Sinclare's Story

One full year. How much can change in one year? It feels like everything.

On January 6, 2016, 19 days ahead of my baby's due date, I awoke at 12:45 a.m. with contractions and dampness. I went downstairs to let Andy sleep, and I paced the living room a bit, drinking water, trying to get it to stop. Instead it got worse.

I woke Andy up, and he dawdled for a while, until it hit him that it was the middle of the night and I was in labor and oh yeah my labors are fast. We called my dad to meet us at the hospital before waking up Fletcher and Truman and forcing them into the old Ford Escape.

The boys were confused and a bit upset. I was gripping the passenger door and doing my best to turn my screams into something that wouldn't frighten them. I probably didn't succeed.

By the time we hit the freeway, I wasn't sure I would make it to the hospital before our baby girl made her appearance. When I spotted a police car on the side of the freeway with its lights flashing, I considered telling Andy to stop and flag him over. But I was too busy panting and screaming, so on we went, racing against time and icy roads and incomprehensible pain.

It should be noted that Andy had his own obstacles to overcome that night. A mere five days had passed since his vasectomy, and here he was hauling a five-year-old around, and a two-year-old, and our bags. Once the boys were passed off to my dad, and Andy finally joined me in the hospital room, his body was ready to give out.

When I got to the hospital room, I was surprised and disappointed that she didn't immediately fall out of me. While Andy was busy with the car and the boys and the bags, I went through hell several times over, the kind of hell that you're helpless to do anything about -- no position or breathing or even drugs would offer even an inch of relief. As always, it was too late for me for drugs.

But I wasn't fully dilated, so on and on it went.

Andy joined me.

Then we got ready, as ready as we could manage. Impossibly, the pain got worse, and it was time to push.

Push and push and push. It was too much pain. I'll never forget my exact words when I looked up at Andy's strained face.

"I don't think I can do this."

Then the nurses told me I have to push again.

One. Big. Mighty. Push.

...and she was here.

That split second was completely startling. Before I even knew what had happened, the nurse dropped this bloody thing on my torso and my fingers tentatively touched my precious baby girl for the first time.

"I guess I can do this," I said to Andy. Then I laughed one pained, wondrous laugh.

At 3:19 a.m., after just 2.5 hours of conscious labor, Sinclare Alyssa Jane Schultz was born.

It was only a second after the highest high that my emotions crashed low. A recurring thought that I struggled with throughout the pregnancy would hit me the hardest now that it was over.

I'm never going to do this again. 

That was the last time I would ever feel that stunning, overwhelming high. The last time I would hold my just-born baby. I wasn't ready to not be pregnant anymore, to not be pregnant ever again.

But I wasn't going to waste the little time I had. Almost immediately after my emotional crash, I brought myself back to the wonder of the present, and I have cherished every second of my precious girl's life since.

I will never not be sad that it's over. Nothing in my life has been as bittersweet as this.

I will never not be grateful for the blessings -- the miracles -- I have in my babies.

She was a tiny thing, at least compared to my boys, at 6 lbs 15 oz, 19 1/4 inches. In the year since, she has made up for lost time and is now in the 97th percentile compared to other babies. Andy calls her his "full-figured baby." To daddy, she's Clara. And no one makes her smile as big and bright as her daddy.

She smiles a lot, even when she's exhausted or sick, which is often. She has fought RSV, bronchiolitis, endless cold viruses, eczema, an adenoidectomy, egg and other unidentified food allergies, and croup. The illnesses keep coming, and we keep fighting, and she keeps smiling.

One of the scariest moments of my life was when she was one week old. I took her to the doctor because she seemed to have a cold and was having difficulty breathing. The doctor told me to take her to children's hospital. Now. Don't even go home. Go straight to the hospital. That was the longest drive of my entire life, as I begged whoever was listening to help me keep my baby girl with me. It turned into a miserable five-day stay at the hospital, but she survived the bronchiolitis from RSV, and I will keep with me a million memories of tiny moments spent in that hospital room with her, from the daytime visits with my dad to the nighttime visits with my boys to all the silent moments in between that I spent staring at her face just watching her breathe.

It's a year later, and I could still spend a day staring at her and be happy. My baby Clare.

(Hospital announcement still online: https://www.froedtert.com/onlinebabies/BabyDetail.aspx?BabyID=4328&ShowBack=true&ssid=1&sid=1&id=306)

Truman Thomas

Dear Truman Thomas,

You were born on a Tuesday. You were late. As we've come to learn over the last five months, you don't do anything you don't want to do, stubborn little boy that you are.

These past months, I've been taught a lesson that began on the day you were born: I can't expect anything with you to be the same as it was with your brother—not even labor.

In the days (weeks) leading up to your birth, I kept looking for that one big, obvious contraction that signals the start of labor. (The start of labor has to be obvious to me this time around! I'm experienced! I've done this before!) Hahahaha no.

On Tuesday, October 1, 2013, I had my usual macaroni and cheese for lunch. A couple hours later I felt nauseated. An hour later, really nauseated. By 5:00 p.m., worried that something was wrong with you, I called and asked if I could see the doctor.

"How far apart are your contractions?"

"I don't really have any."

"Okay..."

So I left work, met up with your dad, and dropped your brother off with Grandma Patty and Grandpa Paul, just in case. We headed to the doctor, who suggested we go to the hospital because I was probably in labor.

Convinced this felt nothing like labor, I was fairly certain this was all a big waste of time. I hauled my huge body down to the hospital, got hooked up to a few monitors, and just hung out with your dad watching TV.

"Was that a contraction?" I asked.

"Yep," the nurse said. "You're the most calm person in labor I've ever seen."

It felt like practically nothing, a little niggle of discomfort. They came and went, and I was never very sure if they were real or imaginary. They told me I was in labor, but I couldn't shake the feeling that they were "deciding" I was in labor because, hey, you were overdue and I was in the hospital so might as well get this show on the road. Then there was the fact that the doctor was leaving the next day for vacation. So while I was dilating at a steady pace, she thought it would be nice to hurry things along by breaking my water.

Your labor had two stages: before breaking my water, when your dad and I were watching Full House and joking around with the nurse, and after breaking my water, when I threatened the lives of everyone in the room. Of course it was not until part two that I asked for drugs, at which point the room offered only awkward silence. It was too late for that.

I believe 9:00 p.m. was the time I texted family members that they were breaking my water and there was no turning back now. Grandma Bernie got the gruesome play-by-play via text as the next hour of absolute hell tore me to shreds (I dictated to your dad since I was a screaming, writhing mess clinging to the hospital bed with every muscle). I guess I thought Grandma Bernie might enjoy being in on the action, and I was trying to create some levity for myself.

I kept thinking during that hour: There's no way this baby is going to come out of me the natural way. They are going to have to cut this giant baby out of me.

You do have one thing in common with your brother. The first part of you that became visible got the same reaction from the room of medical personnel: "Look at all that hair!"

Get him out. Get him out. Let it be over. 

It's difficult to describe how hard it was to do the hardest physical work of my life when I was at my most physically exhausted.

But out you came at 10:12 p.m. All 9 pounds 12 ounces of you, a whopping 22 inches long. Had you not immediately peed and pooped on the doctor at the moment of your birth, we're convinced you would've hit the 10 pound mark.

And you haven't stopped growing since.

I'll write more soon, I promise. Know that the second child's typical lack of representation here in this journal is not symbolic of anything but the complete lack of time your presence has created for personal activities. You see, I'd rather be spending my time with you.

Love forever,
Mommy

They gave you to me a few seconds after you were born
and I couldn't believe I was finally holding my beautiful boy.

first birthday

It smelled like summer that day, like sweat and sunshine. It had been hot that week, but May 23, 2010 was scorching. It was a wet heat that soaked through the skin.

For a woman in labor, it was hell on earth.

Labor pain gives places new meaning. The bathroom at Andy's cousin Adam's house, where I sat on the edge of the cold bathtub while panting, completely bewildered by what was happening... the couch where I sat with Andy and his cousin Alison while I explained away my red, pained face as an effect of the heat... that exact place on my bedroom floor where I, in shocking pain on my hands and knees, wondered at the contrast of the cat's serene face...

These places were incidental before. Deep pain leaves deep memories and creates the greatest kind of significance. Pilgrim Road, a little road I take all the time, will always be the longest road I was ever on. The hospital room, as antiseptic as any, will always be my favorite room in this entire world.

Five hours of pain. Then one hour of horror.

And then magic.

It may be the trauma, or the newness of the experience, or the knowledge that your life is changing, or the body chemicals that create this significance that eclipses all other life experiences. I believe it to be magic. And I believe this love defines me.

Dear Fletcher,

Many years from now, you'll be a grown man with his own ideas who rolls his eyes at the way his mother gets emotional every time she gets the chance to hug you and tell you how you mean the world to her.

You were amazing the day you were born. You are amazing today. You're going to be an amazing man.

I wanted a baby for a long time before you finally arrived, and even I was blown away by the miracle you are.

I understood beauty the first time I saw you.

That first night of your life, you got to stretch your muscles for the first time, hold your head up, open your eyes and see what you could of this new world. In one year, you learned to crawl and walk and eat and play and deliver those coveted hugs and kisses. You learned what you want, and what you don't want. At your first birthday party, you sat on the grass in the sunshine and studied the world with your curious eyes.

There's a lot of world out there. You make it beautiful.

Many changes are ahead, and you'll continue to grow and learn. I'm going to make mistakes. Maybe you won't grow up eating all the healthiest foods and doing long division in preschool, but no one will be loved more.

You'll be a man someday. But you're my little boy today. And you'll have your mother's heart forever.


Love,
Mama

Fletcher Andrew Schultz

Fletcher Andrew Schultz was born at 5:05 p.m. on Sunday, May 23, 2010. He weighed 8 pounds 2 ounces and was 21 inches long.



At 10:44 a.m. Sunday morning, after the "brilliant" idea to try yoga and while I was relaxing with the first Harry Potter book, I felt a contraction that was different from all the other contractions I'd had so far. It had me falling from the couch to the living room floor and lasted a good 30 seconds before I could focus and wonder, "What was that?"

It wasn't until 50 minutes later that I felt a repeat. Contraction No. 3 was ten minutes later. Contraction No. 4 was seven minutes later. And from noon until 3:30, they continued at between five and six minutes apart.

Around noon I knew we were in labor. But you know what they say... especially with first labors, it's supposed to take hours and hours. So should I sit at home and focus on the pain, or go to Andy's cousin's son's birthday party and focus on hiding the pain from everyone there?

So we went to the party and arrived a little before 1:00. We hung around for two hours at most, me hiding labor contractions by digging my nails into my thighs, making bathroom trips that were a little more frequent than usual, and just generally hiding my face every five to six minutes.

Andy's grandpa did wonder why I was on my cell phone so much. Using the "memo" option was my easiest way to time the contractions.

On the way home, I wasn't sure if the pain was escalating or if I was just able to focus on it now. I called the hospital to find out when it's time to come in. They said to come if I felt I was ready for drugs or if my water broke. If I felt the need to push, I should definitely come in. Mainly, it was up to me.

Five minutes later, we were home, deciding to spend the next few hours getting the house and ourselves ready. I went upstairs to change into something less binding but, halfway through, found myself panting on the bedroom floor. This was not just the effect of me "focusing on the pain." Things were escalating.

Fast.

I called for Andy but he was busy in another room and didn't hear me. I looked at Bella, who lay on the floor next to me, looking at me as if the world wasn't suddenly spiraling into an alternate galaxy of pain and panic. "Andy?"

In between contractions was no longer a pleasant time of relief -- now it was sore muscles and leftover pain and wondering when the next wave would hit. I got dressed quickly and got downstairs, gripping the railing like it was my lifeline.

In the kitchen, I hit the floor again. "Andy, we're going." "Now?" "We're going now." But there were still things that needed to get done, so I held on. A trip to the bathroom confirmed for me that I was leaking fluid.

Hurry hurry hurry.

I was back in the impossibly hot car, as Andy tossed a few things into the backseat. "I'll be right back," he said.

Oh God, not again.

I got out of the car and leaned on the frame, moaning. A young girl across the street was at her lemonade stand. I don't know if she understood what was happening, but I'll never forget seeing her there.

Andy came back and asked if I wanted a lemonade. He kept talking to take my mind off things. I kept babbling for the same reason. Metallica's "Hero of the Day" was on the radio as we drove to the hospital, and it's been stuck in my head ever since.

Andy said he was convinced this was definitely labor when I yelled at him to stop hitting all the bumps in the road. And there were no bumps in the road.

I practically ran to admittance when we got to the hospital, weaving around everyone in the waiting area, feeling their stares on me. The woman at the desk could see that this was serious. "Just sign here. Just sign here. We'll get you right up to your room."

They sat me in a wheelchair, which struck me as a horrible horrible idea, but I wasn't in a position to argue. Not when I was panting. A woman sitting in the waiting room with a baby said, "It feels like just yesterday..." A number of rude comments entered and left my brain. I'm glad they didn't leave my mouth.

I got to my room and they told me to put the gown on and said I could use the toilet if I wanted. That's when my water broke... really broke. The thoughts and sensations were entering and leaving my brain so fast it was hard to comprehend anything, but I do remember thinking, "Thank God we left that party when we did."

I got on the bed, Andy was brought back into the room, and the screaming began. We were already dilated to eight centimeters plus. "Does that mean this is going to happen soon?" Andy asked. The answer was affirmative, and he had that "really?" look on his face.

"Did you hear that, Lindsay?" Andy asked. To me, he seemed focused on making sure I knew what was going on and what the doctor was saying at all times.

The room of women told me to turn on my side. This time, I was the one with the "really?" look on my face. But I did as they asked and found that if I wrapped my arms around the bed railing, I could pull and grip with all the strength in my body each time a contraction came.

"Where is my husband?" He came around to the side so I could see him. "Can Andy have a chair?" Andy pointed out that he didn't need one, but I wasn't asking for his sake. I needed to see his face. I could not be strong enough to survive this if I couldn't see his face.

When the contraction comes, you feel it build like a wave, and then you scream. At least, that's how it was in my case. The nurse will coach you on taking deep breaths, and while they do help, there is nothing that can be done for this pain. Nothing natural, anyway.

We had entered the hospital around 4:00 p.m. One hour later, I had my son. The pain of the contractions during that hour was, in a word, bewildering. It was impossible to comprehend. While the three hours of early labor contractions were about the same as my terrible menstrual cramps (thank you, primary dysmenorrhea, for preparing me for this experience), this last hour was beyond words.

Screw it. "Is it too late for drugs?" I asked. Anyone who would willingly go through this is mad. There was no way I could get an epidural this late in the game, but they gave me a half dose of the analgesics, saying, "She's a lightweight."

After the next contraction, I was pissed. "Seriously? *pant* I am not impressed *pant* with these drugs." So I got the second dose and didn't notice a change at all, though Andy said my screaming was a little less.

Meanwhile, I'm gripping the bed railing with all I've got, and the song "I'm Henry the Eighth, I am" starts playing through my head. Delirious, I start singing to get through some of the residual pain. Andy laughs. The nurses think I've lost it.

Almost immediately after being told I was eight centimeters, it seemed, they checked again and we were nine plus and ready to push. Again, Andy had his "really?" face on. "Did you hear that, Lindsay?"

There are two layers of shocking, bewildering pain during Delivery. The Contraction and The Pushing. You push, and you don't feel the contraction anymore -- you just feel the terrible, ripping pressure of the push, and it consumes the entire "female" area, all the way down to the butt.

I'm forced to listen to the nurse counting to ten while I push with all I've got, essentially causing myself the worst pain I've felt. But I'm not going to half-ass this one. The more pain I cause myself now, the quicker this will all be over. And I'm no lightweight, no matter what that nurse said. By the time the nurse reaches "ten," I'm so thankful I can stop pushing and take another breath.

Until I realize that that breath brings back The Contraction, which is just as bad if not worse than The Pushing. Three times I would push during each contraction, then "rest." Rest is in quotation marks because this kind of bewildering pain doesn't disappear in between contractions, and the anticipation that there's more to come doesn't comfort.

Over and over and over again. Pushing, breathing, pushing. I've got an oxygen mask on. I'm grunting. I'm lost in how fast all of this has happened.

When they said they saw the head -- and asked Andy if he wanted to see -- I could only think, Thank God and How Long Until It's Out?

It could've been a lot worse, I know, so I was surprised when there was a relative cheer in the room that the head was out. I kept pushing to get this over with, and someone told me to stop pushing. "Stop pushing? Seriously? I can't push? What's happening? Why can't I push?"

"Let the professional," I think I heard someone say, as the doctor maneuvered out the rest of the body.

RELIEF. Such relief I've never felt in my entire life. I saw my son. There was pain, but no more PAIN. It was over. It was the beginning. My son. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my entire life.

I lay on my side as someone else took care of pushing the placenta out, and then the stitching began. Nothing on my body mattered at the moment. I thought being torn would be awful, but in that moment, I didn't care that I had been torn in every direction to bring that big head into the world. I just wanted to see him, and never stop looking at him.

Andy was able to watch up close as they cleaned him up and checked him out. It wasn't too long before I was able to hold him and a helpful nurse took our first family photo.


All that waiting for our baby... and within six hours he was here. It was the greatest trauma of my life. It was the biggest miracle of my life.

"Look at all the hair," is something we've heard non-stop since the moment his head became visible. But all I keep thinking is, "Look at how perfect."

Love.

Let's go home.