extra $2500 is worth it for the organic crib sheets. After all, the cotton was grown in the Himalayan mountains with classical music playing in the background. And it is SIDS-resistant. And it is so much softer. And it will smell better. And it will make our child smarter. And ultimately, without it, our baby will surely die…”

Melissa said in another post that her pregnancy was a very long 9 months…it was a very long 9 months indeed. Who do you think was her 24-7 therapist and personal janitor for all those messes she’s been writing about?

The other 9 ways pregnancy crushed my dignity:

Part 1 – Constipation
Parts 2 & 3 – Appetite and Weight Gain
Part 4 – Mourning Sickness
Part 5 – Incontinence
Parts 7, 8, & 9 – Pain, Pain, Pain
Part 10, the Pinnacle – Diarrhomit

Also, read about Caleb’s birth:

Caleb’s Birth Story: Rated PG-13 for Language, Nudity, and Drugs 🙂

And here’s the adventures we had after Caleb’s birth:

Who Knows How to Raise a Baby? No One.

I think I am finally realizing that no one knows how to raise a baby…even the “experts” all disagree with one another on the majority of baby-related topics. Ugh! This is a disheartening realization to someone who really wants to figure out how to do everything well and “right.” It’s also frustrating when you have been told from day 1 your baby is too small and not eating well enough, and now I am so paranoid about making any changes to his nursing schedule (and there is too much conflicting advice out there to even make an educated/confident decision). I love the internet but sometimes there is just too much info/too many opinions out there…I think I’ve decided I’d just like to raise my kids on old wives tales and in ignorant bliss like the good ol’ days, haha! They’ll live right!? 🙂

Jesus Came Out a Birth Canal Too

Unfortunately I haven’t found many videos on Christ’s birth that do it much justice, but I think this is one video that does a good job and I like that it is creative and uses poetry to get the message across.

Many people think of Christ’s birth as this lovely, peaceful, purely joyous event, when in actuality, it was not. It’s funny how we tend to romanticize Jesus’ birth when in fact there were few, if any, “romantic” things about it. For starters, even people 2,000 years ago knew how babies were made; a virgin birth was no more believable then than it would be now. In other words, the world’s first impression of Jesus was that he was an illegitimate child and his mother was promiscuous and crazy. When it came time for Jesus’ birth, Mary had to travel many miles over rough terrain, and had the joy of giving birth most likely in a cave (not a stable) with lots of dirty animals looking on (imagine feces everywhere). This would be somewhat comparable to giving birth on the floor of a public restroom. Also, if you are a woman and have given birth, I think we can all agree that there is nothing peaceful about birthing a child (amazing yes, peaceful no). It is incredibly tiring, painful, and fairly gross, and fortunately I got to ride in a car to the hospital and give birth on a nice bed. Also I’m pretty sure that Jesus cried just like every other baby…I hate the line in “Away in a Manger” that says “no crying he makes.” Yeah, right…Mary wishes.

Then the “big” announcement made about the son of God’s arrival was given to teenage shepherds, a profession that was not highly regarded (think minimum wage fast food workers). Jesus also came from the town of Nazareth which was considered the armpit of the Jewish world (think Bakersfield, no offense)…there is actually a saying in the Bible that Jewish people of the time used that said “can anything good come from Nazareth?” Not to mention the fact that Jesus’ lineage included prostitutes, murderers, and other outcasts. I could go on, but I think the pattern is becoming obvious. Jesus did not come into this world in the elegant and glorious way one would think God would. He did not come in riches and fame, but in the face of adversity and in the most humble (and almost humorous) of ways, as a helpless baby.

This is how God chose to enter our world. God did this intentionally, and this is why I think it is dangerous when we begin romanticizing the Christmas story. He didn’t want us to see him as we would a human ruler or authority figure that is untouchable, distant, elite, and doesn’t care about the “common people.” “[Jesus] though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men.” Phil 2:6-7

Why did he do it? Because he loves us that much. He loves us so much that He was willing to do whatever it would take to get down on our level and reach us where we are at. What an amazing God.

Let’s fall on our knees and worship the King Baby Jesus!