What I Remember About the Day I Almost Died

My Muffin is fast approaching his first birthday. Can you believe it?

This year has been tough. Not only in the "it's hard having four kids under six" kind of way, but in a very personal and emotional way. If you didn't notice, I'm not surprised. I've discovered that I'm kind of a good actress. I spent the year praying that my kids wouldn't notice if I was just going through the motions, but rather, they would feel that I was there, truly there, in the ways that matter. I did my best most of the time and I guess I will never know whether or not it made a difference, but I tried.

When I started to come out of the fog of PPD and PPA, I had this horrible realization that I really don't remember much of anything that has happened in the last ten months. My baby's entire life so far is a blur. It's a punch in the stomach to realize that your baby is now sitting and playing with blocks and you have no idea how it all happened. I have snippets of memories here and there, some high points and a lot of low points. It all ties back to the day that Muffin was born. It was the day that I almost died.

I remember the day that I went into labor. It was a strangely warm day. A Monday. 78 degrees. Sunshine. The day that I brought Muffin home, however, it was cold. Very cold. It had snowed the night before. So while we entered the hospital wearing t-shirts, we bundled our new baby up and brought him home in the frost.

The dichotomy of the weather on those days is not lost on me.

Muffin was due on April 13, 2014. Labor started during the night, but it was very sporadic. Contractions here and there. I did my best to sleep and my husband went to work the next morning. I had a few more contractions in the morning, and I could tell they were the real deal, but they weren't a big deal. I got the kids ready for the day and avoided texts from friends asking if I was in labor. Around 9:30, I called my husband to tell him that I was in labor and that he should let his boss know and come home soon. I called my mom to leave work and come take care of the kids.

Labor was not intense by any means at this point. I had an epidural with Big Kid, but had drug-free deliveries with Toast and Beam, and my goal was once again to deliver drug-free, so I wasn't in any rush to get to the hospital. I felt fine. However, I was Strep B positive for the first time ever, so I knew that I needed two doses of antibiotics before delivery, and I needed to be in the hospital for at least four hours in order to receive the proper doses. So we headed out.

We stopped for brunch at a diner near the hospital. It's kind of a tradition for us to have a "last meal" before a new baby. I had a few more contractions while we were eating. I figured that it was probably time to head in, and we paid our bill and headed to meet the midwife at the hospital.

We arrived and checked in, and I was dilated to a four. The midwife wasn't convinced that it was real labor (despite the fact that a mom of four certainly knows and despite my warning that Beam had been delivered one hour after I was dilated to a five!). So we walked the halls for a bit and she checked again, and Muffin's head was very low and I was dilated to a five. So the nurse started an IV and the first dose of antibiotics, and I ordered some lunch. (Yes, that is a good indication of how easy my labor was - I was sitting in bed and eating.) By this time, it was about noon.

Around 2:30 is when labor really picked up. The contractions were stronger and closer together and I began to pace the hospital room and lean on my husband as necessary. I'm not sure why, but standing is always my go-to labor position. I'm more comfortable that way. If Strep B wasn't a factor, this is when I would probably have decided to call my husband to go have a baby. Up until this point, it was really no big deal.

Around 3:30, I realized what an idiot I was for opting out of the drugs. Epidurals are amazing, aren't they? Why would I ever decide to feel this if I didn't have to?! If you've never had the fortune of having a drug-free birth, I'll share this tidbit with you - at some point, you will realize that it was a bad idea. It's usually too late at this point to change your mind and it's really an indication that you are doing awesome - it's almost the end!

I was standing up, leaning on the bed when my nurse came in to see how I was doing. I don't remember what time it was, but I remember that I told her that I was tired. I told her that I just couldn't do it any more. She watched a few contractions and told me, "No wonder you are tired! You aren't getting a break anymore. Your contractions are only about 40 seconds apart." I asked for water. I drank an entire glass in between each contraction.

The midwife came in and she offered to catch the baby right where I was standing if I wanted to stay where I was and push him out. My legs were giving out though, so I climbed into the bed and was kneeling and leaning  forward on a birth ball. I alternately felt the urge to push and breathe through contractions, so I did what felt right at the time. The nurse and midwife were amazing at letting me do whatever felt good. My hips were killing me, and my darling husband alternated between putting hot cloths on my hips to ease the pain and quickly removing them when I yelled. Those cloths went from feeling amazing to feeling like a cinder block in a matter of seconds, and he was a good sport during our "cloth on/cloth off" game. At some point, he gently suggested that I may not be able to push the baby out in the position that I was in, and told me that I should try turning over if I wanted to get it all over with.

I tried turning quickly between contractions, but I guess I wasn't quick enough, because I had one right in the middle of moving, and I remember screaming, "I'm dying! Help me!"

Birth is glamorous, right?

Bless his heart, my husband was right, though. After changing position and a couple of quick pushes, Muffin came screaming into the world at 4:44 pm, on April 14, 2014. Baby number four was here and we were elated.

This is where it gets graphic.

Shortly after Muffin was born, one nurse took him and cleaned him up and did his measurements while the other helped me to the bathroom to clean up. I remember that there was a lot of blood, and the nurse commented that I was bleeding more than she would like, so she was going to watch me. I washed up and climbed back into bed and snuggled my new baby.

I nursed Muffin as soon as I could. It was around this time that I noticed that something wasn't quite right. Every mom will tell their tale of nursing cramps. They suck, and they get stronger after each baby. These cramps weren't right, though. They were worse than labor and I could barely breathe through them. A short while later, I called the nurse to come help me to the bathroom. She came in with another nurse, and as they tried to help me out of bed, I got really hot and really dizzy. I must have fainted because I remember the nurse calling to me to "come back" and I remember saying, "I'm here! I'm fine! I'm awake!"

The cramps continued. My sister came to meet Muffin and I remember telling her about how much pain I was in. It was worse than labor, I would say. Something isn't right.

I don't remember exactly who was in the room when everything took a bad turn. I've relied on my husband to fill in the gaps here. From what he told me, I was sitting in the bed and all of a sudden I went limp and became very pale. He called the nurse. She rushed in and checked my blood pressure and it was 51/18.

She pulled my blankets away and according to my husband there was "more blood than he had ever seen."
She rushed to get the doctor.

I was in and out of consciousness during all of this. I remember the doctor asking the nurse if I had an epidural. She told him no. He said, "She isn't going to like this."

I remember screaming at him, "Please stop!" But I was so weak that I could barely lift my head or move. It was a strange half-wake, half-sleep state, but I distinctly remember him reaching and pulling tissue out of me. I remember him telling me that they were going to have to take me to the OR. Retained placenta. They would be moving me as soon as possible.

I remember them fitting the mask over me in the operating room.

I woke up in recovery and my throat was killing me. I asked for water. They gave me ice chips.

I woke up again in my room upstairs. This time, it was a different room. My husband told me that they had to clean the other room. I will never forget the worried look on his face. He looked like a man who had just watched someone die. I kept asking him if he was okay.

I was so weak. I was told that I was not to get out of bed. Eventually, they gave me a blood transfusion or two. I can't quite remember that, either.

On April 14, 2014, we welcomed our baby boy into the world. I almost died.
Two days later, on April 16th, we brought our baby boy home in the snow. I cried, a lot.
On April 17th, my husband went back to work. Life went on, and the world just spun out of control.

I had a baby! Why didn't anyone care? Why was everyone just moving on and going about their lives? I almost died! Didn't you know that? Does anyone care that I might not have been here anymore?

These are the thoughts that I have carried with me for the past ten months.

If you think that everything is "fine" because Muffin is "fine" and I am "fine," you are missing the point. Yes, we are here and of course, that matters. But everything else matters, too.

I have struggled to overcome these feelings for the past year. I'm not quite there, but I'm getting better each and every day.

Sex After Kids

I debated writing this one.

I prayed that I could blog anonymously. Then I contemplated having a fake "Guest Blogger" write the post.

I mean, after all, my mom reads this. Probably my father in law. Maybe even my boss.

Yes, I'm a 30 year old prude.

But, as much as I tell my children that they were stars in the sky who landed in my belly and were gently removed by a doctor and no it didn't hurt, you all know the truth. My husband and I had sex. At least four times.

We were driving in our sweet minivan a few weeks ago and, miraculously, all four kids fell asleep. I'm not exactly sure how the conversation came about, but my husband said to me, "Remember that time, on Mill Street, when we almost burned your apartment down?"

And I laughed. Because I remembered. We were engaged, and it was Valentine's Day, and we were in the middle of a blizzard. So we did what anyone does when it's cold and you are bored (hello, September babies!). And we may have started a small fire due to poor candle placement and a faulty shower curtain rod. We both started laughing. One of us wondered out loud what happened. The other glanced back to the four sleeping kiddos in the back and reality smacked us in the face.

They happened.

Sex after kids is kind of a chore. Let's be real. Especially if you are a nursing mom, or the mom of young kids. The last thing that you want after the kiddos finally fall asleep at night is another person tugging on your yoga pants or grabbing your boobs. But at the same time, it's fun. It's the best way to reconnect with your husband after a long day at your respective jobs. And after it's all done, you probably wonder, "Why don't we do that more often?!" If you don't wonder this, you probably aren't doing it right.

Now, we've obviously managed to do it three times since having our oldest. And we haven't started any fires. And although getting naked on the living room floor can be fun (Hi, Muffin!), we've really been slacking in the whole marriage department.

And so, we made a pact. A New Year's Resolution, if you will. Sex three times a week. For you out there reading, that may sound like a lot or it may sound like not enough at all, but that's our goal. Today is January 6th, and we've done it a half time, twice. We have some work to do.

Now, if you don't know what "half sex" is, I'm going to assume that you don't have kids. Keep on with that birth control, sister. If you do have kids, you can appreciate the humor that is "Sex After Kids."

It's no secret that I'm breastfeeding Muffin, every two hours, AROUND THE CLOCK, sleep be damned. So after a long night at work and a few skipped feedings, the girls are huge. They look AMAZING. I just showered. The kids are all asleep. I tiptoe into my room and climb into bed topless, hoping to "surprise" my husband. (BTW, three nights in a row of this has ruined the surprise. He came to expect it and I told him I would have to scale back. Anywho...) Topless. Seven hours without feeding the baby. Spraying milk everywhere is the opposite of sexy. It just leaves you saying, "Son of a bitch! Where's my bra?"

Last week I went shopping without the kids. VS was having a sale, so I bought some new underwear - all boyshorts - and I was excited. I showed them to my husband when I got home. The conversation went something like this:

"Didn't you wear thongs when we started dating?"
"Yeah. But I've had FOUR babies. They aren't comfortable anymore."
"Well what if I buy you some?"
"I'll put them on in the bathroom immediately before going to bed."
"Deal."

The EPITOME of sexy, let me tell you.

Last night, I kindly pointed out to my husband that it was the fifth of January, almost a whole week down, and we were already breaking our resolution. After a quick argument over who was surfing Facebook more instead of, you know, stripping down, we tiptoed to bed. The name of the game these days is "Quick, before the baby wakes up." We ALMOST had it before we heard Muffin's cries, and I said, "No, don't stop!" and husband said, "I didn't even hear him." So maybe we will count that one as a success. Yes, success.

Day six. 1.5 times. Victory.