We were still living in my hometown when we discovered #6 was on the way, about a year after Connie was born. My Beloved was enjoying his teaching job and we were busy with life and all it entails, in spite of being poor as churchmice. The news of our expected addition barely caused a ripple at this point, since most people had given up trying to “educate” us and had resigned themselves to our being insane.
This was (and still is) just fine with me.
Excitement ran high for our immediate families, however, since on the heels of my announcement came one from my SIL (whose bed I had commandeered for our previous birth), my other SIL (she of the intrepid husband), and my very own sister. We were all due in March of 1996: I with my sixth, one SIL with her eighth, the other SIL with her first, and my sister with her third. It was our own private mini-baby-boom.
The question looming large, of course, became Who Will Deliver? There could be no birthing at relatives’ houses this time around, as I was due in March instead of the lazy summertime, plus the previously mentioned fact of my SIL having birthing of her own to concern herself with. There was still a midwife about an hour and a half from us, but we were reluctant to have to spend three hours per visit in the car for my prenatal care.
At that point in my life I was reading a lot of midwifery books and other birth-related material, and I was convinced that I could just Do It Myself. Shewt, I was every bit as talented as a cat, wasn’t I? And hadn’t my last couple of births been fairly easy and quick? Obviously I was getting this thing down. We could just wing it!
My Beloved, on the other hand, has never, ever been fond of the winging it attitude when it comes to matters of a biological condition. Unless they are HIS biological conditions, in which case his preferred modus operandi is to ignore them as long as possible.
However, even given his NN (Nervous Nellie) status when it came to labor and delivery, he was unequivocably male. As such, while the concept of a new baby was a given, the reality of a new baby was somewhat less pressing in his mind. I have a theory that until the baby is crowning, the whole idea of an actual human entity residing in one’s wife’s abdomen is purely metaphysical for most men.
This being the case, I could toodle along in my little dream of dropping to the floor at the last minute and casually popping the baby out all by myself without too much resistance from My Beloved, on account of the mentality that any week other than week 40 was just too early to be discussing it. We had heaps of time! Right?
Meanwhile, we stopped by Donna’s on our trips to visit his family, and discussed our labor and delivery plans in abstract and completely intangible terms.
Eventually, however, as God in His divine mercy looked pityingly upon our addle-headed schemes (or lack thereof), a plan developed that had His providence written all over it. My best friend from childhood lived just an hour away from us and I had invited her to attend the birth. Her pastor’s wife was a midwife whom she had used herself for her last two children’s births. This midwife (Diana by name) was no longer actively practicing because she had a growing young family of her own, but my friend told her about us and our predicament and she readily agreed to tag along with her to our house when the time came.
Although we had never met the midwife in question, the recommendation of my BFF was enough to reassure My Beloved that there would be Someone Knowledgeable in the vicinity when it came right down to it, and that was good enough for him. For myself, I was content to let them all believe I would actually *need* Someone Knowledgeable because, as I said previously, MY plan involved cleverly producing the baby before anyone even knew I was in labor.
I should have known the gig was up when, two weeks from my due date, I had lunch with my mother at a Chinese buffet. My fortune cookie read “a challenge is near.”
My sister-in-law had her baby. Then my sister had her baby. Then my other sister-in-law had her baby. I was late. Late, late, late. People often find it hard to believe that any baby past the second could possibly be late. I mean, they just fall out after that, right? One’s cervix only resembles Ft. Knox for one or two babies, right? After that the doors fling open wide and you have to duct-tape your legs together in the last few months to prevent them from being early, huh?
Um. No.
My cervix was happily bolted, barred, and locked. It just never has understood that the point is to HAVE the baby, not keep it indefinitely. Although I had days in which contractions would begin, they always leaked away into nothingness just as I started to get hopeful. I was none too pleased at the thought that my March baby was looking much more like an April baby at this point.
My mother stopped by one evening to take me to a movie in order to try and lift my flagging spirits. I cannot for the life of me remember what the movie was, but I do remember that contractions started up as I sat in the popcorn-saturated darkness. I ignored them. I was mad at their fickle behavior over the past week and wasn’t about to give them the time of day.
Returning home, I sat at the kitchen table with My Beloved and we finished a 1500 piece puzzle we had started working on the day before. Contractions were steady but unimpressive, and I was certain they were also going to amount to nothing. It was about midnight when My Beloved wisely let me place the last piece of the puzzle and we headed to bed. I fell asleep quickly, thus confirming that labor couldn’t possibly be imminent.
At 2am my eyes flew open to the startling sensation of being doused with a bucket of warm water. Leaping from the bed, I gasped out to my alarmed Beloved that my water had just broken!
He scrambled up blearily and had the good sense not to say are you sure? which I am fairly certain would have earned him a one-way ticket to the doghouse out back. Instead, he fetched a fan to dry the mattress and I changed my clothes in great excitement. It took a good hour before I stopped shaking from the shock of my abrupt awakening, during which time I had not a single contraction. I called Donna to ask what I might expect to happen next. She was encouraging, saying that usually contractions start up fairly quickly after rupture if they had been coming earlier as well, so I called my BFF and she said she’d pick up our standby midwife and come straightaway.
The Lord had spoken to my heart many months earlier as I asked Him about a name for this baby, and I felt strongly that He had answered with the word “River.” Oh Lord, I said to Him. You know [My Beloved] will never go for that name! Just as quickly the name “Jordan” came to me. Perfect. It had been my grandfather’s name, so it was solidly part of our family tree, and (as predicted) much more palatable to my man’s mind.
This was the first and only time that my water broke first, ahead of active labor. As I paced the floor rather squelchily, I started to laugh at the sudden memory that one of the scriptures the Lord had led me to as I had mused upon the baby’s name in the months previous had been John 7:38…
“He who believes in Me, as the scripture said, ‘From his innermost being will flow rivers of living water.’ “
Don’t even try to tell me the Lord does not have a sense of humor. His ways of confirming names for our children has always led me to believe He’s chuckling to Himself just a little at His own cleverness.
I paced the floor, convinced that as soon as contractions began they would usher the baby into my hands. I was thrilled at the thought of holding my newborn and watching the sun rise on the last day of March. My mother arrived along with several of my girlfriends from church and we all agreed that This Shouldn’t Take Long. Contractions finally began and were strong enough but very, very far apart.
My BFF and Diana arrived and I was checked. I can’t remember what the dilation was at that point, only that it was singularly unimpressive. No matter. I remained convinced that WHEN the contractions got their act together, they would make up lost ground in a hurry.
The sun rose. I had never witnessed a more depressing sight. I was still pregnant. Contractions were getting stronger but they were still miles apart and dilation was pathetically slow. My five other children got up and we told them the baby will be here today! although I no longer remained convinced of that fact. My body was defective, quite obviously. I retreated to my bedroom for a good cry.
Lunchtime came and went, and Diana asked me if I had been taking any herbal supplements over the course of my pregnancy. I answered in the negative and she gently explained that one’s uterus could get just a little tired after many births. It could get a little flabby and disinterested in the whole process, in fact, and decide to put its feet up and eat bonbons rather than do its God-given job, for pete’s sake, in some cases.
This was news to me. I had come to grips with the fact that I was not cut out to deliver my own baby, catlike and solitary. But the idea that I owned a rebellious uterus? How fair was that? I cried some more. I was so tired, so completely and utterly spent. The contractions were strong enough to hurt like hell, but not coming close enough together to get me to the grand finale. I was done with walking. I was done with talking. I was done with the whole thing. I was going to bed.
And so I did. I lay down and stopped caring about how much longer I had. I just knew that I needed some rest, and I needed to stop feeling like a watched pot. The pressure to “perform” that I had put upon myself was overwhelming, and letting go of it was probably the best thing I could have done. Everybody went out of the room. My brothers came over and took my children to the park across the street. I dozed a little, between contractions.
After about an hour I felt calm enough to get up again. Diana handed me a hot cup of extra-strength raspberry-leaf tea, and I drank it willingly. It was what she called a uterine toner. Sort of like pilates for the womb; a gentle way to wake it up and nudge it towards the finish line. I walked a bit and finally…finally!…things kicked into high gear. I entered transition and tried to stay focused on the final lap, although I was still so tired it was all seeming quite theoretical at this point.
Once again I lay down on my left side to space out the contractions as I entered the pushing phase. Every time I pulled my right leg up to my chest, I had a fabulously strong pushing urge. When I put my leg down, nothing. I was too tired to hold my own leg. This is when having lots of willing, excited people around comes in handy. As I gripped My Beloved’s hand and ground it into powder, a friend or two held my leg for me.
As Jordan entered the world, she was a deep dusky purple, which was just a little alarming. Diana suctioned her out and made certain she was breathing, which she was. As she lifted her to place her on my chest, we discovered that she only made it to my belly button before being forced to stop, and there she stayed until I delivered the placenta. She was literally being kept on a very short cord.
Once we could see the whole picture, we marvelled at the sight. Her cord was so short that as she emerged it had been stretched tight, cutting her oxygen supply just enough to account for her initial purple hue. She rapidly recovered, however, and was soon a beautiful pink not unlike her second-oldest sister had been at birth.
It was now dinnertime. Such a long, long way from where I thought I would be holding my baby when my water broke! But all was well now, and the blissful haze of success fell over the house. The children came in to admire and welcome her into the fold, and Diana and my stalwart friends departed to their own homes and families.
It wasn’t the birth I was anticipating, but it hardly seemed to matter with such a slip of sweetness to occupy my thoughts. I even forgave my uterus for its sulky attitude, although I vowed in the future to make raspberry leaf tea a staple in my cupboard.
Stats
Baby: Jordan
Weight: 8lbs 9oz
Labor: 15 hrs
Posted in Birth
