Four years ago today, over my OB’s lunch hour, I delivered Whitney. I’m not going to tell you it was a hard labor, or that I threw beverages or small pieces of furniture at Ben. And I didn’t scream like a boiling lobster as I had, eight years earlier, during my natural childbirth with our first daughter, Lexi.
No, this time around, I had a scheduled induction, and a pain-free four hour labor, wrapped-up with only three minutes of pushing. My pelvis was so numb you could have stuck me in the hip with a hospital fork and I would’ve probably just asked whether or not you knew how long the cafeteria served lunch.
Oooh, wait, there’s a but. And a butt. And a latex glove.
Here I am with Whitney an hour, or so, after she was delivered.
I felt good. Then when the drugs wore off, I asked if I could have more, and they said yes. All I had to do was buzz the nurses' station, let them know I was in pain, and within minutes a nurse would bring a plastic hospital cup containing a magical white pill. The pills relieved the pain and made me feel like I was resting on a Jello-filled mattress.
I took a little caplet of heaven every four to six hours, per my doctor's instructions, over the next seven days, until I woke up on day eight and realized I hadn't pooped IN EIGHT DAYS. After a brief over-the-phone consult with my OB's nurse, we decided I should discontinue taking my pain killers and suck up the pain.
Alright, I do have a four year old birthday girl who needs a balloon and a cake, so let me get to the point: when you don’t poop for eight days because your body is high on narcotics, your innards turn to concrete. And then your doctor will recommend you go to the ER where they’ll disimpact you.
I dare you to Yahoo search disimpaction procedure. Then I dare you to read about it without breathing into a paper bag while you rest your head between your knees.
If BuenoBaby ever produces an anti-drug message it'll go something like this:
This is your poop [photo of actual poop].
This is your poop on drugs [a docotr busting apart a block of concrete with an ice-pack].
And I’m threatening promising to write a post on why you don’t need to wear panties while you’re disimpacted, really soon.
But for now, I’m going to let my virus-ravaged birthday girl sing us out.
Happy Birthday Whitney!
