Marleigh’s Birth Story

I love birth stories.  I like hearing all the nitty-gritty details of what it was like for other people to give birth.  I know some people totally aren’t into that and that’s ok.  I get it.  Birth is pretty gory and generally speaking, I’m not into gore.  But it’s also pretty amazing and that’s where I get sucked in.  It’s like watching the Olympics.  I’m not really into sports but show me a video montage of someone winning a medal they’ve dreamed about and shed blood, sweat and tears for and I’ll sit there riveted and sob like a baby.  Every time.

There’s also something reassuring about hearing birth stories.  Whether the birth was incredibly difficult or remarkably “easy” it’s always comforting to know that whoever is telling the story apparently lived to, well, tell about it.  I’ve always felt that if so-and-so could deliver a baby then darn it, so could I!  Presumptuous?  Maybe.  But also true.

Marleigh is my third child so I knew what I was getting into when it came to giving birth to her.  Sort of.  I mean, I had a general idea of how the process typically goes as well as the encouraging knowledge that I’d already survived the process twice before, so my chances were probably pretty good. I knew there would be an ebb and flow to the process.  That some parts would be fairly easy and other parts would make me feel like I was insane for doing this again.  I also knew that it would be oh so incredibly worth it.

I was induced on my due date for medical reasons with my firstborn.  My second child was an excruciating five days late.  I was trying to mentally prepare myself for going past my due date with Marleigh, even though I really really really didn’t want to.  However, as her due date approached I just kept having the feeling that she might come a little early.  I told that feeling to shut the hell up.  That feeling could easily turn me into a hysterical mess if I believed it and then ended up being overdue.  Yet, even as I was telling that little feeling to shove off I was also kind of hedging my bets by trying to get everything ready just in case.  I had been dilating bit by bit at my last few midwife appointments so by 39 weeks I was at 3 centimeters.  This made me happy because those were centimeters that I didn’t have to wait around for during labor.  I like to think of my cervix as being proactive.  I packed my labor bag.  Organized, sterilized and sorted things in the nursery.  Made The Hubs install the car seat. Then I just HAD to go to Target for some last-minute stuff.  I also had to pick up a gallon of some weird fish oil by-product from a friend in hopes of resurrecting my pitiful garden.  So I did those things.  I chatted with my friend about how yes, I was ready to have the baby any time but I was totally ok with going longer if needed.  I was being cool and calm about it.  Trying to show my baby that I could handle anything she threw my way.  I left my friend’s house, came home, ate a bowl of cereal, laid on my bed and felt a very distinct and forceful POP.  I froze.  (not hard to do when you’re basically an immobile, pregnant lump…)  Nothing appeared to be happening but I had to pee anyway so I got up and *whoosh* – water all down my legs.  Seeing as I’d been very confident in my continence up until this point I was pretty damn sure my water had just broken. (It was about 4:00pm and I was 39 weeks & 3 days)  I stood on the bathmat in my bathroom, intermittently trickling amniotic fluid  and determined that I was probably going to be having a baby soon.  I told The Hubs my water was broken and he jumped up, ran around getting dressed, putting on a hat (?!) and then finally asking what he should do.  It was hands down the fastest I’ve even seen him move, very impressive, but also kind of funny since by now he should know that this process takes hours.  There was more than enough hat-putting-on time left.  He was assigned to call our mothers while I called to talk to our midwife.  I was advised to just go about my business as usual for the next couple hours and wait for contractions to start, keeping in touch with my midwife via phone at this point.  It was a good plan.  But I was so shocked by the whole scenario that I was literally shaking.  I just never in a million years actually thought I’d go into labor before my due date.  Also, having your water break is sort of startling in itself.  It’s so completely involuntary and…drippy.  Very awkward.

My mom came over to watch the boys for us.  While we waited for my contractions to get going we assembled the baby’s swing and did a few other miscellaneous tasks to kill time.  After two hours, at about 6:00pm, I started having contractions that were around nine minutes apart.  By 6:30 they had progressed to being about six to seven minutes apart.  At this point, while they were nice, clear, obvious contractions they weren’t particularly painful.  Definitely uncomfortable and definitely NOT just Braxton Hicks but still really manageable.  They were like the Dwight Schrute of contractions; big, annoying enough to be noticeable but definitely not scary in any way.  No need to stop everything and breathe through them, just kind of let them do their thing and note the timing.  At 8:00pm my midwife called to check in.  I told her my contractions were pretty regular at six-plus minutes apart but not particularly painful.  We agreed that I could labor at home a while longer but that I would call her right away if my contractions increased in intensity or got closer together.  I was still feeling really good so I was totally on board with this plan.  However, thirty minutes later my contractions suddenly went to being just barely four minutes apart and feeling stronger.  So I called my midwife back, updated her and we agreed to meet at the birth center within thirty minutes.  My mom and The Hubs were feeling much more anxious about this than I was.  I’ll confess to being a wee bit spacey between contractions.  As they were trying to shuffle me out the door I was pausing by the fruit bowl to assess the avocados.  I just wanted to see if I needed to put them in the fridge!  I didn’t want them going bad, I wanted to eat them!  This is totally reasonable behavior…except, apparently, when you’re in labor with your third child and your contractions are (at this point) three and half minutes apart. And just so you know, it appears to be unacceptable to pause and look for a particular pair of flip-flops or to load a couple of dishes in the dishwasher at this point as well.  People get all weird and twitchy… like the baby’s just gonna come jumping out of your body any minute.  Believe me, babies don’t just come jumping out.  Ever.

We finally start driving to the birth center.  Though I’d been having steady contractions less than four minutes apart for a while I didn’t have even one during the fifteen minute drive.  It is NOT fun to have contractions in a moving vehicle.  But suddenly not having them?  That made me nervous.  We arrived at about 9:15pm  and saw our midwife whom we adore and who also delivered Mason.  (and who we were not-so-secrectly hoping would be on call.)  She checked my cervix and announced, “I feel hair!”  Which was not at all what I was expecting to hear.  Oddly, this was very exciting and endearing to us.  The Hubs and I whispered to each other, “Awww!  She has hair!” several times over the next hour or so.  Oh, and I was still three centimeters dilated.  Not as exciting or endearing as the hair.  Since baby and I checked out to be healthy & happy and since my contractions had tapered off on the drive over, my midwife suggested that we walk.  We had the option of walking around outside or walking the stairs inside.  I vetoed the stairs immediately.  Outside we went!  We walked and talked.  Our baby has hair!  HAIR!  We can’t wait to see the hair on her cute little baby head!  Thirty minutes or so later my contractions were back to being about seven minutes apart and I was sick of walking in circles.

Inside the birth center we went upstairs to our room, checked my blood pressure, baby’s heart rate etc. and settled in.  I sat on the birth ball and The Hubs and our midwife sat in the chairs and we all just relaxed and chatted.  It was great.  So friendly and fun and if we’d been on a patio with margaritas it would have been fabulous.  But I was supposed to be having a baby and it was taking a lot longer than I’d anticipated so I was intermittently pissed off.  My contractions just weren’t getting much closer or stronger and while that made for pleasant conversation (honestly, we were having a really good time!  It was bizarre…and nice.) it wasn’t so effective for giving birth.  I felt so guilty.  My husband and the midwife were happily chatting away and I was just feeling so incredibly guilty.  Like I was wasting everyone’s time.  Like I needed to be doing something to get this show on the road!  People are waiting to see a baby and I just wasn’t delivering.  (ha! get it?!  I’ll wait while your roll your eyes…ok, ready?)  Seriously though, I was getting so frustrated and just feeling so awful about it.  I finally interrupted and confessed all this to the midwife and The Hubs.  They were nothing but positive and supportive.  Which made me love them all the more…and feel even more guilty.  It was about 11:00pm when my midwife offered me some herbs that would help bring my contractions closer together.  I wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted to take them.  I didn’t say this at the time but I was just so determined to “do it myself” that I didn’t want to take something to help.  Sometimes, I’m a stubborn fool.  (Hi, My name’s Rachelle and I’m a Taurus.  Obviously.)  My midwife was so laid back and cool about my hesitation.  She just left the option open and let it go.  I spent another hour sitting, standing, rocking and on all fours guilting myself to death for not being better at having babies.  It was absurd.  At midnight, with no discernible progress, I finally caved.  I asked my midwife about the herbs and decided to go ahead and take them.  It was one silly little capsule.  It was like the freaking Matrix only you don’t get a fancy leather outfit and an instantaneous knowledge of Kung Fu.  You just get to lay down on the bed and assume that you’ll have a baby…eventually.

The Hubs and I got cozy on the big bed (advantage #78 to having your baby in a birth center) and prepared to take a little nap.  My midwife advised me that the herbs would take “at LEAST” an hour to kick in so I might as well rest.  I laid down on my side and dozed off for 20 blissful, drooly minutes before a pretty gnarly contraction woke me up.  I felt surprised but hopeful that maybe things would start progressing soon.  I tried to doze off again but another contraction kept that from happening.  Suddenly these contractions were all serious and shit.  No more la-dee-dah friendly contractions.  These contractions weren’t messing around.  I had to focus and breathe through them.  The Hubs, who claims to be a super light sleeper, snoozed his way through all my subtle writhing and not so subtle heavy breathing.  I finally decided to drag myself out of the bed to go pee before these contractions got totally out of control.  It was a good, sound decision and a total fucking beating.  As I dragged myself back from the bathroom I had to stop a few times to work through contractions.  I made it to the middle of the room, gripped the footboard of the bed, bent nearly in half and breathed like a laboring Darth Vader.  At which point my husband finally woke up and asked, “Are you having a contraction?”  (wait while I roll my eyes…ok, I’m ready.)  I did not curse at him because I’m a damn saint.  Or because I was too busy staying alive during that contraction to bother.  Maybe a bit of both.  He got out of the bed and helped me over to the birth ball because I wanted to sit down.  I sat and worked through a couple more really intense contractions before I told him to get our midwife from the next room.

It was 1:00am at this point.  She checked on the baby and I again and then sat with me while I contracted some more.  I held onto her with one hand and my husband with the other.  They just sat there patiently and quietly with me while I worked through what were now very strong and very frequent contractions.  They gave me sips of water and told me that I was doing great.  My husband started to say something heartfelt regarding his wedding ring and I shushed him because, CONTRACTIONS.  And as I sat there feeling battered by these relentless waves of pain I thought so many random things.  I thought about the irony of how I’d spent hours being frustrated that my contractions weren’t close enough or strong enough and now that they were I just wanted them to stop.  I thought about how my doula had told me (at Mason’s birth) that when I started feeling this overwhelmed that meant it was almost over and my baby would be here soon…and how I’d called her a liar…and how Mason had been born very shortly thereafter.  I literally laughed out loud at myself for thinking, “This was a terrible idea!”…because it’s *exactly* the same thought I’ve had at some point during labor for each of my kids.  I thought about how this moment was so similar to giving birth to my other kids.  The feelings of physical pain mixed with so many emotions: anticipation, worry, helplessness, determination and resolution.  Overshadowing all of those was the desire to see and hear and touch my baby.  My god, it was all just so intense.  So fucking intense.  I felt like all of this took eons.  In reality, it was about thirty minutes.  My midwife asked if I’d like to try going to the bathroom one more time.  I nearly cried.  In fact I’m 99% certain that I whimpered.  But I said yes because I knew it was a good idea.  So off to the bathroom we went.  All three of us.  It took a year – or five minutes – to walk across the room into the bathroom.  (Why the hell did I keep going all the way back to the far side of the bed?!)  I’ll spare you the details of what took place in the bathroom.  Suffice to say that I don’t even pee in front of my husband at home so this whole “crowd”  of people in the bathroom with me took some getting used to.  Even in my contraction induced haze I was not happy to have company in there.  But no way in hell was I going to let them leave.  When I could finally heave myself up from the toilet, they walked me back into the bedroom and asked if I wanted to lay on the bed.  This was another yes-but-no moment.  I DID want to lay on the bed.  Very badly.  However there was a lot of work involved in getting my huge, laboring body onto the bed that I wasn’t really interested in.  I would have preferred to levitate myself onto the bed.  Or maybe employ a crane of some kind.  Like those ones they use to transport whales and dolphins and stuff.  As it turns out, those options were not available.  So that sucked.  I did manage to climb/collapse into that bed eventually though.  And it was great for all of thirty seconds until a contraction plowed through me like a freight train.  Remember those early labor, Dwight Schrute contractions?  Kinda big, annoying and ultimately harmless?  Yeah, those were long gone.  These new contractions were like vengeful Liam Neeson; serious, relentless and scary as fuck.  They were here to get shit done.

I had about three or four contractions while lying on my side on the bed.  Then I felt the urge to push.  Which wasn’t so much an urge as it was an absolutely crushing need to push.  My midwife coached me along saying that if I felt like I needed to push that I could go ahead and do so.  I imagine she was taking her cues from the borderline inhuman sounds I was making.  (Hey, sometimes you just gotta let it all hang out.  I think giving birth is one of those times.) So I went for it.  I stayed in my side-lying position, let my midwife handle my legs (I can’t be in charge of *everything*) and pushed with all my might.  The Hubs was sitting up on the bed next to me, holding my hand and encouraging me.  My midwife handed him a sheet to cover himself with, commenting that she didn’t want him to get messy.  Side note: who wears white shorts to a birth?  The Hubs, that’s who.  God love him.

Meanwhile, I’m still pushing.

The advantage to this being my third birth is that I knew I had to just go for it.  No holds barred, full throttle yadda yadda yadda.  The more delicately or gently you try to push, the longer it takes to get the baby out.  That’s just how it works.  If you need to remove a ship from a bottle, take your time, use a little finesse, be cautious.  If you need to remove a baby from your birth canal, stop fucking around and push.  There is no need to prolong this process.

So yeah, pushing.  Because I’m babbling about it in retrospect here you might think this is taking a long time.  It’s not.  This is all happening pretty fast.  But not fast enough.  As I’m pushing I’m thinking to myself, “Ummm…this needs to be done.”  The conversation with my midwife is going something like this:

Me: THIS ISN’T WORKING!!!!!!

Her: Yes it is!  You’re doing great!  Just a little more…

The Hubs: Seriously honey, you’re doing so good!

Me: NO.  THIS IS NOT WORKING!!

Her: It is!  I promise it is!  She’s almost here.

Me: SHE NEEDS TO BE OUT!!  MAKE HER COME OUT!!!

Her: She’s coming.  You’re doing SO good…just a little more…

And what do you know?  She was right.  Marleigh came gushing into the world right about then. (It was 2:12am)  I realize I should have said something more reverent than “gushing” but I was there and gushing is definitely the right word for what happened.  My response was pretty reverent though.  I let loose with an ecstatic, “Oh my god!!” because nothing in the world feels quite as amazing as having your baby OUT of your body.  All that pain, all those crazy thoughts and intense feelings were suddenly just gone.  As if someone flipped a switch.  I felt amazing as my baby girl was laid on my chest.  She was all chubby cheeks and dark hair covered in vernix.  She was absolute perfection.  She was so calm, opening her eyes and looking into my face.  I couldn’t believe this glorious, goopy little creature was mine.  She was healthy!  She was female!  She made me so happy and proud just because she existed.  What a brave, strong, darling little girl.

As I basked in the glow of my gorgeous daughter, the midwife took the opportunity to tell me that she had been born with her arm up by her head.  For those that don’t know much about giving birth, the ideal scenario is that only the baby’s head comes out first and all the other body parts follow after.  The head is quite large enough, thank you.  No need to go adding to its girth.  It is, then, less than ideal when the baby decides to bring out extra parts along with the head.  I was not amused.  Though it did explain that whole “THIS ISN’T WORKING!!!!” feeling I’d been having while pushing.  I said as much to my midwife and she nodded, saying that she’d been inwardly cringing for me as she encouraged me to just keep going.  If that woman’s Poker Face is anything like her Assisting a Birth Face she needs to take her cute self to Vegas immediately. I had no idea that there was anything other than textbook perfect crowning baby going on down there.

After happily chatting, getting checked up and cleaned up I was able to settle in with some snacks and just enjoy our new baby.  It was blissful.  A sweet, healthy baby girl.  A loving husband.  Two fun little boys waiting for us at home.  I’m not exaggerating when I say that I truly have everything I’ve ever wanted in life.  And it was worth every single struggle, heartbreak and yes, all that blood, sweat and tears to get here.

There is a quote by Martin Luther King Jr that says, “Occasionally in life there are those moments of unutterable fulfillment which cannot be completely explained…their meanings can only be articulated by the inaudible language of the heart.”

This moment, was one of those.

Advertisements

A Special Kind of Crazy

Tomorrow will mark my 39th week of this pregnancy. I feel like I’ve been pregnant for WAY longer than that. Not because I’ve had a bad or difficult pregnancy, just because growing a tiny human seems to take a long time. A long, booze-less, smoked salmon-less, awkwardly chubby time. I’ve written about the weirdness that is pregnancy a couple of times (here & here) but there is a very special brand of crazy that hits once you reach those last couple weeks of pregnancy. I like to think, or maybe pretend is more accurate, that I’m not subject to the wild ups and downs of hormonal fluctuations. Mind over matter…or some crap like that. I consider myself to be a fairly even-keeled person. I think even my close friends and my husband would agree that’s generally the case. Or at least they’d agree that I’m good at keeping my crazy under wraps so I seem level-headed. All that to say, I’m caught off guard by the thoughts and emotions of very late pregnancy EVERY TIME. You want to know what the worst of it is? I have absolutely no idea I’m being crazy until it’s all over. The damage has been done but it all seemed so sensible, so right in the moment.

A classic example of this comes from my first pregnancy. The Hubs and I were planning to order pizza. There was a disagreement regarding what coupon to use. By disagreement I mean a no holds barred, screaming, cursing, locked-myself-in-the-bedroom-and-sobbed-like-an-angsty-teenager fight. The likes of which had never been seen before (or since, for that matter) in our home. I honestly felt like my husband was being completely unreasonable and just plain mean. He wanted to order pizza with a coupon that included a 2 liter bottle of coke. Well, I can’t drink coke, ASSHOLE! Do you see what I was dealing with?! He was clearly trying to lord his caffeine drinking privileges over me while I carried HIS child inside my body. Insensitive prick. It was a relief when he finally came to his senses, stuck his head ever so slightly through our bedroom door and told me to order anything I thought I might want and that he would love it. I mean, I felt a little bad about the utterly traumatized look in his eyes and the way he flinched every time I tried to speak to him throughout the evening but if he hadn’t been so mean in the first place…

My second pregnancy was unique in that I was also raising an infant at the time. Our kids are only 12.5 months apart in age so that first year of fumbling around trying to figure out how to care for my firstborn was also spent being pregnant. Not a combination I’d recommend for the faint of heart but it did result in a pair of wonderful boys who, despite being total opposites, are very close and have so much fun together. I wouldn’t change it for anything but it was incredibly challenging at the time. I only had about 4 months of being not pregnant before I was pregnant all over again and I think that really took its toll on me psychologically. By the time I hit 38 weeks pregnant I was done. Oh so unbelievably DONE. I cried like a baby at each and every midwife appointment until Mason was born. (of course he was nearly a week late.) And by cried I don’t mean shed a little tear or two while talking about my feelings. I mean sat in the chair and ugly-cried insisting that my baby was just “…never ever going to be born.” and that, “I will be the only person in history to stay pregnant forever and I’ll spend the rest of my life fat, ugly and partially baby less…” I’m pretty sure the midwives thought I was completely losing it. I remember one of them staring at me with a slightly wide-eyed look that clearly indicated she would have tranquilized me if that option were available to her. In the end she told me to go home, take a bath and drink a glass of wine. I would have preferred scotch but beggars can’t be choosers so chardonnay it was. And yes, it helped.

This time around things are a little different. I don’t feel that same overwhelming, slightly panicked urge to give birth. Thank god. That was miserable. However I have noticed myself being a little more whimsical and worried about things lately. I know, whimsical and worried, it doesn’t even sound possible. Oh, but it is. I can go from daydreaming about how magical it would be if peaches were in season year-round and I could live in a little cottage nestled among giant trees and read books and eat peaches every day and it never gets above 70 degrees outside and my hair miraculously styles itself and always looks amazing and….yeah. I go from that little mental paradise to worrying that an evil spider is going to break into my house and bite the boys while they’re sleeping and I’ll have no idea and when I wake up and check on them they’re already in some sort of coma and the doctors can’t do anything and I’ve essentially just lost both of my boys in one fell swoop. Which is a horrible thing to think about but what makes it worse is that I don’t dismiss this idea as obviously outlandish. I dwell on it and worry about it and wonder what the actual chances are of it happening and is there anything I can do to prevent it and on and on and on. I can be happily thinking about having a baby girl and wondering what she will look like and all those sweet little things you think about when you’re having a baby. Then in the next moment I find myself worrying that she’ll be born sick or with some sort of devastating incurable issue and I’ll feel sick to my stomach over it and use all my will power to keep myself from laying down and sobbing on the floor for an hour. I’ve, more than once, considered ordering Les Miserables on demand so that I can sit and cry for a few hours without being questioned. And the fact that this seems like a good idea just drives home the point that I’ve truly lost my mind. But then I’ll remember how delicious chocolate milk is and suddenly things are looking a little brighter. I wish I could say this was all exaggerated but it’s not. The upside is that since most of this craziness is in my head I’m not tormenting my husband or my midwives with it. The downside is that my mind is a mess. I need to have this baby so I can move on to being too sleep deprived to worry about anything.

In the meantime, I plan to take a lot of deep breaths, enjoy the more lighthearted side of my imagination and happily look forward to meeting my baby girl.

Also, I will probably eat far too many donuts. There are some perks to being hugely pregnant and a little bit crazy.