Birth Story: Part 1 “The Facts”
I have lamented over whether to tell this story. There are really two stories. There is one in which I detail the “facts” of what transpired. Between the medications, the time that has passed, and my ego’s need to create clarity out of the mess, I’m not sure these are really facts at all. Then there is the secondary story, perhaps the one that matters, of how the “facts” made an impact. The birth of my daughter stripped me of my prior identity, my naivety, brought me to my knees, and forced me to rebuild. But for now….
Story 1: The “Facts”
My water broke at breakfast on Friday, precipitating a slow leak for the remainder of the day. Full on contractions woke me at midnight, now Saturday, and advanced in a crescendo. My doula arrived quickly, announcing that there was a meteor shower taking place outside. She could sense my anxiety and calmly encouraged me it was safe to labor at home longer. But the contractions escalated so rapidly in frequency and intensity, I feared I couldn’t even make it to the car. At 2:30am we migrated to the hospital. I assumed child’s pose in the backseat, my husband drove and exclaimed over every shooting star, and my sister sat in the passenger’s seat, deciding she was never having children.
Once checked into the family birth center, the pain had become so unrelenting I literally felt I was drowning in it. It is an understatement to say I was disheartened to find out that I had only dilated to 1cm. I labored for a few more hours, in several positions, in and out of the tub, vomiting, writhing, not coping. Finally, at 6:00am, still only dilated to 1cm, my doula said seven magical words to me: “This is when medicine is a gift.” Sitting still through the administration of my epidural was straight up torture, but the relief and rest that followed were well worth it. For the remainder of the day, I slept, changed positions frequently to balance my uterus, and slept more. I labored down until 3:30pm, and thanks to the relaxation the epidural afforded me and my pelvic floor, I successfully dilated to 10cm. I transitioned from practice pushing to consistent pushing by 5:30pm. Well into the night, I tried pushing in every position I could with help from my husband, nurses, and doula, in search of any proprioceptive feedback. Though the epidural got me to this point, it also left unable to feel my contractions or the efficacy of my pushes. Pitocin was onboarded to try to help, but I still stagnated. My daughter finally started to crown; her visible head of thick dark hair as undeniable as the fact that she could not descend past my pubic bones. I was offered a vacuum and declined. Everyone was stable. My blood pressure was ok, the baby’s heart rate was ok, until they weren’t.
At 3:30am, now Sunday, my girl’s heart rate began to decelerate. We called it. I surrendered. The operating team was rushed in. I was wheeled to the OR, overcome with exhaustion and barely conscious, strapped to the table, given more meds, anesthesia, fluids. Pulled, tugged, all the while dry heaving from the medication, until finally, after everything and almost nothing, she was lifted from me. Then, deafening silence…no cry…nothing...just the doctor whispering “come on baby, let us hear that voice.” This may have been ten seconds. But to me, an eternity. My heart still stops just to write these words. When I finally heard her, something unleashed inside me. This deep, primal shift. I didn’t know how attached to her I had become until confronted with losing her. She was handed to my husband. I whispered “Sydney” a name we dared not speak until she was born. She lifted her head, turned to look at me, fully cross eyed, and I released.