The second c-section should have been a breeze, or so I thought. Patiently waiting there with my arms strapped down in the freezing cold white room and the blue cloth draped over me so I couldn’t actually see them cutting open my uterus, I was ready. I was like, bring it on! Pregnancy is too damn long and my baby boy was fully cooked. Plus, I had spent the last five days trying to keep him from falling out of my asshole.
“Do you feel this?” asked the doctor while he did the pinch test.
“Nope, not a thing,” I replied. Of course that wasn’t true. I could feel pressure, not pain, but this wasn’t my first rodeo and I knew what to expect.
The anesthesiologist stood behind me. “I think we have you nice and numb,” he said under his face mask.
My husband stood on the side watching the disection, with eager eyes. He was as excited as I was. Not only because we were having our second little boy, but also because he got to wear scrubs. I think wearing the scrubs made him feel like a bad-ass. He kept telling me things like, “you’re doing great,” and “good work honey.” I remember thinking, what the fuck was I so great at? I was lying there like The Exorcist strapped to a bed and couldn’t move even if I wanted to. I guess he felt like I needed encouragement, but I was starting to get queasy. Suddenly, the anesthesiologist started asking me questions. They were off-topic questions. He asked about what I majored in while in college, where I liked to vacation, and if I was a big sports fan. I had never heard such pointless jabber in all my live-long days. I remember thinking, is this guy for real? I’m trying to have a fucking baby here and he wants to know if I watch football?
My mouth started watering. I was getting totally nauseous. Between my babbling husband and the windy numbing doctor, all I wanted was for them to shut their big fat giant word-holes.
“Excuse me sir,” I said. “I think I may throw up.”
“Well,” he said, “let me get you a cold cloth to put on your forehead. My grandaughter always likes a damp compress when she gets a tummy ache. This works for many of my patients.”
“Umm…okay,” I replied. In my head I was cussing out his stupid grandaughter. This wasn’t a flipping tummy ache. My “tummy” was currently in a thousand pieces…on a table…with a baby being cut out of it. Tummy ache my ass! He pressed the towel on my head and I could still feel the pulling and pushing going on down in my baby bakery. I tried to keep my head as still as possible and wish the pukes away. “See there,” he said. “I have always believed that a wet cloth works better than medication.”
Fuck that shit. I wanted the medication.
“Here he is!” I heard my OB doc say. “It’s definitely a boy and he’s already peeing!” I heard my sweet precious baby crying. “He looks great!” he continued. I couldn’t wait to see him, hold him, kiss him. Tears ran down my face even though I hadn’t yet set eyes on him. Complete and utter overwhelming joy is the only way to describe my feelings at that moment…oh…yeah and also sick as a muthafucka. I saw his darling little head peek above the drape as they held him up and at that very second, I vomited all over myself. It really was like The Exorcist. I was just waiting for my head to spin in a 360 degree circle. Once I started puking, I couldn’t stop. The anesthesiologist grabbed me a bowl and I continued to violently hurl up bile. The same nasty shit you puke up after a night of martinis. It was loud, horrid heaving and showed no signs of stopping. The nurses brought my new little boy over to me and I was so in love…PUKE…he was a miracle…BLUAHHH…one of the two best moments of my life…GWAAAYAH!
“Okay sweetie, we have to take him and get some measurements. You poor thing. It’s not supposed to be like this” said a sweet and sympathetic nurse.
I had to remain in that torture chamber of a bed and my eyes met with those of the numbing doctor. I wanted to take the damp cloth and shove it down his stupid throat. I actually would have liked to have pulled out my I.V. and poked him in the ass with it. But I was still puking.
“I’ll go ahead and put some Zofran into your I.V.” he said.
Now? Right now, genius? What happened to your wet rag you fucking turd? But I couldn’t say anything. I was too sick. They finally rolled me into my room and brought my precious angel to me and put him in my arms. I immediately started nursing him and all was right in the world…only my sweet little nurse was on the other side holding my puke tray.
Once my baby finished nursing, I let the family in to meet the new addition. It was both sets of grandparents, my 17 month-old son, my brother, and of course my husband. I was still vomiting, despite the anti-nausea meds that were administered way too damn late. As they passed my darling son around, the room got quiet. And then it happened…the loudest fart in the history of flatulence. I was still numb, I didn’t even feel it come out. Apparently this was quite funny…a real gas (catch that pun). Everyone was laughing, except me, because I was still hurling. I had tears falling from my eyes from the pressure of the chunk-blows. Various substances were leaking from every part of my body, like literally every part.
“Sorry I farted,” I managed to whisper.
“Happens all the time,” said the nurse still holding my vomit tray.
I puked for eight straight hours that day, but held my baby close the whole time. By my third pregnancy I requested Zofran (anti-nausea meds) be ordered for the c-section at my very first prenatal appointment. Yeah, you learn a hell of a lot from having babies. One major thing I learned that day is that a hell of a lot more comes out of your body on delivery day than a precious little miracle. But yeah…it was totally worth it. It was so worth it, I could just puke.
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