A Birth Story

For my Valentine Andrew, on his 5 month birthday, I share this story of how he came into the world.


As some of my readers are likely well aware, Andrew hinted many times that his arrival was imminent before he finally debuted. Like many women nearing the end of pregnancy, I was exhausted. I was ready, so desperately ready in the late summer heat, to have my baby separate from my internal organs. But in one way I was unprepared: I had a lot of anxiety over the attendants at my birth. Most specifically, after a series of creepy appointments, botched blood draws, and general non-jee-hawing (as we say in East Texas), I had absolutely no confidence in my midwife, and was instead hoping desperately that my mother, a former childbirth educator and labor and delivery nurse, could instead be the one to catch my baby and oh, maybe we could call Vicky when Baby was crowning, if we felt it necessary. This is a very bad place emotionally for a woman to be when birth is imminent. Relying on an insubstantial contingency plan is reassuring to no one, least of all a woman whose pregnancy was unusually fraught with snares from never-ending nausea to kidney stones and PUPPP.


As I continued to scratch (literally scratch) my way through the postdates of my pregnancy, my dear friend Chay, due nearly a month after me, went into a quick labor and birthed beautiful Baby Ruby. As I sat in Chay's hospital room, thrilled for her exciting new arrival, I was sick with grief for myself. Sure, I knew women went post-dates all the time. I knew some babies need a little extra cooking. But one thing I knew, my baby was cooked. The problem was me. I had gone into hard, true labor twice at that point (Aug 31 and Sep 3) but I always stopped. Why? I don't know if there is a scientific answer (though I have theories there, too), but I think the real reason was a mother's intuition that the climate was not safe for me with the preparation I had done.


The birth of Baby Ruby that Saturday morning was a turning point for me. At that time, my mom had been staying at our house nearly three weeks. I couldn't drive myself anywhere because I was having such strong, unpredictable contractions and I didn't feel safe doing so. The temperature was in the 100s every day. I was feeling not just physically exhausted, but mentally deteriorated. Everything made me cry and cry hard. I was never sleeping more than about 20 minutes straight at night because of my itching, raw skin from the PUPPP and the low position of my baby, compromising my bladder to an absurd extent. That Sunday, my mom and I got stranded in the parking lot of Morning Glory (health food store) when the extreme heat caused her car battery to die. We had been shopping there right at closing time for Black and Blue Cohosh: baby-bringing herbs. By the time Matt made it across town to pick us up, I was a sweaty, sobbing mess. That night, at 41 weeks, 4 days, Matt and I decided we did not want to return to the midwife the next day for the ultrasound she had planned at 7 p.m. A 4 hour roundtrip through the East Texas hinterlands in the dark was more than I could bear and so, at Matt and my mom's suggestion, I decided on an induction on Wednesday, when I would be 42 weeks. It was not ever what I had wanted and I cried and cried wondering why I was so stuck.


The next day I called my midwife who confessed she had long been uncomfortable with me as a client, fearing I was higher risk than I appeared to be. She then told me, a sobbing woman, feeling hopeless, that she believed that not all women were capable of a safe birth at home because of sin. Yes, you read that right: because of sin. I cried harder. In a continued testament to her obliviousness as to why I wanted home birth in the first place, (we had discussed MANY times), she told me she thought the induction was the right course of action and that she only had a contact for induction at a hospital in Longview: not in the town where either I live OR her birth center is. Hmm. Fishy. I knew I still wanted to be close to home and asked her about a Nacogdoches possibility. She seemed unsure, but I no longer was. I knew I wanted her away from me and that I wanted to have my baby as close to home as possible. It was time for Ursula to take matters into her own tentacles! However, I did undertake one final act of midwife-guided desperation before looking for greener pastures: I downed a bottle of castor oil. Bad idea. Never advise a desperate person to do something INSANE. She will do it and the literal and figurative fallout will be bad.


A few hours and many, many bathroom trips later, I sought out the doctor who, by chance, had been the attendant for Chay's birth. He was incredibly receptive to my needs and wishes and he saw me Monday afternoon, about four hours post-castor oil and four hours MUCH worse for the wear. At the office visit, he discovered heavy protein in my urine, calcifications on my placenta, and skyrocketing blood pressure. He was not distressed, but he did think Tuesday was better than Wednesday to proceed. He appreciated that I truly did not want an induction, but that I was starting to be a little more flexible as my desperation grew and my body deteriorated. With that, he offered a non-chemical approach to induction-- sweeping my membranes--which I accepted and then he did so there in the office. I then went next door to the hospital to pre-register for Tuesday and to have a non-stress test. I got to meet the nurses at labor & delivery who were also wonderfully receptive to my wishes and very kind. I even began crying because of my relief at finally having a plan and feeling so well supported in it.


An hour or so after the office visit, Matt and I returned home to try to get as much rest as possible before the next morning's fanfare. I was having some pretty hard contractions in the car on the way home, but as this had been my MO for about 3 weeks, I thought it was just more of the same. I took a warm bath, then ate a good dinner with my mom and Matt. During dinner, still in my bath robe, I began contractions that sort of took me to another place. I felt a pop and was sure my water had broken, but no fluid came out. There was no doubt I was in hard labor though because as I rushed to the bathroom to use the toilet posture for pain relief, I threw up my dinner, and I am sorry to say: the last remaining drops of hydration in my body. I guess I was just a house of cards and the castor oil, membrane stripping, and relief about a decision helped it all tumble. Also, did I mention I was nearly 42 weeks pregnant? Oy.


At that point, I could still have opted for homebirth (after 42 weeks, midwives in Texas are legally bound to transfer your care unless you sign a waiver that says the home-show must go on! and you release them from liability), but my desire for it was gone. I had a lot of fear and I wanted to go somewhere I felt safe, which, to my surprise, I really, really had earlier at the hospital for the non-stress test. So Matt and my mom got together my hospital bag, tossing in items as I yelled them out from the bathroom where I was holding court, then loaded me and the birth ball in the car about 7 p.m. (about 20 min after broken water) and off we went, with me on another planet contracting. Truly, I have driven the loop of Nacogdoches a million times up to the North side, but as headlights zoomed towards us, I was nowhere that I recognized!


When we arrived at the hospital, I literally rolled in to the emergency room (the after hours place of admission), barely dressed (sorry waiting room people) on my birth ball, crying out... and believe me, they hustled to get me into a wheelchair and up to labor & delivery. I vaguely remember Matt saying he had to sign something. I was, you'll remember, on another planet. Planet AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!


I remember thinking the wheelchair was the best ride I had ever taken and it seemed like seconds later, I was in a wonderfully dim room with sofas and a rocking chair and a rug and a bed. I loved the bed! In the elevator, I was chanting "I don't want to die. I don't want to die." As I lay back in the hospital bed, I kept patting it saying "I feel safe. I finally feel safe." And not a moment too soon! Andrew was nigh.


I had always planned to move around while I labored, but my last bit of strength eked out as I collapsed on the bed; I just wanted to rest. I was offered, and gratefully accepted, IV drip fluids. I was so dehydrated, I really did think I was going to die. I had no strength at all. Unfortunately, there was no resting. Soon, contractions were shooting through my body, the likes of which I'd never imagined. In moments of lucidity, I wondered if this was what Harry Potter felt like when Lord Voldemort invaded his whole body during the infamous night at the Ministry of Magic when he dueled with Dumbledore. El tango de la muerta! Other times, I had my arms tightly wrapped around my mother as I vocalized into her chest. I asked the nurses if the rooms were soundproof. They told me they weren't. Uh, sorry other people. About an hour and a half into what appeared to be an exorcism, the contractions were lifting my exhausted body off the bed, as if I were electrified. Andrew was posterior and his positioning gave me what's known as back labor (or sometimes called "back labor from hell"), which to me, felt like I was being destroyed from the inside out. I was not prepared for this and I surprised myself by asking for an epidural (at no one's urging, pressure, or suggestion but mine). As soon as I'd made the decision, the doctor couldn't get it in fast enough. I prayed aloud that I would not have another contraction before it was in, though of course I did. They were coming very fast now.


Drug-free birth had always been my plan because I believed, and still do, that drugs, no matter how little or safely they're administered, have side effects and consequences (besides feeling AWESOME!) for mother and baby. I do not think anyone is MORE of a mother or a woman if she doesn't take drugs and I do not judge people who decide to have them even before the first contraction hits. Every case is different and every woman is entitled to an informed choice. In my case, though I do think there were a number of consequences to my epidural that emerged following Andrew's birth, I do not hesitate to say I would do exactly the same again, given the circumstances. I am not trying to justify my epidural, nor do I feel I need to, but I do want to clarify my reasoning. I strongly believe that having an epidural allowed me not only to relax and rest enough to deliver vaginally (I had been awake nearly 24 hours and had slept very poorly when I was asleep), but also helped me to rally the strength of spirit for the somewhat tricky birth of a 10 pound, posterior-facing baby. I believe that without it, I almost surely would have ended up with a cesarean. And on the list of things I really wanted to avoid, a c-section was way more terrifying than pain medication. Another thing I hoped to avoid by skipping epidural was the sometimes-side effect of stopped labor, but believe me: my one-way ticket was punched and then some by then. The epidural did not, as I have heard from some accounts, take away all feeling. Believe me: I had feelings. A lot of them. But the contractions from Beelzebub suddenly quieted into the much more manageable pressure waves that my course in hypnobirthing had led me to expect.


When I was fully dilated and pushing became involuntary, the nurses got on either side of me, helping to prop me up, smoothing my hair and rubbing my back. I commented "I feel like I'm at a resort!" and everyone laughed at the absurdity of such a thought! Ha! Meanwhile, my rascally son was still, STILL, trying to stay in and was somehow rotating posterior to anterior and back again. How, I have no idea, but Matt watched as our doctor expertly turned and guided him for about 40 minutes of pushing under my pubic bone with the use of forceps. This part was only made bearable, in my opinion, thanks to the epidural. As I mentioned, there were a LOT of feelings.


After another 20-30 minutes of pushing, Matt said "I can see the tops of his ears!" and I knew then that I was doing it! I had done it! I could make it! And no sooner had Matt said "ears" than a giant, squishy, 10 lb. Andrew tumbled forth and was HERE! I immediately had him on my body and after the cord stopped pulsating, his proud Daddy cut it. Andrew began nursing immediately and I cried and cried at the joy and beauty of the moment. It was an unbelievable triumph! I felt like all the angels had been called in and were lighting my bedside!


Meanwhile... my OB was catching my placenta, then expertly stitching about a 2.5 inch tear. He said he had never seen so little tearing on a baby that big in a first-time mom. He may have been lying, but I didn't care; I felt like a major champion! I also developed, in the course of laboring, THREE walnut-sized hemorrhoids...ow. Those were not such a trophy, but my prize of Andrew outweighed, times a million, any discomfort.


What a thrill! 9 pounds, 15.5 ounces of Andrew in my arms and forever in my heart! The fact that the nurses and my doctor were so nurturing and so kind was icing on the cake. My faith in hospitals had been renewed and I felt a big lump of compassion growing in me that I am happy to see stay. In the few days that followed, we did face some difficulties, but we left the hospital on the evening of September 16 at about 5 p.m. to go home at long last.


And today, my sweet baby boy Andrew is 5 months old. I can't believe it. Andrew, I love you so. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat for you, my precious, precious treasure.