The reasons I run: Part II

January 18, 2002. My first baby was due in 2 days, and for some reason, I felt like watching Shrek on pay-per-view. I remember we missed it in the theater, and I like Mike Myers - he's a comedic genius. So we rented the movie, and we watched it. I felt like shit the whole time, and I was SO tired at that point and felt like a whale. After the movie, I went to bed. I think it might have been around 9:00.

Wes stayed up to watch hockey, so at about 11:00 p.m., I woke up still feeling like shit. I thought a shower would make me feel better, as it sometimes does. I told Wes that's what I was doing, and once I got in, that's when I figured out I was in labour.

When we got to the hospital, (in the days before the big remodel and the fancy birthing rooms), I was put into an observation room, given a shot of demerol (I don't remember your name, nice nurse lady, but THANK YOU!) and had a nap. As it turned out, I was lucky with my timing, and got to get into the only nice birthing room in the hospital. I remember toughing it out (which was actually pretty easy), using the brand-new birthing ball (which we all now know as an ordinary exercise ball, but boy, does that work!) and when my water broke at about 6:00 a.m., that's when I knew the easy part was over - I was going to take the advice of so many people: one epidural, please!

That sucker made the rest of my 17-ish hour labour a breeze. I'd watch the chart spitting out of the monitor and go "Oh, I'll bet that one must've hurt!" and laugh. The nurse (a new day-shift one) would come and use a popsicle-like thing and roll it up my chest to see how effective the epidural was. She'd go pretty high and turn down the dosage - apparently, not only do I look lighter than I really am, but my body acts that way with anesthetics too. When I got my wisdom teeth out, I was out like a light, even though I supposedly wasn't supposed to go under for it.

So anyways, Jillian Leigh Szabo, this perfect little baby girl, was born at 3:00 p.m. on the nose on January 19th. She slept, which was heaven for me, and because I had to wait for the epi to wear off, the nurses did a lovely job of taking care of her. So I slept for some time.

I think it was around 6:00 p.m. the nurses informed me I'd have to be moved to a regular hospital room so someone else could have the privilege of not giving birth in what looked like a closet. I happily obliged, but the epi still hadn't worn off, so they had to haul me into a wheelchair and chauffeur me to my room. Now, that wasn't so bad. But the side-effects were a bitch. Ever had a catheter? Eff. Ing. JOY.

By January 20th, I still wasn't able to get out of bed. I had no idea how long an epidural was supposed to last, but I suspected something wasn't adding up here. Jillian was feeding like a champ, so things were okay there. I won't tell you about infections and stitches (TMI? My dad might read this someday, y'know.) but I think the nurses were sick of my little diva "act". I mean, I was able to sit up in my bed. But my legs were not doing what my brain was telling them to do. And I was scared shitless.

The anesthesiologist - a tall, skinny dude in his mid-forties (early fifties?) with a thick eastern-European accent - was called in by my doctor to figure out the problem. I still tell friends to this day, it's a damn good thing I couldn't move my legs worth shit, because the guy was using pins, feathers, his fingers to determine how much feeling I had in my extremely ticklish feet. I could FEEL, I just couldn't MOVE (lucky for him and his nose!) Well, let me be more specific - if I had my legs dangling over the edge of the bed, I could move my left foot about 3 inches, and my right foot would twitch. He declared that my spinal cord was probably bruised (and figured out a way to blame me: "You probably moved when the nurse took it out. You're not supposed to move." Thanks for the newsflash asshole, but in case you didn't know - that part kind of fucking hurts.) Anyways, because of the feeling and the motion - limited as it was - he declared it not his fault, and left me to my own devices. Asshole.

By January 21, I could stand up if I locked my knees, but I still felt like I was going to fall at any minute. And I did, courtesy of the nurse who INSISTED I could go have a shower, and I would be FIIIIIINE! (Yes, I still remember you, bitch. You're one of the reasons I stand up for myself much better than I used to.) When I collapsed trying to sit down on the bench outside the shower, the other nurse (a lady who used to babysit me as a kid, and apparently was still willing to do it!) declared me NOT FINE and got me and my now severely bruised ass back to my bed. (I still remember you, and you were and are my hero.) After a visit from someone in the geriatric ward to loan me a walker (she was so happy to be around a cute baby instead of death for a change), I was mobile, out of bed, peeing in a toilet, and so grateful to at least be able to walk. I really didn't know if that was going to happen.

January 22nd. My doctor, God love him, regretfully informed me that because my legs were improving, I'd have to leave to make room. I was getting better pretty quickly, but being on my feet tired the hell out of me. But I understood where he was coming from. So we packed up my stuff, that cute little baby I mentioned earlier, and headed down the elevator. I remember sitting looking at Jillian in her carseat while we waited for Wes (Daddy!) to get the car. I remember the short drive home. And I remember my legs giving out again, while I carried Jillian in her carseat, attempting to get up my stairs to go into the house, and yelling for Wes and his brother because he'd gone in before me carrying all the other stuff.

This was way longer than I intended already (it's the first time I've relived the whole ordeal in any form), so I'll just tell you that I lived on the first floor of my two-storey house for the first few days home, only crawling up the stairs to use the bathroom. For about two weeks after that, I would still crawl up the stairs or slide down on my butt like a big kid, baby in my arms. Going to the mall for about a month, I HAD to have a shopping cart to feel like I wasn't going to fall down. For about six months, if I was tired, my knees felt it first. And I'll bet it was about 5 years before I stopped feeling it if I was swimming in water that juuuuust wasn't quite warm enough.

So, long story made short (too late!), that is reason #2 that I run. Because I can. Because I almost COULDN'T. And I will never forget what it was like to be paralyzed.