The Graphic Childbirth Post

WARNING: If you haven't given birth and/or if you have penis and/or if you never want children, this post is probably going to gross you out.

I'd like to credit my friend Anthony for inspiring this post. We started talking about what it was like to do 'shrooms (I never have) and he described his trip. I thought I would be kind and reciprocate by describing the process of childbirth to him (a single straight man without children). He loved it. Maybe. But probably not.

Fun fact about me: I'm fascinated by the birthing process. I always wanted to be an OB/GYN, but that involves a lot of school and I simply don't have the patience for that. I'm a birth doula by trade and maybe one of these days, I'll find the ambition to go to school for midwifery. I digress. Birth fascinates me. Another fun fact about me: I have two children. I gave birth to both "naturally" (meaning in a hospital, minus drugs). To me, a truly natural childbirth would involve the mother squatting in a field by herself. However, since there were no open secluded fields nearby (and I didn't know as much as I know about home birth...another post entirely), I went with a hospital.

Now, I had my first child at 20 and I'll never know what possessed me to adopt a soapbox about drug-free childbirth at such a tender age, but I went at that shit like a drill sergeant. No drugs. I'm a badass.

Mushy disclaimer: I will say that feeling another human move inside your body is a pretty fucking fantastic thing. It feels cool and it freaks people out because sometimes your belly looks like the baby is trying to escape through your abdomen like an alien. Also, sometimes it hurts...especially when the baby is the size of a compact car and likes to use your ribcage as a foot stool.

April 27, 1999 (1 week past "due date": arbitrary date to estimate fetal arrival)...approximately 2am. Eyes pop open. PAIN IN THE GENERAL UTERUS AREA. I might be in labor. Wait. Wait. Wait. (Each "wait" is 3 minutes at this point) PAIN IN THE GENERAL UTERUS AREA. After about three rounds of the PAIN IN THE GENERAL UTERUS AREA game, I decide I'm in labor and I MUST shave my legs before going to the hospital, so I do that. And then off to the hospital for party time.

I'm going to interrupt this description of early labor to explain the PAIN IN THE GENERAL UTERUS AREA game. In early labor, this feeling can range from bad menstrual pain (reference point for the ladies) or bad gas pain (reference point for the men) and as time goes on it feels more like your abdomen is being sliced open with a dull knife (reference point for both sexes). This game can go on for minutes (lucky bitches) or hours (more likely), increasing in intensity and succession until you feel like you might be dying. As a matter of fact, in my experience with labor (include both of my own), there isn't a single woman who doesn't say "I can't do this!" at some point in their labor. Not one. As luck would have it, I had a relatively average labor of 9 hours.

Now, intermittently during this time, the nurses come into the room and shove their fingers in your sunshine hole to see how you're "progressing". This means that they're not gonna be happy until they can fit their entire fist in your womb (i.e., you're dilated to 10 cm). Whether or not you're a first time mom or Michelle Duggar, you can predict without fail if you're dilated the full 10 cm. (This is where it starts to get graphic). You know when you're fully dilated and ready to start pushing when it feels like you have to take the most gigantic shit of your life. Like you went to Fogo de Chao and ate the whole damn buffet and it's time to go potty. The unfortunate part about this stage in labor is that, in the hospital, they make you wait until the doctor arrives to actually start the pushing process. This means, you have to hold in the gigantic poop baby until he/she gets there. Imagine a time when you had to poop so bad you thought you were gonna die, but you had to hold it in because you were in the car and you were 50 miles from a bathroom.....and now imagine that that turd has a mind of its own and it's coming out whether you and/or the doctor like it or not. It's a unique and helpless sensation.

But finally (thank jesusjosephandmary), the doctor gets there and you can finally poop....er....give birth. You start pushing. The pushing phase is quite a relief and quite akin to actually pooping UNTIL the crowning begins. Crowning refers to when the "crown" of the head is about to exit the vagina. They affectionately refer to this sensation in the medical profession as the "ring of fire"....and boy did Johnny Cash EVER know what he was talking about. When a head is coming out of your blessed canal of goodness, it burns like a motherfucker. Burn motherfucker, burn. But, just like when you exercise, you push through the burn until pop-goes-the weasel....and out comes the head. It's pretty easy after this, unless your kid is a linebacker (like my first was) and the shoulders hurt worse than the head. If your kid is normal, the rest is cake because the rest of the body slides out of your tired, worn-out vagina like jello through a basketball hoop (I don't know where I come up with this shit...I just like the analogy of the net to the labia).

And TA-DAH! You have a baby. Ooooh, but this baby is all bloody and cheesy. Nomnom. Don't worry, they'll wash it off...or you can lick it off like a cat if that's your thing. There's one tiny caveat. Don't tug on the baby, because it's still attached to you. The placenta is still hanging on and we don't wanna turn the uterus inside out, right? Right. So they cut the tags off the baby, so to speak...and it's all yours. I'm not sure how either of my kids were detached from me, because I was coming down off an endorphin concoction and can't recall either of their cords being cut...but obviously somebody did it. Thanks, whoever.

Now, once the cheesy, bloody human you created comes out, the party isn't over, because you have to give birth to the placenta which is still attached to your innards. It takes a few minutes for it to give up and come out, so just wait for it. Waaaaait for it. Ok, and then a tiny push and out comes this object that very closely resembles a cube-steak with a tail. Don't worry, they'll get rid of that for ya. Oh, and if you get the chance, take a look at it. Often times the placenta is more fascinating than the baby.

Still not done. USUALLY some sort of damage is incurred because a Smart Car just came out of a mouse hole. Yes, we're talking tears. Rips in your flesh. Note: flesh can and will rip like paper. Don't worry, though. They sew you right up. Yep. Needles in your vagina. Don't fret...they numb you WITH A NEEDLE before they sew you up. And let me tell you, they do a fabulous job. I mean, I've seen my bits thousands of times and I can't find a scar to save my life. There is a hole in it, though...(sorry, I couldn't resist).

Yeah, so, that's pretty much it. Then they clean you up and leave you alone with a screaming, crying, pooping, eating machine that you have to raise for 20+ years. Good times.

Also, the more ya know...

Next week: Anthony's 'Shroom Trip.

That picture is not my gallbladder...

Well, I'm positively horrid at keeping up on my blog, aren't I? I guess I should probably just own it. I suck. Know what else I suck at? Recovering from the surgical removal of an unnecessary organ.

A few months ago, I started having a pain between my boobies, but a little bit further down. No, not that far down, back up a little, ok...down just a smidge. Right there. Ow. It felt like a monkey was stabbing me with a dull banana right in that spot at about 15 minute intervals. After putting up with it for a while like a determined, hardcore Mexican wrestling champ, I whined to my husband that it was probably time for us to head to the emergency room to make sure I wasn't dying. They gave me some awesome drugs that made me hallucinate and then said "Go home. You have acid reflux." Ya know, this is the part where I'd like to say that I should've been a doctor because I know acid reflux, and this wasn't acidfuckingreflux. It was clearly an angry baboon stabbing me with the sharp end of a banana right at the very end of my sternum. All I wanted was for someone to kill the monkey. KILL IT! To make a long story short, I had gallstones, so they sent me to this nice Italian doctor who was going to kill the monkey making a rock tumbler out of my poor, innocent gallbladder.

Fast forward to last Monday. Surgery day. I was very excited because surgery is actually kind of fun! They give you medicine to make you sleep like you haven't slept since you were in utero and hospitals smell oddly good to me. Let's give this a go. Let's kill the monkey!

Step one in any surgery is to strip you of all your dignity. This involves the ritualistic instruction of a nurse coming in and saying, "Ok, we're gonna need you to take off everything from the waist up (waist down, depending on where they plan on probing you)." OR "Take off every goddamned article of clothing on your body and put on this paper-thin, ironically printed dress with a completely open back." So, I did as I was told. The worst part of having to wear hospital gowns with NOTHING on under them is that your lady/man bits touch things that they wouldn't normally touch and that's just weird and awkward and uncomfortable. I digress. I handed over my dignity to the nice woman in the scrubs and we proceeded.

Next, they wheel you into the operating room, which is ALWAYS pre-heated to a balmy 45 degrees. It's fucking freezing in an operating room. I've been in lots of them and they're all colder than a well digger's ass. But, the bright side to this gloomy step in the process is that you give a fuck about that cold operating room for about 30 seconds, because your friend, Mr. Awesomely Effeminate Anesthesiologist (they aren't always effeminate, but mine was, which was awesome because that's how I like my anesthesiologists), is about a millisecond away from injecting your veins with magical unicorn soma that would tranquilize even the most dangerous of unicorns. It's fantastic. Then they put an oxygen mask on your face and tell you to breath slowly and relax and the mask smells like sterile plastic andddddddoiaghakgzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....

And then you wake up and things are blurry and your very nice, yet unfortunately unattractive Italian surgeon with halitosis is breathing on you and saying your name over and over and prodding you and taking your blood pressure and saying your name and leaving and coming back 30 seconds later and saying your name and taking your blood pressure and breathing on you. GO THE FUCK AWAY, IT'S NAPPY TIME PEOPLE!! But no, you must wake up or you fail at the game of Surgery.

So then, you wake up and OW! I THOUGHT YOU TOOK THE MONKEY OUT THAT WAS MAKING A ROCK TUMBLER OUT OF MY ORGAN! OW! DRUGS! OW! STRONGER DRUGS! Ahhh, that's better. Now, let's talk about peeing. They won't let you leave the hospital until you pee. I HAD to pee, but no matter how much I talk to my bladder nicely and told him we couldn't leave until he performed, all he said was "Fuck you. Me no pee." That was until the nurse said "If you don't go, we're gonna have to catheterize you." and my bladder said "No way, man, I've seen those commercials about the lady with the dirty catheters. I'll do it." And he did. And away we went.

After you have an invasive surgery, they send you away with some fantastic drugs and boy was I sad when those were gone, but turns out that developing an addiction to pain medication is low-brow and generally frowned upon, so I had to face the music and the pain. Also, you're sometimes left with a poofy, squishy belly after they jam their little cameras and utensils into your innards. Your innards don't like that. They rebel and they make you look like you're 5 mos pregnant for weeks on end. It's a little depressing, but I'm dealing ok. I had my husband hide all the sharp knives in the house. It's cool, really.

The really badass part about all of this is that my stomach looks like I'm the surviving member of a drunken brawl. Stab me and see what happens, bitches. I'm made of titanium. At most, your weak attempt at killing me will only make my titanium stomach look bloated! I don't have a gallbladder! You know why?! Because superheros don't NEED gallbladders!

I guess I don't suck so bad after all....suckers.