disclaimer: I did not want to write this birth story. Ever since it all occured, I have not dwelt much upon it. You might say I have had a touch of post-traumatic stress over it all. I wasn’t sure, when I began, if I would be able to finish it. But here it is, for what it’s worth…In the end I think it has been helpful to write it out. Thanks again for reading.
After Emma’s birth, in 2002, the oil company My Beloved was employed by joined forces with another megalithic oil company and became truly brobdingnagian. Amidst the reshuffling and new assignments, our family was transferred to another Oklahoma town about 70 miles away from my childhood home.
The move was complete in 2003, and shortly thereafter we discovered that we were expecting on Christmas Eve again (Caleb, our first boy, was also due on that famously fun date). This pleased me no end. I have always loved being due around the holidays; it just makes everything even more exciting, not to mention making the weeks go faster with so much to be done ahead of time!
I measured big throughout the pregnancy, which was new and novel for me. I have always measured small in every pregnancy by as much as 2 to 3 weeks, which I chalked up to having a long torso and lots of room for the baby to hide. This time, however, I was just plain big. Ruth felt it was a preponderance of water, and we had a sonogram to make sure nothing was amiss. It revealed a big healthy boy, and yes, lots of water, but nothing to be worried about.
Christmas came and went with the usual fanfare, and three days later I went into labor. It was a drizzly winter evening, and I was full of optimism. My Beloved and I walked at the mall and came home to call Ruth before things got too far advanced. I also called my sister (still living in our hometown) who came over to be of whatever assistance might be necessary. My mother and father stayed put for the time being, planning to come over as soon as baby had arrived.
My labor was proceeding at a good clip; the contractions were good and strong and when Ruth arrived she told me, to my absolute shock, that I was already at an 8cm. Transition already? I had hardly even broken a sweat! This was going to be a piece of cake! However, on the heels of her pronouncement of dilation came the words:
“That’s not a head down here.”
Sure enough, my baby boy, with so much water to play in and a uterus that was not as, shall we say, firm as it used to be, had decided he did not like the head-down position and was bobbing about like a cork, miles above the important-to-birthing-bits through which he needed to proceed.
Consternation reigned for the next few minutes as we deliberated what to do.
I could deliver him breech. It was not ideal, but it was certainly possible. Ruth had delivered plenty of breech babies, but with ours being so high there was the extra risk of a cord prolapse once the water broke, and this made us hesitant to proceed with such a plan. Ruth had one more idea up her sleeve.
With me lying on the bed, she turned the little corker externally until he was heading in the right direction (pun intended). Checking his heartrate to ensure that he had not found the process unduly stressful, she then had My Beloved put his hands firmly on the baby’s bum and press down as she broke my water. This, she felt, would guarantee that he would not only stay put, but greatly reduce the risk of a prolapse.
Procedure over, I rose and stood on a towel. And another towel. And another towel. And yet another towel. As the water continued to gush like Niagara Falls, I started to laugh. The baby’s middle name had been something of a question mark in my mind, but once again God’s sense of humor spoke to me and I stated that I knew the one I had been toying with was right: Noah. The kid was coming right along with a flood of his own.
We all supposed that when I stood up, contractions would kick back in full force and we would have a baby. My sister arrived in what we supposed was just the knick of time. However, as we stood and waited, nothing happened. Nothing. Not a twinge. Not a peep from my uterus. It just sat there, inert and quiet.
No matter. I would move around a bit and things would get going again, right? We were optimistic.
Once again I burned the midnight oil and waited for baby. Contractions came sporadically and lazily. I walked. I talked to my sister. I prayed. And I got really, really tired. Once again morning dawned. The children who had gone to bed with promises that a baby would be waiting when they awoke came in and were crestfallen to find me still in an inflated state.
My spirits were very. very. low.
It occured to me that when the weight of all the water had disappeared, my body had decided its job was done. It had no idea there was still a baby to be produced and was confused by our expectations. Who could blame it? It was going great guns and suddenly it was relieved of a large proportion of its burden.
I was 9 cm dilated and it was almost lunchtime. The contractions, when they came, were transition-painful but nowhere near often enough to bring on the pushing urge. I was, once again, exhausted. In spite of my resolve never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever infinity to push again without the pushing urge, Ruth was convinced that with a little urging my cervix would open up enough to let baby out. Reluctantly, we tried.
It was a nightmare. Every push was an assault of unprecidented proportions upon my guts. Forget the stabbing knife-sensations. This was a stabby knife with thousands of tinier knives attached to it, and they were all twisting simultaneously. Ruth encouraged, my sister and My Beloved supported, but no great ground was gained. No pushing urge took over.
We changed positions and tried again. And again. Each new position became more pretzel-like than before, and the pain never changed. Finally, I gasped out that I had to stop. I lay on the floor and sobbed…and sobbed some more. My mother called to see what was going on, and as my sister picked up she heard me in the background.
Suffice to say she had the scare of her life. My sister tried to relate what was happening before she required resusitation.
As I cried, I said I was Done. Finished. Caput. I wasn’t doing it any more. I was going to the hospital. I didn’t care anymore. I couldn’t do it. They could cut me open and take the kid out, but there was no way I was giving it one more go. I could no longer remember a time that I had not been in pain.
They tried to reason with me. Tried to tell me that I really didn’t mean it. That we could get-r-dun here at home, we just needed a little more time. I wasn’t having any of it. Suddenly I realized that the rational arguments would continue as long as I was hysterical.
So I stopped. I sat up and very calmly explained that I didn’t care what anyone else did, *I* was going to the hospital. I would drive myself if I had to. My Beloved got his keys.
Instantly Ruth packed her things to come with me. Later she said that, when a woman gets *that* look on her face, and *that* tone in her voice, she knows it’s over.
I dried my face and tried to look brave as I went past the children, but they knew things were Not Good. I reassured them that the baby was fine, and we would be back as soon as we could be, but I’m not sure I said it with any confidence. I was never so grateful for my sister, who was staying behind with them, as I was at that point. The oldest children were old enough to be alone with the rest, but leaving them in such a state would have been wrenching.
As soon as we left, my sister lept into action. She gathered the troops and they all prayed that things would go well. Then she did what she does best: cleaned and commanded. Giving everyone a job, they scrubbed and vacuumed and dusted and stayed generally distracted for as long as possible.
Meanwhile, we arrived at the hospital and were admitted. Obviously, coming into a hospital as a homebirth transfer is a tricky proposition. We had no idea what kind of mentality we would come up against. Would they be hostile? Accusatory? Would the OB lecture us on our “carelessness”? Ruth was a brick, staying by my side at all times and fielding every question about my history and the pregnancy and labor thus far.
For the most part, the nurses were kindly and supportive. The OB on call was Dr. R and, whatever his opinions, he kept them to himself, which was good enough for us. I lay in the bed and cried quietly, feeling utterly defeated. My request for an epidural was filled in short order, and I drifted off into blissful, pain-free sleep.
Just an hour later, after a dose of pitocin to convince my uterus that there was still work to be done, Dr. R returned and declared that I was fully dilated. I was propped up and pushed as I recalled pushing should feel like, although the epi was completely successful and I never felt a thing. All my experience up to that point, however, came in handy and I managed to push him out within the space of half an hour.
I honestly couldn’t believe I had a baby. I had pretty much forgotten there was a baby involved in the nightmare at all. How could something so sweet come from so much pain? Nevertheless, there he was, in my arms, completely healthy and as adorable as all get-out. I forgave him immediately for his part in the trauma.
It was Ruth’s opinion, as well as the OB’s, that my uterus would need pitocin from this point forth if I continued to have babies. It was just plain pooped, to their minds. I’m still not convinced this is the case, but the possibility of having to transfer again to the hospital should this be true has been enough to bring us to the conclusion that our homebirth days are over.
We canvassed the woulda-coulda-shoulda possibilities over the next few days, but always came back with a shrug to the Way It Was. To this day I’m not sure if anything would have been better had we made different decisions. At any rate, the opinion on the final product was unanimous:
Perfect.
Stats
Baby: Gabriel
Weight: 8lbs 11oz
Labor: 21 hrs
Posted in Birth
