Birth Story

Thoughts

Weighing in at a mere 7lbs 6oz, Amelia Ryan officially joined the party at 12:09 on Tuesday, December 22nd, 2020

Disclaimer: this is long, and probably not for everyone, stop reading whenever you want. No one will even know.

We got to the birthing center in Kailua on Sunday night on the cusp of 41 weeks… though originally I had intended on going all natural it seemed that a little nudge would be helpful. That nudge slowly turned into a full round-house kick into motherhood. 

But it was awesome!

I waltzed in at a full 1cm dilated! I could either stick to my anti-drug guns or just try to get things going and enjoy the process. Plus, I may never again get the chance to do drugs, I’m about to be someone’s mother, for Pete’s sake!

We were there to have our baby and by any means necessary it was going to be a great experience!

I  got started on misoprostol, the gateway drug…

One dose of fentanyl down, allowed me enough relief to crack some jokes catch some Zs. After the first 24 hours I had gone from a paltry 1cm dilated to a gaping 3cm. It was somewhere in the dark realm of night, that I realized the journey had only just begun. Slowly.

We’d be in for a ride!

Monday night around 7pm we thought “Hey, why not try this cool balloon invention! Oooh, and while we’re at it let’s invite pitocin to the party!”

Turns out pitocin and balloons are a very uncomfortable, and awkward couple.

As things progressed, a few nurses had likened the pushing sensation, to needing to poo. One even introduced herself and in the same breath warned Ryan not to mention anything when/if I inadvertently shat the bed during delivery. Pictures were being painted. Beautifully.

I decided that double teaming the pitocin and balloons warranted the mediation of a numbing agent. But by the time epidural started knocking at my vertabrae – pitocin and the balloons were mid quarrel, I was mid contraction, and my nurse was mid blood pressure read, when I nonchalantly noticed my left hand was the size of a softball. My IV had infiltrated into my already chubby hand and fingers. It was cute.

I’m pretty sure that blood pressure read was a bit higher than my usual.

After a stabbing around in the dark for a while, we were able to reattach the IV in my wrist and carve out a venue for the spinal tap.

I was finally able to once again see the humor in the situation. We laughed, breathed and with what was left of the night, slept.

Tuesday began with another 7:00 shift change. Our savior of a night nurse, Brittany warmly introduced us to the saint, Danielle. And we immediately started planning positions and working with postures.

(Considering all of the insane moving parts, these two girls were the most amazing people and made me love the situation more than I can even believe.)

I was being coached to push – for hours – doing practice positions, and getting checked for the  head position of the mystery person trapped inside my vagina. 

This was a far cry from the hypnobirthing course with which I had been indoctrinating my husband for months. But like a champ he praised, coddled and coached me through the whole process.

Finally, I was getting there, really close. Like a 9. Transition – true, active labor… epidural’s kryptonite.

Now, I was in pain. Not gradual pain. Immediate, sharp, full-body shaking pain. No more 1-10, yellow-happy-face to red-mad-face, scaling bullshit. Real pain.

Kern feet. Shoved into sternums. My nurse on one foot, husband on the other. It was dainty. Elegant.

We called for the doctor. By the time she put on her catcher’s mit, I was passed ready, and getting a little irritated by the possibility of anything intensifying. My only thought was that if pooping was common, I was going to Jackson Polluck the wall. My magnum opus.

I gathered all of my strength, honed my breath thought I was dying and stacked my pushes in a constipated effort. Suddenly I felt release, the flood gates opened, noise resumed I was back in the room, and I heard Ryan exclaim “It’s a girl!” 

Like a light switch, the pain stopped and I was beaming happiness once again! I saw Ryan’s eyes well up as we brought our baby to my chest. It was over. Nine months of pregnancy. 40 hours of induction. All of the interventions. One cord snip. Over in like six mind numbing shoves.

And that’s where it began! 

If this experience taught me anything it is flexibility, and the power of perception. It wasn’t my ideal route, as outlined in my three page, color printed, floral bordered birth plan. But it was the most fun, amazing experience of my life! And it brought me closer to my husband than I thought necessary! I anticipate motherhood will follows suit. So, in this next season, I aim to roll with the punches, look for the positives, and enjoy the process because that’s really what determines life’s happiness. 

And I am so excited to share my life with a brand new little human and help her enjoy the process too! She seems really great so far!

P.S. – I didn’t even poop!

At the Fair

Poetry and Prose

I woke up on a Mary-go-Round,

Dizzied by hoards roaming the grounds.

 

Everyone spinning like clockwork, in gear,

The masses glazed, grinning from ear to ear.

 

Machines spitting tokens: “You won, You won!

Eat this foot-long corn dog, here’s another one…

 

Belch and giggle and slurp down these bubbles.

Now, jiggle back to the show and forget all your troubles.

 

Up to 70% off, and for a limited time

A mystery auction… entry? A dime.

 

Neon flashes highlight the air-

Vapid messaging- SALES everywhere.

 

You may miss out, grab them while they last!

The Jones’ bought two!  You may be outcast…

 

Hurry, Hoorah, let’s Celebrate and spend,

Why else would God create the weekend?!

 

Step right up, and don’t be shy!

You may be a natural, just give it a try!

 

Three tosses for ten, five for twenty,

You don’t get a better bet than that for your money!

 

And just might you be our next lucky winner?

For a whole year’s supply of microwave dinner!

 

Black Friday is here – Oh My – what a deal!

Back to Monday my dear, now how do you feel?

 

How long will it take you to earn back what you doled?

Just buying and eating and doing as told…

 

So entertained, we are at the fair!

Until we fall asleep; and wake up still there.

Out on an Island

Poetry and Prose

I don’t have my art stuff. I don’t have my paint.

I’ve got one tiny brush and a color that ain’t.

I’m out on an island, which is actually quite rad,

I just wish there were some supplies I had.

I’d like cyan, mauve, candy apple red and pink,

Ya know, as far as colors go, send the kitchen sink.

I draw in the sand but the waves just take,

Every masterpiece that I try to make.

Rhyming all day is for the birds,

Getting tongue tied, and stumped on words.

A single picture is worth a thousand of these.

Someone, send some art supplies, please.

My Sticky Burden

Poetry and Prose

It’s all over my hands,

It’s even under my nails.

Nothing removes it,

everything fails.

I washed and I washed,

there’s no sign it’s budging.

Actually, it’s getting worse,

it’s definitely smudging.

It’s a strange problem to have,

and not many do.

Have a problem like this,

on not one hand but two.

I’m the first to admit,

I have egg on my face.

It’s definitely my fault,

for leaving the race.

It’s my burden to bear,

as this life demands.

To figure out what to do…

With too much time on my hands.

A polyglot’s thoughts

Poetry and Prose

It’s strange sometimes, when in solitude I sit,

And a voice welcomes herself to narrate a bit,

 

A veces en español, la voz me habla

De cualquier cosa, con cada palabra

 

Y al mismo tiempo, sin darme quenta,

Comença outra historia, com força tormenta.

 

Lembrando situaçoes que quase esquesceu,

E isto acontece, no cérebro meu.

 

Je pense que c’est tres amusant,

Mais il peut être beaucoup déroutant.

 

J’ai de la chance, que est seulment moi,

Que parle la voix, et pas à toi.

 

It’s not really lonely, for me in my brain,

I have so many voices, who come entertain.

 

I love all these words, that in my life I have met,

Sin ellas, não seria capaz de ce tête-à-tête.

 

Word Fighting

Poetry and Prose

I wrote a sad poem earlier today.

Got the words out so they wouldn’t stay.

 

I let them crawl off my hand down my pen,

Though I didn’t really want to see them again 

 

I looked down, I realized that they were just wiggly words.

Scrambled up letters, invented by nerds. 

 

I observed these puny paupers on paper,

And how exponentially their power could taper.

 

I can strike and scribble and doodle as I choose. 

And I betcha my eraser these words’ll lose

 

When it comes to a battle of strategy and wit,

These measly words could still learn a bit.

 

So, if you’ve got words giving you guff,

Roll up your sleeve and loosen your cuff.

 

Let the words slide down and splash on the pad,

And I tell you what, you’ll be happy you had.

 

Once they’re all there, and you’re the boss,

Well, now it’s time to play a little word toss.

 

Negatives and nay-sayers, out they go,

Now it’s just you and happiness running the show.

 

You can pop a prefix on one and BAM it’s undone,

Or rearrange some letters just for fun.

 

Grab your quill and get to writing,

This is not about poetry, it’s about word fighting.

Play with Language

Poetry and Prose

Play with language, not your food,

Play with language, while in a tongue tied mood,

Play with language, it’s not considered rude,

Though more oft than not it’s misconstrued.

Play with language, who knows what you’ll find,

Play with language, it’ll open your mind,

Play with language, it’s not unrefined,

Just steal words from before, and place them behind,

Play with language, you should try it sometime,

Play with language, or play rhyme,

Play with language, it’s no semantical crime,

Do whatever you’d like, shift the paradigm.

Play with language, you mustn’t follow one rule,

Play with language, they don’t teach play in school,

Play with language, you may sound like fool,

But playing is fun, and to have fun is

refreshing.

Home

Poetry and Prose

Where is my home?

Will I know it when I see it?

Will it welcome me back?

The nostalgia, the comfort, and that smell…

When I get there, how will I know?

Is it where my mother lives?

Where I hang my hats?

What language does it speak?

I’m homesick…

For the idea of “home”

Heights charted on the wall

Family pictures, memories of a broken arm.

I long for that place.

But it lives many lives,

in many memories of different places.

Chapters.

Nowhere is home, yet everywhere is.

It is ithe familiar smells in an unknown town.

That same old stray dog.

Getting lost.

Finding my new favorite spot.

Home is not just a place.

I carry it with me,

It’s the tiny pieces I pick up a long the way,

it has taken a lifetime to build.

Home is where the heart is.

I am home.

Soup

Poetry and Prose

I don’t like water chestnuts.

They were in my soup today.

I felt bad for disliking them,

and ate them anyway.

Most of them.

Halfway through my soup,

I realized, I don’t have to like them.

If I don’t like them,

I don’t have to eat them.

After all, I’m an adult.

Three sit at the bottom of the bowl.

I don’t like water chestnuts.