First there’s a Native American gang of political terrorists out to hunt and kidnap a particular individual who has information that they need.  That person winds up being caught by the Feds and held at a courthouse.  With nothing more than a few guns and a cigar case holding tiny bottles of Mexican coca cola, they break him free.

Then there’s a blonde woman held in a baseball field being held captive and surrounded by cop cars.  For whatever reason, Wentworth Miller comes out as Michael Scoffield to rescue her.  And then disappears. Has no additional part in any dream.

Next I’m blonde at some salon that also publishes home decorating magazines and discussing a new photo shoot that I had done for some fundraiser.

I next walk through a scarf/tie shop and I hear “Just Like Heaven” by the Cure and start dancing like a dork, transform back from the blonde back into me and then trip on my purse.

I walk out around the corner and come across a gorgeous University campus like no other wtih stunning sculptures, gorgeous arched buildings, and lush gardens.  I come through this glass walkway and find Robin Williams where I tell him “Professor, I know you surely won’t remember me but I just want to say thank you.. well, to say thank you.”

Then I run into a nail salon where my best friend Rosario Dawson and I have a conversation about me dancing and tripping on my purse in the silk scarf and tie store.  I show her some powder glitter mascara and she tries it on and it looks stunning on her and then offer her a bite of chocolate eclair and she tells me.

“Oh no.  No cheap sugar has entered this body since 1998.  My only indulgence is very very expensive peanutbutter chocolates. That’s my secret”

My response.

“Huh. I always thought it was Pilates.”

This qualifies as the 2nd dream in one week that involved some sort of peanut butter and chocolate combination.  I think it’s obvious what that means.

It means I’m getting up to go eat a fucking pickle.

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Per the obvious, this marks the end of the Pregnant Lady TMI series but officially launches what is likely transforming in my blog from my self-absorbed navel gazing to hopelessly adoring and confounded meditations on motherhood and my precious kid.

So of course I should share the details of how dearest Amelia’s birth came to be.

As previously noted by doctors visits, Giggle’s anticipated due date was 5/21.  I’d been frequently told by the docotrs that first pregnancies were traditionally late so I wasn’t banking or taking bets that she’d be on schedule though earlier in the week I’d lost my “mucus plug” or “show” as it’s commonly called, there were no guarantees as to when progression of labor might start.

After all, as of May 20th, I wasn’t even remotely dilated.

So consider me shocked when on May 21st at 4:20 AM I was woken with a severe contraction.

Of course my first thought at 4:20 AM was “If this is it, I hope this doesn’t mean my kid’s going to be a stoner.”

I breathed through the contraction, marked it on my blackberry notes under OW with the time and rolled back to sleep.

4:35. Another contraction.

4:45  Another contraction.

A weird liquid pop that I immediatley identified as my water breaking and my turning to Jason to shake his arm to wake him.

“Hon. My water just broke.”
“How much liquid is it?”

“Not a ton but I’m leaking.”

He turned over and resumed snoring. Not necessarily disbelieving me, he contends, but not reacting with particular urgency either. This is the thing I both love and hate about Jason. He never seems excitable which is brilliant in emergencies, but frustrating when you think you’re experiencing panic solo.

“Huh” he said.

I changed my panties and went to the bathroom to confirm that I wasn’t hallucinating and more bloody discharge appeared to be leaking from me. Something was clearly happening.

I shook Jason’s arm again.

“Honey. I’ve leaked through my panties again. Pretty sure this is it.”

“Is it a lot?”

“I’ve read. It’s not always a gush.”
“It’s a gush.”
“It’s still my water breaking. This is it. we’re going to the hospital.”
“They might send us home right away.”

“Fine, I’ll take a shower in the meantime and grab shit to get ready.”

3 more contractions in the shower.  Checking with the times I’d recorded into the  blackberry, and while getting dressed, grabbing my emergency hospital bag of shtuff, the contractions were accelerating from 15 minutes apart to 9 minutes apart.

“Ready to go? Come on. Come on.”

“Yup.”  Poor Jason was groggy but rallying, grabbed keys, carrying my bag, and leading the charge. I quickly grabbed a towel to sit on in the car since I was seeping liquid with every cough and awkward waddle.  So no, the “water breaking” wasn’t a deluge, a flood, or a gush, but a series of spurts that was making me incredibly uncomfortable with the idea of walking around as if I’d lost the ability to manage my bladder.

At this point, Jason, who is, as ever, very calm, asked me if I was hungry.

“They might not let you eat.”
“Ok. Uh. I don’t want a fucking Mcgriddle or anything.”

“I’m not asking you if you want a Mcgriddle. We’re not even by a Mcdonalds.”
And we swung into the nearest Starbucks where Jason got himself a McStarbucks thingie, and I slurped down a cider and muffin.  This is about the time that I twittered my official “Holy Fuck My Water Broke” announcement.

From a Starbucks parking lot. With contractions 9 minutes apart or so.

I realize now that this sounds really stupid but well, reality is stupid a lot of times.

We popped over the Golden Gate bridge and made our way  to UCSF where Jason dropped me off at the front as I made my way up to Labor and Delivery on the 15th floor, sopping my pregnancy jeans with every step as he ran to park the car and join me.

Now, in a moment of panic, it’s a little embarrassing asking just about anyone you see in blue scrubs for directions to the appropriate elevator for and explaining that it’s for yourself cuz your water just broke. But clearly, I have no shame and couldn’t really care less if folks thought I was leaving a trail of uterus water behind me.

I was swiftly checked in, and having dutifully recorded my contraction times and experience up to that point, had to repeat the pertinent details, my name, birthday, and relative allergies to about 20 different folks before getting set up in a room, swapped into a robe, and ready to be joined by Jason and checked by a doctor.

Funny thing about being at the hospital around 6:30 in the morning.  First off, you’re at the cusp of the shift transitions between night and day teams.  Second, your medical records are in transit from the Prenatal offices across the street and the Labor and Delivery floor where you’re supposed to pop out your kid.  This lead to me repeating my allergies (of Cats and Hazelnuts) to about a dozen different medical folks.

The doctor’s examined me, had me settle in to a Labor & Delivery room with a fantastic view of the city in the foggy dawn, and confirmed that indeed, my water had broken and my contractions were the real deal.

As the contractions weren’t highly accelerated yet and I hadn’t dilated beyond 5 cm, I was put in a waiting stasis. Which meant napping through contractions until they became so violent that they would wake me up. Meanwhile night staff transitioned to day staff and my records were still MIA.  When asked what food allergies I had by the day staff for meal planning, I nearly responded “Cats and Hazelnuts” which I’m sure would have made *someone* chuckle.

Now the question of Birth Plan had come up with the Medical staff and I responded with absolute candor and courage. “I’m no hero. Give me the drugs.”

My thinking, better living through science and chemistry.   The process of birth is already a barbaric process, why make it harder on myself if I can be cheerfully medicated and numbed through the icky parts of it.

After a consultation with the Anesthesiologist on my numbing options, we confirmed my request for an Epidural. Confirming an order for an Epidural felt more like ordering takeout than a medical requisition for  a needle full of narcotics to be injected in my spine. 

The doctors and nurses wanted to confirm timing for my drugging up and were actually stunned and surprised that I’d actually dilated to 5cm and with raised eye brows greenlit the procedure.  It looked like I was a “go”.

Now my personal sense of urgency on the entire delivery process was tweaked by the stories my mother had told me about my own birth.   I’d been delivered at home in the countryside by my Grandmother. Mom had told me that she’d had her brother run out to grab a cab to take her to the hospital but by the time he’d returned, I’d already made my arrival into the world.  A speedy delivery that anyone would envy.  

I got swiftly hooked up to an IV drip (my first time) and set up with the Epidural.

Noonish.

So, based on my mother’s experience with me and with a little bit of presumption and hope, I anticipated that my own labour with Giggle would be that fast.

But no.

Damn. Fucking No.

3 Hours later I was  not yet fully dilated.  This measurement referred to as “Completion”.

Nor had Giggle “progressed” muchly.  Progression being how far down the baby had dropped.

Instead I was dealing with the fact that any sense of modesty over the state of my vagina was over as nearly a dozen people had checked it out, measured it, viewed it, assessed it, judged it, poked their fingers in it, and were stating their medical opinions on it.

So some more napping and waiting and enjoying the drugs.

Around 3PM or so is when the earnest Pushing started.

I’d achieved “Completion” and Giggle was in position (head down) though facing *upwards* at the pelvic bone versus towards the back which is conventional for most births.

Monitors were in place tracking her heartbeat and my contractions and with each contraction I had several folks holding my legs up and staring at my vagina, counting to 10, and helping me breathe and push.

This is extraordinarily undignified and thank goodness for the drugs so I couldn’t *quite* tell if I was shitting myself or not. Which apparently I was.

3 hours into this, more doctors and nurses came into the room, introduced themselves, and stuck their fingers in my vagina.

Completion was achieved but a clear failure to Progress.

The goal of the pushing up to that point had been to rock forward with the labour and to hopefully slowly rotate Giggle’s head so she’d face the appropriate way to make her way down the birth canal.

No. Fucking Luck.

At which point a petite Asian doctor had to stick her hand and arm up my vagina and actively twist the entire body of my baby inside of me.

No amount of drugs helped assuage the agony of this experience.

And of course, this was probably not the appropriate time to think about how lesbians fist each other but that series of thoughts also passed through my head. I blame the drugs. And the pain. And well, for being in San Francisco for as long as I’ve been.

Now that the baby was turned the appropriate way, labor was “supposed” to proceed more normally.

I was permitted an hour to rest before the earnest pushing was to start again.

I passed out at this juncture and wanted to cry but didn’t have the stamina to quiver.

This was now about 9 PM and medical teams had transitioned back again from the Day Staff to the Evening Staff which meant more new people poking and looking at my vagina.

Pushing proceeded again but the heart monitors on Giggle showed some alarming data on her heartbeat dropping in distress.  Her head was too big for my pelvis to manage and the previous 3 hours of pushing had caused her head to swell with the effort. This could prove dangerous for her. 

After discussion with the doctors it was agreed that the safest way to proceed at that point was to go C-Section.

An hour more of pre-operative prep work, paper work, and disclaimers re:the unplanned surgery and I tried to steel myself for this event.  

For the record, I’ve never had a blood transfusion in my life. Never broken a bone. Never had surgery. Never previously used an oxygen mask. Never had anesthesiology.  Never actually confirmed that I wasn’t allergic to any other medications as I’d never had reason to.

And suddelny I was hooked up to everything  including the IV drip, pain meds, meds to accelerate contractions, the spinal tap, oxygen mask, and catheter, blood pressure monitor, and oxygen finger monitor thingie.

In the moments before they wheeled me to the operation room, my shoulders siezed up and cramped in incredible pain and I started shaking uncontrollably with cold.  Of course I couldn’t feel anything from my ribcage down but everything above that was shrieking in pain, or shuddering in tremendous cold.

I started crying in terror and told Jason with the absolute greatest sincerity and depth of feeling that I could “If I die, please know that I love you, even though you drive me crazy sometimes.”

I couldn’t control the shaking and the medical staff had to wrap my arms and head in blankets to try and calm me down and literally tape my wrists down so I wouldn’t convulse as they cut into me to pull the baby out.

Jason in scrubs was holding my shoulders down for me and massaging my neck while in the OR and a drape in blue blocked everything happening below my ribcage so I couldn’t see or feel any of the gory details of being cut open.

At this point, all I remember is feeling shaky panic, only being able to see some odd lights and shapes, hearing a baby cry and then blacking out.

The anesthesiologist had done me the great service of flooding my system with drugs as soon as Baby Amelia had her umbilical cord cut from me and I was out. OUT.

Time of birth 11:57Pm. Just under the wire for baby’s due date.

2 hours later, I woke up, groggy, and was brought my daughter to look at for the very first time.

Perfect.

Perfect fingers, perfect toes, perfect eyes, an amazing set of hair, and a perfect little tongue that she stuck out at me.

Worth every moment of pain, anxiety, energy, and fear for that first moment of holding her.

For her, the entire world.

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Amelia “giggle” Hoffman

Originally uploaded by minjungkim.

Born 5/21 at 11:57PM

6 Lbs 14 oz and all healthy.

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Moi @ 39 weeks
Originally uploaded by minjungkim.

I don’t think my Hello Kitty pj’s have ever looked so awkward.

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Timeline:  Week 39+  (The baby’s due date is officially May 21st)

Bump: 

• Huge. And yet oddly not so huge.  I feel huge. It’s a huge lumbering watermelon or thanksgiving turkey fit for a dinner party of 25.  Jason refers to me as the Basketball Thief when he thinks I’m out of earshot. He’s wicked that way sometimes.  Anyway, it is a big, heavy, still squirmy warm thing that is spidered with purply blue veins that you can see through my skin.  Do I feel like I’m carrying an alien? Why yes I do.  A very cute adorable alien child that should be saying hello to the world very very soon.

Giggle Activity:

• The dear little girl is still hiccuping loads though the timing for her hiccups is more in the evening than in the mornings.
• Additionally as she’s just standing on her head (turned and ready to go) she merely twists from side to side and provides on occasional punch or kick to my kidney.
• Mostly she’s just active delivering headbutts to my bladder.
• She responds when Jason or I are talking to her sometimes and when Jason’s given a kiss to my belly, she’s done a fine job of regularly kicking him in the face.

Way to do me proud.

Cravings:

• Lots of PreggerLady Cocktails (Pink grapefruit juice w/Sprite)
• Korean spicy foods!  Lots of Kimchi & Ggakduki of late.

 

Digestion:

Funny. I don’t even notice myself farting anymore. But clearly this is more than my usual volume of flatulence since I’m a delicate flower of a gal that would barely squeek a macintosh apple in public otherwise. Right? Right.

Relatively mild and intermittent heartburn.

No problems with digestion. I attribute this to a most recent change in diet high in Korean fiber-rich foods eaten with rice.

 

1. Kimchi  (Loads of Fiber)
2. Ghim or Nori (A superfood!)
3. Kgennip - ?? – Seasoned Perilla or Sesame Leaf

 

Menus including 1, 2, 3 = easy going poop time for me. Yay.

Playtime:

• Hah. Right.  

Sleep:

• In preparation for the baby’s impending arrival, she has already set me on a strict regimen of only an hour or two of sleep at a time.  I have to get up very regularly to pee what appears to be a thimble-full of urine at a time that feels like an unbearable volume in my bladder at 3,5,6, 7, 9, 10, and 11 AM.
• Tossing and turning requires me to take care with cradling the belly as I turn from side to side.
• Getting up from bed is a interesting feat requiring me to rock myself over to my knees, put my hands up on the wall, and *will* myself upwards to stand to get to the bathroom.

Physical:

• I actually feel mostly ok.
• Feet are still swelling.
• The boobs and nipples are totally weird but I guess I’ve gotten used to that.
• Oh. The nipples. Odd crusty residue I noticed on the tips in the shower the other day.  I guess that’s sorta new. And weird. And totally gross. But uh. Yeah. Feedbags.
• Lower back requires an occasional rubdown but nothing terribly new since the last few weeks.
• For the first time ever I had a migraine yesterday that had me so in pain that I was in tears for several hours.  Jason finally relented in letting me have a tylenol (yes you can have tylenol up to 500mg when you’re pregnant) and it went away in about 20 minutes.

Mood/Psychology:

• Anxious. Really really anxious.  I mean really really really anxious.
• I’ve been in nesting mode cleaning a few things, putting baby clothes away.
• Cranky. I’m insufferably intolerant of stupid people these days and probably a little too quick with dismissing folks who are behaving childishly than someone should who’s about to have.. uh.. a child.
• Hormonal high season. I had a terrible dream that had me in histrionics again. Almost passed out by hyperventilating while weeping.
• Nervous.  I mean. Wouldn’t you be if you knew at any point 9 liters of liquid and a screaming kid were supposed to rip out of your vagina at any moment?  

Funny:

• I think the weidest/hardest part of this stage of the pregnancy is how cumbersome I feel about my own body and how hard doing day to day things are that you otherwise take for granted. For instance, putting on your panties after hopping out of the shower.  No big deal right?  Now imagine yourself 39 weeks pregnant and trying this feat.  You feel like a Hippo on stilts that are encased in Ballet Point shoes trying to balance and bend and tug up at the same time.  Panties that barely fit anymore as it is.  Graceful as Ginger Rogers, I am not.
• And then looking at your fingers and toes and desperately wanting a pedicure but not being able to reach your feet with any sort of regular ease is also weird. So you demand help with putting on your socks and shoes and feel like you’ve regressed into some sort of helpless whelp who can’t tie her own shoelaces because she can’t bend more than 40degrees over.
• Jason, bless his heart, has put on a little sympathy weight with me over the last 9 months.  The other day he commented to me, in full earnestness “My god. I feel so bloated and like…this isn’t my body.I’m so uncomfortable.”  To which I looked him squarely in the eyes and told him “Fuck. You.”

Overall Grade: B+

If you wanna contribute to my baby’s diaper fund, feel free.

 

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