Bless the Baby, but Fuck All the Fluids

With a few weeks left in my first pregnancy, my bladder broke. Like, I literally couldn’t stop the pee.

Fortunately, I was sitting on the toilet when it happened. I’d just finished peeing for the thousandth time that day and started to wipe when more liquid shot out. I wiped again, and even more came out. As I sat there contemplating wearing an adult diaper for the next few weeks, I noticed the tissue was slightly pinkish, not yellow. I gave it a quick sniff (barf) and confirmed it wasn’t urine.

Relief at not facing incontinence led to the horror that my water bag was busted. Impossible! I just started maternity leave! I still have three-and-a-half weeks to go! I haven’t packed my hospital bag!

I called my husband multiple times. Unfortunately, he didn’t answer because he was in class so I called my friend, Carrie, who lived close by. She was thirty-four weeks pregnant with her third child. She would know what to do.

“Hang tight,” she said. “I’ll be right there.” I attached a ginormous maxi pad to my underwear, grabbed my keys, and waited by the door. Slowly dripping like an old faucet with a broken washer.

On the way to the hospital, gushes of neonatal nectar started bursting out. My pad couldn’t contain all the fluids. The seat around me became damp. I kept muttering, “I’m so sorry. The baby balloon wasn’t supposed to pop this early.” Fortunately, Carrie got us to the hospital quickly. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the pool of womb water forming in her car.

When we entered the hospital, the admitting nurse examined each of us up and down. It was probably a site to behold—two very pregnant women standing at the registration desk. She looked back and forth at each of us and finally asked, “Who’s in labor?”

“That would be me,” I replied. “I’m not actually peeing, I swear,” pointing to my visibly wet maternity jeans.

After they checked me into my room, I tried to reach my husband again, but he still didn’t answer. I left a message, “Hey. The baby is busting out early. If you’re still on-campus, come directly to the hospital. If you’re home, come directly to the hospital. Oh, and sorry about the mess in the bathroom.”

The nurse arrived, reviewed my chart, noted I wasn’t having contractions, and eyed me suspiciously, “We need run a test to make sure it’s really amniotic fluid.”

“Well, it’s either that or my vagina is crying—really big tears.”

She didn’t appreciate my humor nor the gush of sac sauce that flooded her hands as she put the test strip in my hoo-ha.

My husband and the contractions arrived about the same time. As my labor progressed over the next few hours, the pain became the most intense I’d ever experienced. I sounded like a myriad of wounded animals dying a thousand deaths as I staggered up and down the hospital halls white-knuckling the handrails along the walls. Dripping. Of course I was still dripping.

The nurse gently suggested I use the birthing tub, as warm water might soothe the pain (or at least move the cacophony out of the hallway). My husband led me over to the Jacuzzi and prepared the water as I wailed in pain behind him, “Hurry up! OOH-AAH, OOH-AAH—I need to relax!”

I finally lowered my hefty body into the tub, closed my eyes, and took a few deep breaths. With the final exhalation, I hurled the entire contents of my stomach into the warm, bubbling water.

The vomit floating around me momentarily distracted me from the labor pain.

I needed to get out of the water, but I couldn’t get up by myself. My husband bravely reached into the amnio–puke soup to help. I then stood there, hand against the wall, trying to catch my breath before the next contraction arrived, dripping and covered in regurgitated food bits. Without a word, my husband proceeded to hose down my enormous naked body.

“Make sure you—OOH-AAH, OOH-AAH—get the chunks off my ass,” I helpfully directed between contractions.

Fortunately, the anesthesiologist arrived shortly after my barf bath to take me out of my misery. The next several hours were relatively uneventful. I lay in the hospital bed watching my contractions on the monitor while my husband slept (and snored—so much snoring) beside me. In the early dawn, the doctors decided it was time to get the real party started so they pumped me full of Pitocin (to help progress labor) and antibiotics (to kill anything they hadn’t tested for because I wasn’t supposed to be in labor yet).

As we waited for my cervix to dilate, back labor forced me on all fours with a nurse firmly rubbing down my back. I was like a naked, screaming, interactive museum display. It was painful and mortifying, but at least I wasn’t puking anymore. Then it came time to push. So I pushed. And pushed. In between pushing, one of the nurses exclaimed that my daughter had a lovely head of hair. “Would you like me to get a mirror so you can see?” she excitedly inquired.

I’d seen enough of my bodily fluids for a while. “Uh, no.”

The doctor then explained my baby was ready to come out, but she was stuck because my baby gate was too narrow. He suggested an episiotomy to help her escape. I agreed and watched in horror as he whipped out his shiny scalpel. Turns out the epidural wasn’t quite strong enough because I felt that sharp blade slicing my perineum.

“FUUUUCK!” I screamed. I imagined blood spraying in all directions.

My daughter then practically shot out of my body—along with the rest of the uterus juice, which splashed audibly on the hospital floor. I didn’t care. My beautiful baby girl had finally arrived. Three-and-a-half weeks early. Dripping with blood and goo.

Now, I know what you’re really thinking: With all these fluids, I bet there was even more. I bet she pooped on the table.

Well, we’ll never know. I invoked the only acceptable “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy during delivery, and my husband graciously agreed to take that secret to his grave.

This blog post is dedicated to my dear friend, Quirky Chrissy, who just delivered a beautiful baby boy—he’s a CUTIE (and hopefully gross-fluid-free by now). The original version of this essay was published in It’s Really Ten Months: Special Delivery.

Photo Credits: moellerthomsen / 123RF Stock Photo