On the night you were born

On the night you were born
For my daughter, Ruth
-Christina Terrell

Despite my gynecologist gently joking that he’d never known anyone stay pregnant forever, I was convinced I would. While it was exciting to know I was creating your life, I felt miserable overall like a prisoner held hostage in my own body. At any given moment of the day, you could find me shoveling Oreo Blizzards into my mouth or crying in the bathtub while listening to Velvet Underground. I was a walking (err, hobbling) parody of a pregnant woman. The last few weeks were especially rough as I piled on the weight I’d avoided gaining during the earlier months. (Your Dad had to heave me out of bed in the mornings. Talk about a loss of dignity.) Worse, I started to grow increasingly anxious about the things that could go wrong. What if your umbilical cord was choking you or you had a foot growing out of your chest? What if you were stillborn? What if it hurt real bad and I couldn’t handle it? What if you had a penis AND a vagina? What if I died? What if, what if, what if…I wore your Dad out with hypotheticals. He patiently repeated the same words he’d been telling me since we found out about you: Everything’s gonna be fine, Gink.

Determined to have an un-medicated, non-induced birth and give you your first shot at autonomy, I gently toyed with a few old wives tales thought to thin the cervix and get things going. I took Evening Primrose Oil capsules with every meal. They gave me hot flashes and nightmares. I ate pineapple so often that the acid roughened my tongue.  I kept going to prenatal yoga and walked the dogs ‘til I felt like your head was going to pop out between my legs. You were due Monday, February 16th, but I often referred to this date as arbitrary assuming since you were my first born you’d be a little late. I think I remember reading somewhere that only 5% of women give birth on their due date. Also, my doctor was on call that day and always a pessimist I figured there was no way things could be that convenient.

It was unseasonably warm on Valentine’s and I took Billie to the river for her birthday while your Dad was at work. She swam in the Cahaba and made friends with a large pit bull named Max. Max’s owner asked me when I was due. “Monday,” “What are you doing here! Go home! With my first born I walked two miles and a lady told me to go home and take a shower and I’d go into labor,” “Did you?” “I did.” Max got to playing too rough and I hoisted my heavy body out of the river spot via tree swing rope, ate a Big Mac and disgusted with myself climbed back in bed. I just didn’t think you were ever going to come.

The next night, I was lying in bed with your Dad and the dogs when something felt a little off. At this point, I was overly honed into my body assuming any and every weird feeling could be the beginning of labor. You can imagine my excitement when I went to the bathroom to see a clear, odorless liquid running down my leg. I called your Dad into the bathroom and asked him to examine it. He thought it was my mucus plug. I thought it was my water releasing. We consulted Google and still unsure, went to bed. Around two in the morning, I started to feel cramps radiating from my back to my stomach. I remember smiling and telling myself to get more rest. At five, I woke up to pee and saw my bloody show! I was basically dancing back to the bed, again forcing myself to rest more. By 7:30, the contractions were coming on strong. Contractions aren’t something you can explain. You can read about them and imagine them and wonder if they’ll be like your period cramps or like eating bad Mexican food, but no matter what you can’t know them until you are having them and once you are having them, they are impossible to miss. I crawled on all fours on the heated dog bed and rocked my torso on the exercise ball. When they would get  intense, I’d shove my face into the corner of the room and my mind would take off, visualizing a variety of scenarios. In a lot of them, I saw you as an older child, frolicking next to me. We were at a farm and you were giggling and petting goats and then we were in Italy, cruising around on a river in a boat shaped like a goose. I also imagined a roller coaster, cranking up and up and up and as the contraction came to an end, the carts would fly down hill. I closed my eyes and breathed through each one, excited that the time was now and determined to have a positive birth experience.

 In between contractions, I downloaded an app to time them and crawled in bed, gently touching your Dad on the leg. I wanted to let him sleep longer but this was real! This was it! We were going to meet you! Our daughter! And on your due date, no less! “I’m in labor,” I smiled. He later admitted to not fully believing me. I tried to hold off on texting our doula, Kelly, but excitement got the best of me and I went ahead and told her I was in the throes of contractions. She started to make childcare arrangements and by ten she was in the bedroom with us, complimenting my breathing and how calm I was handling everything. This gave me a much needed confidence boost. Look at me. In labor yet cool, calm and collected. Go on, brush your shoulders off.

The hours spent laboring at home feel fluid and weird, like time was stopping and simultaneously moving faster. Your Dad made me a grilled cheese sandwich and poured me a glass of wine. The dogs were confused and I felt annoyed by them but I still wanted them near me. Kelly explained how changing positions could speed things up, but warned me the change would be jarring and might be more intense for the first few contractions. They definitely were. I walked around the house and upstairs to say hey to the cats, pausing to lean over onto counters, tables and couches as a contraction waved over me. Speaking of waves, I had a lot of visions of the ocean. I also thought about your great-grandmother and envisioned myself a variety of female animals birthing. I was a cat having kittens. I was a mare delivering a filly in a cozy, old barn on a rainy day.

Around two, Kelly suggested that the intensity and timing of my contractions made her believe I was dilated enough to get in the birthing tub. Zak excitedly packed the rest of our things into the car and I hobbled outside, placing my knees in the passenger seat and holding on to the back of the chair. Every minor bump we hit spurred awful, painful contractions. I tried not to get mad at your Dad. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but I wanted very badly to cuss him because it felt like he was purposely hitting every single blemish on every single road. In hindsight, I’m happy it happened this way because I was able to keep my progress while changing environments.

Walking into the hospital, everything was so cold, white and sterile. The girls at the front desk almost looked like they were disgusted with me. I was ushered into the room with the birthing tub and soon met an awful, rude nurse who clearly was not interested in working with a natural mom. She checked my tonsils via my cervix and determined I was dilated to nearly 6cm and effaced 90%, which cleared me for getting in the tub. But first, she made sure to rudely talk to me during contractions, insisting she couldn’t take my pre-registration paperwork I had completed online nor would she accept the printed copy that I had brought with and instead demanded I answer everything verbally. I remember Kelly taking up for me and saying that I completed everything beforehand to avoid being asked these questions. I slid into the tub and tried to ignore her. I swear the contractions hurt worse when she was around. I had high expectations for the tub and while it felt good, it wasn’t as immediately relieving and relaxing as I had hoped it would be. I labored in it for probably two hours, but maybe twenty minutes, as at this point in the day, time was completely irrelevant to me. The shower was actually much better and I braced myself on all fours on the bench and let the insanely hot water wash over my back. I most definitely had a back labor and it worried Kelly that your head was in a bad position, but luckily you were cooperative.

A new nurse, this angel of a woman named Jeri, came into our room and informed us she would be taking over the night shift. I immediately loved her. She was so sweet and nurturing—definitely a breath of fresh air after the other homegirl. Kelly and your Dad had been offering me Gatorade constantly throughout the day and it worried Kelly and Jeri that I couldn’t urinate. Kelly said sometimes a cervix wouldn’t dilate with a full bladder. I kept going to the bathroom and sitting on the heated toilet seat, enjoying the few moments of privacy it afforded me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked like a monster, but in a good way. I looked tough. I was tough. I just couldn’t pee is all. Your head was making me feel like I had to boo-boo, so I abandoned the pee efforts and went back to try new positions. Some of the contractions were incredibly intense and your Dad became skilled at alternating a heating pad on the small of my back while I was in the thick of one and then cooling my upper back off with a wet washcloth as soon as it ended.

He and Kelly massaged me with almond oil and reminded me to relax my jaw when I clenched it too tight. Dr. H sent me some popsicles and I remember greedily slurping down a lime flavored one. I also snacked on granola bars and crackers throughout the labor to try and keep my energy. Jeri asked when my water broke and we explained that I had the small trickle but never a big gush. She examined me and said you were still wrapped in the amniotic sac and asked if she could have Dr. H break my water. I was terrified of the amniotic hook (it looks like a crotchet needle!) but agreed. As soon as he broke it, I felt a HUGE wave of relief.

Around this time, with my face pushed into the back of the hospital bed, I remember thinking to myself, “I can’t do this,” but I refused to verbalize it. I felt like saying it would make it real. I also remembered reading other women’s birth stories and how this was a common feeling to have at the later stage in labor. Then I thought…oh my, are we nearly done with this? I also didn’t want to ask questions like that though. The only thing that mattered was the exact second we were living in. But gah, it was getting hard to keep this up. I pushed the thoughts away. I told Kelly I wanted to get back in the tub. Jeri said she didn’t know if I could because she believed I was dilated too far. (At the hospital where we had you, you can labor in the tub, but you can’t deliver in the tub. You can get in after you’re dilated 4cm but you can’t get in past 7cm.) She asked if she could call Dr. H in to check me. I agreed but tried not to get my hopes up too high. I thought I heard him say 9cm, but I couldn’t believe it. I asked them to repeat it. Nine! He said he was ok with me laboring down or practicing pushing. It was really almost time to meet you!

Up until this time, I had used just about every part of the room to labor. I’d been in the bed inside my body pillow, on exercise balls and peanuts, in the shower, the toilet, the tub. I’d done squats while bracing myself on the bar that pulled out of the bed. I’d leaned against your Dad, though I kind of hated this position and felt like I was going to break him. I’d been on all fours, I’d been on two feet and now they were suggesting I get on my back. “Heck naw,” I thought to myself, but the suggestion was actually really good. It wasn’t laying flat on my back like you see in movies, but instead, the bed folded into an upright reclining position and I was able to rest my back against the top part in between waves. My bottom half was positioned at an angle to make it easy for you to slide out. Here’s the part I loved most though—the way my birth team supported me during pushes. The bar at the bottom of the bed was pushed up and Kelly stood across from me and draped a twisted sheet over it for us to play tug-of-war. As the urge to push came on, she and I would tug as Zak would help lift my legs back and Jeri would place her fingers inside of me, encouraging me to try to push them out. In between urges to push, I would pull your Dad down to me and we would kiss. His kisses were like a drug, filling my body with oxytocin and allowing me to envision my vulva opening like a sheela na gig. This became a steady routine. Tug and push then be rewarded with kisses. And here’s something worth mentioning: I definitely didn’t expect pushing to feel good, but oh my goodness, it did. It hurt too, don’t get me wrong, but it hurt in an amazing way. I had envisioned it would be worse than the contractions, but it’s a totally different sensation all together. This gave me a boost, along with the positive reinforcement I was getting from your Dad, Kelly and Jeri who kept telling me how strong I was and what a good job I was doing. Around this time, Jeri told me she could see your head and that it was covered in hair! This wasn’t much of a surprise considering I was plagued with wicked heart burn nearly the entire pregnancy, but it was exciting to know you might look like all the visions I had of you: tiny, covered in vernix with dark hair. “What color is it?” “It looks dark.” I smiled to myself.

We continued our pushing routine. At one point, they told me you were trying to make your way down on your own, sans contraction. You were trying to help get here sooner! I really appreciated that! Not much later, I overheard Jeri tell Kelly she thought it was nearly time to call the doctor. I was so excited to meet you, but I still couldn’t believe this experience was close to over. I just couldn’t let myself get my hopes up that it would be over soon because I worried something could easily snag and cause it to drag on longer.

Dr. H came in the room and asked Jeri to turn off the “French fry light” overhead. I was grateful. Earlier in labor, I had asked to wear my eye mask but it was short lived. He began to vigorously massage my perineum, telling me how tough I was because even women with epidurals sometimes complain about it. I accredited it to your Dad rubbing my perineum with coconut oil at home every night for the past two weeks. Unfortunately, I still ripped and gave myself a second-degree episiotomy. I felt myself split and it was so painful, I was sure it was you who had slithered out of me. I even looked down to see you, but you weren’t there. Luckily, I tore the push right before you made your appearance because it was seriously uncomfortable. Your Dad leaned forward to kiss me again and said “Just one more!”

I didn’t know if I could believe him or not, but I wanted so desperately for it to be true. I couldn’t wait to hold you, meet you, to stare into your sweet little eyes. Sure enough, on the next push, there you were—dark haired, tiny, and covered in vernix, exactly as I’d pictured you. I immediately burst into tears. You were crying. Your Dad was crying. Kelly and Jeri and Doc were crying. Doc thanked us for reminding him why he got into his profession to begin with. We were all crying happy tears, telling you hello. Eager for our skin to touch, I held you on my chest and you immediately latched on to my breast. And that’s the story, Baby Girl, of the night you were born and the moment we first met.