The Birther

Preg testing is a big part of ranch life.  Every year, we used to gather the heifers (cows calving for the first time) and run them through the chute so the vet could determine the following:  1.  If they were pregnant.  2.  How far along they were.  3.  Pelvic measurements.

Pelvic measurements are important because it can indicate whether or not the heifer will do well calving.  I always felt particularly proud of those with big measurements and sad for those who didn't - because if dad had held back too many heifers, those were the first to be kicking their lunch buckets down the road.

So anyway.  I have a point.  No, really, I do.

Turns out that I'm one of those heifers...except I'm a girl...whose pelvic measurements are apparently less than desirable.  And by less than desirable, I mean so little, I'm better suited to give birth to ferrets.  Or a batch of puppies.

The Doctor did an ultrasound before birth and then raced into the room with the measurements to let me know that the reason the baby probably hadn't dropped was because her shoulders literally wouldn't fit into the pelvic opening.  Hey, it's not my fault I was carrying Ndomokung Su's twin in my uterus.

I was scheduled for a c-section 30 hours later.  Sigh.

Here I am preparing for surgery:

By this point, I was all sweated up and I'm pretty sure I'd cried hysterically at least four times.  This picture also makes it look like I'm missing some teeth, which I may have been for all I know.

Here is Husband preparing for surgery:

He made the mistake of joking with the Indian nurse that he wasn't going to give the scrubs back when he was done with them.  She didn't think that was funny at all.

I had an epidural.  I shook like a leaf.  Anyone who says epidurals don't hurt is lying.  The good news is, I was totally and completely bonded with the nurse anaesthetist on the basis that he graduated from TCU, I from BYU, and his team regularly tromps mine in football.  See, football really can bring people together.

Here's the first Peters family picture:

 

I was still sure at this point that I was dying, so I didn't notice they hadn't cleaned the cream cheese off my baby.  That smile on my face is delirium.

Here's Husband, looking proud:

After the baby was out, they herded Husband out of the room and finished sewing up my uterus...which was just outstanding.

Then they moved me into the recovery room where the effects of the epidural began to wear off and the itching set in.  No one told me it would be so bad that I would wish I could scratch off my entire face.

And finally, here I am proving that not everyone should have a picture holding their baby while still in a hospital gown:

The rest of the time in the hospital was spent not resting, eating the worst hospital food I've ever tasted (except for the lemon jello), and watching the nurses wheel Carolyn in and out of the room every three hours to be fed (good Lord, but breast feeding is not for the faint of heart) in between her stints under the biliruben light (thanks to the fact that Baby and I have different blood types putting her at high risk for jaundice...or something like that).