Stephanie Klein of Greek Tragedy is one of the original famous bloggers and it is easy to see why. Her writing is fantastic, her stories full and bright and we all feel like we are right there with her.
Her birth story is no different. In honor of Mother's Day, she has shared it with us. See below:
I wasn't afraid of feeling pain. I was afraid they were going to be pulled from my body, lifeless. I wouldn't hear them cry. Weâd all wait, in an inhale. A technician would check a clock. Theyâd blink at a monitor, hoping for a blip on a flat line. Their legs would be lifeless, hanging, bent to the memory of my body. Iâd deliver dead children, small lifeless corpses, specimens pulled onto a sterile table. They wouldn't let me hold them. No one was with me. How would I explain?
While I was pregnant, Iâd spent so much time worrying about labor, fearing blood and needles, but in the moment, when they warned it would feel cold and scratchy then burn and sting, I didnât care. âJust tell me when itâs over.â Before I even became a mother, I changed. I didnât matter anymore. Itâs what everyone says it is, living with fear and hope for someone else, little ones who werenât even here yet. You just donât worry about your own pain when youâre that worried about their lives.
When Iâd first arrived at Labor & Delivery at 6:30 PM Thursday night, I walked calmly to the front desk and in a tone youâd use to ask where the ladies room is, I announced that my doctor had told me to come, my hand low on my stomach. A freckled young nurse with a chipmunk face and mousy brown hair asked what brought me in. âI guess I had a low dull ache, but I really always have a low dull ache, so I drank my water, stretched out on my left side, and emptied my bladder.â Earlier that night, at 5:00pm, after peeing, I noticed a bit of mucus in my underwear. It was tinged with a slight trace of brown blood. I collected it with a piece of toilet paper and was now showing it to the nurse. âThatâs it?â she said while examining the sample, as if I were completely wasting her time. âWell, yeah. Maybe there was more,â I lied, âbut this is all I brought.â She made me feel like my being there was a ruse.
Iâd had mucus before. Two days earlier, at my regularly scheduled OBGYN appointment, I mentioned it to my doctor. âGlobs of it,â I had said. He said it was normal, that it happens as the cervix thins. I thought âmucus plug,â but I didnât use those words because Phil always tells me not to try to diagnose myself to a doctor. âLet them tell you what you have,â he says, âDonât put an idea in their head.â And when Phil says this to me, all I can think of is a psychic. How you try to trick them, by not confirming anything, to see how good they really are. My doctor measured my cervix and sent me on my way. There was no talk of mucus plugs. Smiles were exchanged, and he joked that I should behave and not make his life difficult in the next two weeks, when Iâd be at the 32-week mark, scheduled for our next appointment. I was on my way. Phil was on his way to New York.
When I phoned my doctor to tell him Iâd found blood in my mucus, he said Iâd need to go to the hospital. âReally?â I was certain it was an overly cautious request. âReally?â I didnât know where the hospital was, where my ID was, anything. I began to laugh. âCan you believe this shit?â I said from the car as I phoned my sister. âI swear to God, if I go into real labor and have to fucking parallel park, Phil will never hear the end of this.â Â
I laughed until it began to hurt again. My contractions were three minutes apart. I cranked up Feliz Navidad and sang to my stomach. âYou canât come now,â I said when the song ended, my hand on my stomach as I began to breathe the way I imagined women in labor did. Slowly, deeply, with some magical motherly purpose. I hadnât packed a bag or picked out some fabulous hospital outfit. I hadnât showered or brushed my teeth. All those things you plan for, hospital slippers, eye masks and your favorite cream, none of it mattered. I wouldnât be staying anyway. âMan, if this is really it, my driving myself to the damn hospital, man, heâll never live this down,â I said to Carol, my fatherâs wife. âDo you want to speak with your father?â âNah, itâs probably nothing. Just let him know Iâm on my way and Iâll call when I know more.â It was kind of exciting, the drama of it all. Nothing would really happen, I thought.
The freckled nurse left the room to collect some monitoring bands that would track the heart rates of each baby and also chart my contractions. Another young nurse named Jenny joined us and said that sheâd be examining my cervix. âI was at 2.75 in length two days ago,â I said as she applied pressure. âOuch.â Iâve heard the stories of other women in labor, listening as theyâve said that they screamed so loud the whole hospital could hear. Iâm never vocal about severe pain. Iâm so damn good at complaining when it doesnât matter, but when Iâm really in pain, Iâm silent, trying to work through it in my head and breath, gripping down, guarding off the pain in silence. I was surprised at my âouchâ and didnât recognize it as my own.
With her hand still inside me she asked if my doctor had mentioned anything about my being dilated. âWhat? No. No. "Iâm dilated?â I began to sit up. âYouâre at about a two. Iâm going to give you a steroid shot to mature the babiesâ lungs.â âWill it hurt?â
âIâm not going to lie to you. It hurts likeââÂ
âA motherfucker, right?âÂ
âWell, yeah.â
I called Phil.Â
âI canât believe this is happening. Iâm actually going into labor.â I said the words, but I didnât believe them. Part of me was just saying it for dramatic effect. There was no way I was having these babies yet. It was too early. It wasnât happening now. But then my doctor arrived and confirmed it.
âPhil? Your wife is going into premature labor.âÂ
There it was, the words strung together in a real band of panic. I wasnât just going into labor; it was premature labor, the kind with statistics and warnings; the kind where they send you to preventative specialists, weekly, to avoid. And it was happening, now, with my husband and every bit of family across the country. Jenny said she could wheel a cot into the room. âDonât you have anyone to come stay with you?â I hated that question. âNo, Iâm alone,â I said. And if I werenât so scared, I would have cried.
They gave me drugs, basically Botox for your uterus. And while they made me sweat and feel as if my face were aflame, they were ineffective. In ten minutes, I dilated to a 4. My father was on the phone with me now. âHoly shit. Iâm at 4 already.â I didnât know what this meant, only that at 10, babies come out.
âIâm so sorry, sweetie,â Jenny said as she changed my IV, âbut these babies are coming.âÂ
My doctor confirmed it.Â
âYouâre kidding, right? Thereâs nothing else you can do to stop this?â No. There was nothing else. The kids were coming whether I liked it or not. âBut I was just instant messaging like an hour ago. And Greyâs Anatomy is on soon.â I tried to make light of it as the doctor spoke to Phil about my options for delivery. I called my mother, who was trying to convince me they were Braxton Hicks contractions. âIâm dilated to four, Mom!â I was shouting. âI have to go,â I said, frustrated.Â
The second twin always does better, with premature babies, when delivered via c-section. Less trauma and stress. All the benefits of a vaginal birth wouldnât apply with my children. I wouldnât be able to hold them or feed them. The trauma of a vaginal birth could hurt one of them. We couldnât risk it, Phil and I agreed. âI so canât believe this is really happening.â I imagined Phil at a bar, with his friends, stepping out onto the street so he could hear me better. I never asked where he was.
An anesthesiologist came in to explain the epidural, saying something about Egypt, I was certain. I couldnât understand anything. âMorphine,â he said. âWhatâs your name again?â I didnât know what was happening. Everything fuzzed around me. And that fucking chipmunk nurse was at it again, rubbing my belly, searching for one of the babiesâ heartbeats. âOne of them must have moved around, thatâs all.â There she was, combing my body for a fetal heartbeat while a masked anesthesiologist told me not to worry if I didnât feel myself breathing. âSometimes you feel numb and might worry youâre not breathing, but you are.â Then Jenny came over with a look of panic on her face. That was it. They couldnât find the heartbeat because one of the babies had died. I was sure and began to sit up. I needed to leave. Jenny told me some preemie nurses would be by to speak to me about what to expect. Phil was on the phone. âPhil? Now Iâm really scared,â I trembled. âThis is really happening. This shouldnât be happening. I didnât even do anything. I sit on my fat ass all day long. I didnât go running or take step classes. All I do is sit on my ass and watch you clean. How can this be happening?â It was my fault, I thought, and canât help but still think it now. They found the other heartbeat.
I donât need to know everything. I donât need to prepare. I need to just go through it and deal with things as they come. I donât like âifâs. Â
âListen,â I said to the anesthesiologist, âI havenât heard one word of anything youâve said.â I swear, I thought he was talking to me about mountains. He mentioned some extended-release morphine, and I was certain he was telling me about the origin of the drug, as if he were talking about mountain-grown coffee beans from Colombia. âSo if youâre just telling me all of this because you legally have to, then fine, but do I need to understand anything youâve just said? Because I canât focus on you when sheâs on me searching for one of the babiesâ heartbeats. And please, donât let any more people in here to tell me about warnings or expectations. I donât want to guess anything. Letâs just do this already.â I worried that because we chose to go ahead with the c-section that I was missing a chance for my body to stop everything. If Iâd chosen to have a vaginal birth, there would have been more time to see. My doctor, though, assured me, it wouldnât work that way.Â
âStephanie, these babies are coming!â And this is from a doctor who never speaks in exclamations. When I said we could go ahead with the cesarean births, I felt like Iâd just said the correct answer to the question. Jenny nodded her head. It was the right decision.
My body wouldnât stop shivering. They covered me in blankets. âIâm not cold,â I said as I shivered uncontrollably. âI think Iâm just scared.â Itâs normal, they said. And then we waited for me to numb out behind a sheet. âThe doctor just poked the hell out of you, and you didnât feel it, so weâre ready now, okay?â I couldnât believe this was happening. I began to sweat, and then said aloud, âIs it okay that Iâm sweating like a whore in church right now?â
When the doctor pulled out âBaby A,â he said, âOkay, the first baby is out, and he looks just like his dad.â I had a son and was convinced he had a brother. A team of five people was assigned to him, rushing him beneath lights, cleaning him off; I could see him and hear his faint lamb cry. A minute later: âOkay, and hereâs the second baby, and it looksâŠâ I had another son. âJust like you. You have a daughter.â
I squealed. âReally? Oh my God, really? My head lifted up. I wanted to be closer to it all, to see her. âReally? Oh my God. A boy and a girl? Oh my God!!! I really have a daughter? I began to laugh and cry, then gasped for air. âOh my God. Thank you. Thank you so much. Can we call Phil?âÂ
Jenny handed me the phone. âOh my God, Honey, we have a son. And⊠we have a daughter! Can you believe it?âÂ
âReally?âÂ
âOh my God, I love you so much.âÂ
âHow are you?âÂ
âIâm okay. Theyâre sewing me up now. There are like twenty people in here. Each of the babies has a staff.âÂ
âWait, theyâre sewing you up now, with me on the phone?âÂ
âYeah.âÂ
âCool.âÂ
âAnd I get to name them whatever I want because youâre not here.â Then we both laughed. âHow about Beckett for his middle name?â I said. And Philip agreed. âLucas Beckett Klein,â I said.Â
âWanna just cut my balls off right now?"
"Lucas Beckett Beer,â we agreed. But as long as theyâre in the hospital, theyâre âthe Klein babies,â because Iâm Stephanie Klein, their mother, and theyâre mine. And when my husband Philip Steven Beer calls the hospital for an update on their progress, he announces, âYes, this is Mr. Klein, calling about the Klein babies,â and I giggle each and every time.
What was your birth like?
Our series of mom bloggers we love runs throughout May in honor of Mother's Day. Click here to see them all.
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