Week 25: You Want To Touch My Fundus?

 

Registered Nurse Suzanna showed us a picture of a placenta in class this week. A big, blobby, bloody placenta. Clint nearly threw-up and swore he would now only consider being a “northern territory coach,”, period. He would help me with breathing, but he would not be around for the release of the “mucus plug” or the massaging of the fundus. Speaking of which, who knows what these things are? I look around the class and everyone is nodding. Like they really know.

The fact is, none of this is common knowledge! Since when did our health teachers mention “lochia” in fifth grade? Which makes me think—if they DID mention lochia and mucus plugs—how many premature sex-capades could have been avoided in high school? It’s apparent to me that most of these couples in class are simply nodding to avoid asking the embarrassing questions. I do not fit in this category.

 

“So, uh, Nurse Suzanna— I understand there is an umbilical cord connected to the baby—obvious, right? But once you cut the cord, what happens to the other end?” I am picturing myself having to wind this thing up into a little looped ball and stick it in my underpants until it shrinks or something. I’m grossing myself out. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out where that thing goes.

 

“Well, Josie (because she always uses my name in class), the cord is connected to the placenta. And the placenta is birthed out of your vagina once we massage the fundus.”
   

“What is a fundus?”

RN Suzanna was looking at me like I’m the strange one. And everyone in class is twittering, or completely silent, one or the other. Clint, is leaning forward though. He wants to know what this fundus is and who is going to massage it, exactly.

    “The fundus is the top of the uterus where the placenta is connected.”

Ha. I lean back in my seat. Nobody could have guessed that.

I woke up this morning with quite a sore throat. And I’m a little worried. Getting the nursery done, swelling feet, and back-aches don’t quite compare to the apprehensive fear I have of being sick and unable to self-medicate. No DayQuil? What am I going to do? So far, I’ve put away half a gallon of orange juice and stayed home with the puppy. She’s happy to bring in a dead mouse and mouth it around a bit in front of me. I run around the house to chase her down until I’m winded and realize that the days of “taking it easy” are over. I’m big; my boobs are huge; and I’m tired.

I wish someone would massage my fundus.

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Week 24: Childbirth Class and Pooping on the Table

Week 24

Monday night marked our first Childbirth Essentials class. I’m not sure what I expected, exactly, but I feel as if I’m on the older end of the age spectrum as we sit couple-by-couple around the room.  RN Suzanne (8 months pregnant herself) pulls a whiteboard toward the center of the room and introduces herself.
    “I’m Suzanne! (very peppy) Welcome to Childbirth Essentials! We are going to be together for six informative weeks of preparation for these babies—so let’s dive right in and get to know each other!”
    Hmmm. I was still in the preparatory judging stage. Sizing myself up against the other pregnant women in the class. Ahh, the one on the end looks a little heavier than me (that’s good) and then, oh that one. Yeah. She must have been underweight to start.  Maybe she was anorexic; she’s way too skinny—geeze, she doesn’t even have any armpit fat… Clint elbowed me in the ribs. Okay, okay. Refocusing.
    “So first, let’s start by yelling out your feelings—anything you or your partner is feeling about this coming baby. It could be fears about the process, or where you are right now—but let’s get real!”
    Silence.
    I don’t think anyone really felt like getting real.
    Finally, the overweight one in the corner said, “Feet. My feet hurt.”
    “GREAT!” shouted exuberant Suzanne, and ‘FEET HURT’ went on the board. “What else, guys?”
    “Indigestion.”
    “Leg cramps.”
    “Birthing pain.”
Really? This is what these ladies were worried about?

“Restless legs.”

“Not having my nursery finished.”

“Hunger.”

I exhaled. I couldn’t take it anymore. This wasn’t real, this was textbook.
    “How about, pooping on the Delivery Table?” I shouted. Clint guffawed into his shirt sleeve.
    “Ah,” said nurse Suzanne, as she wrote ‘DEFICATION’ on the board, “Josie, was it?”
    (SIDENOTE: WASN”T THIS SUPPOSED TO BE ANONYMOUS SHOUT-OUTS?)

    “Yes?”
    “Josie, don’t worry about pooping! Every woman in here is going to lay a little dookie on the delivery table! And we nurses are ready for it! We wear gloves and when we see it come out, well, we just scoop it off the mat and into a little plastic bag, and into the garbage it goes! Voila! No more poop!” She spread her hands wide like Vanna White. No more poop!
    “Okay, great!” I said. And yes, I was blushing.
    “Other fears?” asked Suzanne.
    “Changing diapers,” said a dad.
    ‘CHANGING DIAPERS’ went on the board, and next to it: ‘POOP’. “Now then, this brings up another good point about poop.

Josie,” she says, looking straight at me, “doesn’t want to poop on the delivery table. But we all know she will! So here’s the good news. It’s not going to be like your morning poop, Josie. It’ll be a lot smaller! Probably only as big as your thumb.”

Great. Now we have everyone in the class imagining the size of my morning poop. Suddenly, I see that pre-judging my classmates was a gross-error on my part.  I wish to death I was overweight, or too skinny, or biting my cuticles like the other girls. I know now that I have been labeled “the pooping girl” for the duration of this six-week class, and my name will come to their minds secondarily, only after they have imagined my caffeine induced morning bowel-movement.

Great.
Love this class.

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