By week thirty-six, the baby was still breech. He was going the wrong way for natural delivery, and he wasn’t changing his mind about his direction. I tried everything to turn him. I stood on my head, put clothespins on my toes, even went to a Chinese medicine guy, who put burning herbs on my feet (I kid you not). Nada. Nothing worked. Now what?
“I can try to do an external cephalic version,” my OB said. That involved my doctor’s physically turning the baby while he was still inside me. I did the research: it didn’t sound fun. Most of the comments were things like “OMG! This procedure was the most painful thing I have ever experienced in my life!” and “I wanted a bullet to bite on, it hurt so bad!” On top of all that, the success rate was a mere 50 percent. So I passed; half wasn’t enough for me. I told Dr. Kumetz if this was my only choice left, I’d rather go for the C-section, and we agreed to schedule it for June 28, 2011. I tried to look on the bright side. It was a week earlier than my due date—so I got to see my baby sooner. And I got to get out of bed!
Still, I couldn’t help feeling very disappointed. This was not how I imagined myself bringing a baby into this world. I wanted a natural birth, and I wanted to work out right away and get back in shape for my show. A cesarean meant it would be six weeks before I could exercise. I had to come to grips with the fact that I wouldn’t look like myself when I started shooting again. I actually had a meeting with one of the producers, Kenny Smith, to explain.
“Tia, we’re going to pick up where you left off—the same scene,” he told me.
I panicked: “Kenny, I’m not going to be able to get into those same clothes. I’m going to look like a blimp!”
As Hosea had predicted weeks earlier, Kenny assured me they’d work around it—I was kind of hoping he’d offer to hire me a body double, but no go. And it wasn’t like they could write my character out for a few weeks while I toned up and slimmed down. It was a major cliff-hanger: a scene where my husband found out I had an abortion.
I went to my appointment with Dr. Kumetz and vented: “Why me? Why couldn’t the baby just do a little one-eighty and cooperate?”
“Tia,” Dr. Kumetz said, trying to comfort me. “Think of this as your first important life lesson when it comes to parenting. Kids don’t always do what you want them to do.” I burst into tears. I just lay there for several minutes, sobbing hysterically with my feet in the stirrups. Then I calmed down; it actually felt good to get it off my chest. But I also couldn’t help worrying, was this the first of many more frustrating situations to come? Was motherhood going to be a constant struggle? And just how bad was this C-section going to hurt?
I called my friends for support. Paula Patton was my role model: she bounced back from delivery in three months, and went to work shooting Jumping the Broom. She looked amazing and swore up and down that I would do the same. My other friend Stacy was having a C-section around the same time I was. She talked me off the ledge. “This is my second one, and if I can do it, not once but twice, then you sure can!”
Still, before every OB appointment, I’d say a little prayer that my son would boogie his butt where it belonged and Dr. K would cancel the surgery.
“No matter how he comes into this world, he’s yours,” my doc reminded me. “Hold on to that thought.”
I did. I kept picturing this perfect little baby boy, and counting the days till I could meet him face-to-face. That was also torture. Sometimes I’d notice an expiration date that was beyond June 28 and I’d smile: My baby will be here when I have to toss this OJ. But I was impatient and antsy; I wanted to hold my baby in my arms already.
Finally, the Big Day arrived. I checked into Cedars-Sinai hospital at five-thirty a.m. I was scared as hell. My bag had been packed for weeks: I had my gowns, my extra-strength panty liners, my pump machine, the baby’s take-home outfit. I also packed a few hot-mama gowns in beautiful, bright colors and floral prints. And I figured I’d need my full makeup kit—so I tucked that in as well (for the record, I never used it—see p. 202, “Don’t Leave Home Without These”). The night before, I didn’t sleep at all. I kept looking at Cree’s ultrasound pictures and talking to them.
“I can’t wait to see you!” I would coo, and Cory would just shake his head. Get this baby out before my wife winds up in a loony bin …
My mom and my grandma stayed with me that night. I woke up at three a.m.; left the house around five; checked in around five-thirty. I was supposed to get a spacious private birthing suite.
“We’re so sorry,” a nice hospital employee informed us. “We’re renovating, so that’s not available.”
I shot Cory a look: Do something!
“Well, what is available?” my husband asked.
The choices were (a) a $7,000-a-night suite or (b) a tiny room.
You can guess where I wound up.
So, as I settled into my bed, my entire family (Mom, Dad, Grandma, and Cory) were cramped in a small corner of my room. I was appalled at how little space there was, but as my mom pointed out, “the love was in the room.”
After a few minutes, the nurse came in. Clearly this chick could have used a refresher course in installing an IV line in a patient. She jabbed the back of my hand about a dozen times. When it wouldn’t go in the left, she started jabbing the right. I was screaming and crying and blood was spurting everywhere on the bed.
“Okay, fine,” she said. “I’ll send someone from Anesthesia.” She couldn’t have done that an hour ago?
She left, and I felt a powerful twinge in my belly.
“Uh-oh,” I said to Cory. “I think I’m in labor.”
“What?” My husband stared in disbelief. “That’s not supposed to happen!”
“Yeah, well, you wanna tell the baby that?”
The contractions started, and they were excruciating and coming closer and closer together. My dad was doing the running sports commentary: “Wow, that was a big one!”
Finally, the anesthesiologist arrived and got the IV in on the first try. They started to prep me and Cory for the surgery. That’s when it hit me: It’s really happening. They had me put on socks and a scrub cap. I glanced at my husband and made a telepathic plea: “Don’t leave me!”
A nurse poked her head in. “It’s time! The doctor’s here!”
Wait! Stop! I changed my mind! I can’t do this! my brain was screaming. Can we talk this over?
No such luck; Cory went to get into his scrubs, and I was wheeled on a gurney into the operating room, clutching my iPod. Whoever has been designing the sets for medical dramas over the past ten years is doing a great job—the O.R. looks exactly like it does on TV. Big, sterile, and filled with bright lights and equipment—plus really sharp, pointy tools. One look around, and I was in complete panic mode. Just breathe, just breathe.
I could hear the nurse counting all the surgical tools and clanking them onto a tray. “Scalpel one, scalpel two.” I hit the Play button on my iPod, and suddenly classical music filled the room over its speaker.
“That’s very nice, very relaxing,” a nurse told me as soon as my tunes began to play. Yeah, well I’m happy you’re relaxed. I want to get off this table now!
“We’re going to give you an epidural now,” she said. Then she held my hand in hers. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay.” Thanks, lady, but I don’t know you! I want my husband! I want my doctor! I wanna go home!
The anesthesiologist told me to sit up and lean forward into a fetal position. I was squeezing the nurse’s hand like a vise, digging my nails into it. I braced myself and …
“That’s it,” he said.
Seriously? That little prick? That was it? It didn’t hurt at all. As soon as the medicine went in, I felt a little pressure, and then my legs tingled and felt warm. In two minutes, I couldn’t feel anything from the waist down. Oh, thank you. They could have sawed my legs off, and I swear I wouldn’t have said “ouch” once.
Then I lay back down on the table … and they strapped my arms down at the wrists with two buckles. Like a straitjacket! What did they think I was going to do, punch them? Get up and leave? Apparently, it’s procedure; they don’t want you flailing around and ripping out your IVs.
The nurse started to clean my stomach, swabbing me with Betadine. It felt wet and cold.
“Excuse me, I can still feel this!” I piped up.
Dr. Kumetz was now in the room and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Hi, Tia,” she said. “You are going to feel—just not pain.”
If you say so.
Cory came in right after her. I don’t know who looked more terrified, him or me. They were draping the blue sheet over me, so I couldn’t see any of the action on the other side. “You have the cord-blood-bank kit?” Dr. Kumetz asked.
Oh, no. I’d forgotten it back in my cramped little room. They sent a nurse running down the hall to fetch it while Dr. Kumetz prepped.
Is it a good idea to bank the cord blood?
Cord blood is blood that is left in the umbilical cord and placenta after the baby is born. Until recently, this blood was discarded as medical waste. Cord blood contains many stem cells (similar to cells found in bone marrow), which may be frozen for later use in medical therapies such as stem-cell transplants. Cord blood can either be donated for the public or stored privately for the family. If needed, these cells can be thawed and used in either autologous transplant (when someone receives his or her own blood) or allogenic transplant (when a person receives cord blood donated from someone else, such as a sibling, close relative, or anonymous donor).
The most common reason parents consider banking their newborn’s cord blood is a family history of diseases that can be treated with bone marrow transplants, such as certain leukemias or lymphomas, and certain inherited anemias. There is lots of research going on to see if these cells may someday be used to treat other disorders, such as spinal cord injuries, cerebral palsy, and stroke. The odds today that the average baby without risk factors will ever use his or her own banked cord blood is considered very low, though no accurate estimates exist at this time. Without a family history of conditions that can be treated today, a good approach is to think of cord-blood banking as a very expensive insurance policy—money you assume you are throwing away because no one will ever need to use it.
“Did anyone do an ultrasound?” I heard her ask. Seemed I wasn’t the only one who had forgotten something: None of the docs had checked whether the baby was still breech. Can you imagine if he wasn’t?
“This baby better not have turned around—not after I went through all of this!” I moaned.
After confirming yes indeedy, he was still going the wrong way, Dr. K did a pinch test. “Do you feel any pain?” she asked.
“No,” I answered. And I truly didn’t—just lots of tugging and pressure. I knew that she was cutting me open, and I started to freak out.
“Cory, you have to talk to me,” I begged my hubby. “Say something so I am not focused on what’s down there.”
“Uh, uh, what do you want me to say?” He was watching all these people working and blood everywhere—he was in shock.
Finally, Dr. Kumetz said, “Okay, Tia, you are about to feel some pressure.” That was putting it mildly: I felt like I was punched in the stomach! She had to really tug to get the baby out. She told me later she didn’t know if the incision was big enough!
I was watching Cory’s face upside down the entire time, trying to read him. His mouth was wide open. “Tell me something!” I begged. “Is he okay?”
It was my OB who answered. “He’s perfect—and once he was out, he came out running! He has a lot of hair … Did you have heartburn?”
The doctors took Cree over to the scale and to the table to clean him up. I heard his cries for the first time and I started bawling—then apologizing to all the surgeons for being so emotional. I have never wailed like that in my life. I couldn’t stop. When they swaddled the baby and handed him to Cory, he started crying, too. I have never seen him cry like that, not even on our wedding day. All three of us were blubbering messes—but so, so happy. Then, when Cory put our baby next to me, at least Cree calmed down. My heart opened. I will never, ever forget that feeling: joy, peace, contentment. I just wanted the surgery to be done so I could hold him and rock him and kiss his little cheeks. What they don’t tell you is how long it takes to close you up. The actual getting the baby out is lightning-quick, but putting Humpty-Dumpty Mama back together again? A little more complex and time-consuming.
The baby looked up at me. “Yes, I’m the one you’ve been kicking all this time! I’m your mama!” His eyes were wide open and he was super alert. He was ready to face the world—no napping necessary! I thought he looked like Cory, he was so beautiful. I have never seen anything so beautiful and perfect in my life. And I was so proud of myself for giving birth to him. Hey, look at what Cory and I made! No one else has one like this—he’s all mine.
Finally, I was taken into the recovery room so my family could meet him. My parents came in, along with my brothers, Tamera, and my grandma. We were all crying. I was most shocked at the reaction from my younger brother, Tavior. He’s a football player at University of California–Davis right now—a huge, muscular guy. When he held Cree for the first time, he just turned to mush and started cooing at him. I loved seeing Tavior’s big hands gently cradling something so tiny.
Men are pretty amazing when it comes to babies. From the second he was born, Cory was by the baby’s side 24/7. He followed him around the hospital: for his bath, his checkups, his circumcision. He was not going to let Cree out of his sight for a second. It was so sweet; he was already the protective, doting dad. He even put on a second pair of scrubs that said “I’m the Dad!” I marveled at how quickly he fell head over heels in love with our son. There was no fear; no hesitation. He even dove right into changing diapers! Watching my man with our baby made me love and appreciate him even more. I had known he’d be an incredible father one day—and I was right.
I was in the hospital for three days before they turned me loose. I was delighted to get out of there and go home, though parts of me ached and others throbbed. I was so damn constipated—even with stool softeners—that it literally hurt to sit down. I felt like my plumbing was all backed up. Help, Roto-Rooter!
Instead, a very pleasant nurse offered me a hand. Actually a finger.
“I can loosen it up and get it out for you,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“I can put on some gloves and take it out—if it’s bothering you.”
Yes, it’s bothering me. But no way is that happening. I thanked her and went home—where I was kind of sorry I had been so hasty.
It was four days before anything came out. And when it did, I felt like I was giving birth. I thought God was playing a joke on me, making me experience all the pain and pushing, since I had skipped that part with a C-section.
I sat in the bathroom for about forty-five minutes, grunting and groaning, huffing and puffing.
Cory was concerned: “You okay in there? Anything I can do?”
Trust me, the last thing you want when you’re constipated is an audience.
I finally went—but it was quite an ordeal. My advice: If a kind nurse offers you some assistance … don’t poo-poo it.
Don’t Leave Home Without These
Maybe you’ll be like me and have days or even weeks to pack your bag for the hospital. Or maybe you’ll have to grab and go. Either way, this checklist will come in handy.
At the moment, there are probably one thousand pictures of Cree on my iPhone. I am obsessed with taking pics of him. I have snapped every outfit he’s ever worn; every gurgle and grin; each time he raised a chubby little fist in the air. Watch out! Mama’s got a camera and she knows how to use it! Babies change every day, so make sure you don’t miss any of these precious photo ops with your newborn. And I highly recommend you put all these photos into an album, either online or in a scrapbook, so you can share it. One day, your little munchkin will love looking at them, and you don’t want them to disappear when you accidentally lose your cell phone or drop it in the toilet (my greatest fear!).
Shots to snap:
Though many of my friends told me I should hire a baby nurse so I could get a good night’s sleep and have time off for good behavior, I didn’t want one. I’m selfish. I wanted to spend every moment with my newborn son. I knew that eventually, when I went back to work, I’d have to hire someone to help me care for him. But it was such a huge stress! How could I trust a stranger to take care of my precious baby? How could I let someone I didn’t even know into my house, unsupervised, to care for such a tiny infant?
I know a lot of moms feel this way. It’s normal. No one knows your baby as well as you do. But that doesn’t mean someone can’t take care of him. You just have to find the right someone. I was so lucky. My next-door neighbor had her nanny, Ritva, for eleven years, but the kids were getting older. So I hired her and she’s amazing. In the beginning, I made sure we were on the same page; she understood how often I wanted Cree changed and fed, and what his usual routine was. I couldn’t help feel a pang of jealousy when Ritva picked him up or kissed and cuddled him. I thought, He’s mine! You don’t get to do that, I do! But then I realized how silly that was; I wanted Cree to feel loved and secure all the time, even if I’m not around. And it’s unreasonable for me to expect I can be with him 24/7. Sometimes his dad, grandma, aunts, uncles, and babysitter are going to be there, and I had to learn to trust. I’m also very, very lucky that my show, The Game, will allow me to bring him to work with me on the set in Atlanta. There, he’ll have even more honorary aunts and uncles to dote on him, and I can nurse him between sessions of working.
There will come a time—even if you’re a stay-at-home mom—when you have to leave your baby. For most women, it’s a huge emotional hurdle to get over. I had to leave Cree for the first time to go do press for The Game, and I was a hysterical wreck. I cried and cried, like my heart was breaking in two. I was leaving my best friend, my partner in crime, my homey!
To make me feel a little better, Ritva sent me updates and pictures on my phone throughout the day: how many times he peed and pooped, how many hours he slept, if he burped, you name it. Every time I received a text from her, I was so happy. It made me feel connected to home and him. A friend of mine set up a home video cam so she could log onto a website and see her son playing, eating, or sleeping whenever she felt like it. A simple phone call every hour or two will do the trick, too. Just ask your caregiver to keep you in the loop so you can keep your sanity.