40 weeks and 3 days. My eyes opened up to my dark room at 2:30am after a decent cramp and I thought, “Ooh, that was a good one.” I had Braxton Hicks for months. I fell back to sleep. More came and went, some deserving of a check of the clock, but in my sleep haze, I estimated a half an hour in between. Meh. Back to sleep.
By 6am, I thought perhaps if I get up and move, change positions, drink some water, they’ll go away.
It was a Saturday morning, and my mother-in-law Anne came over with coffee and sweets. “I think I’m having contractions?” I told her, more like asked her, still not fully convinced. As we hung out in our small galley kitchen, I suddenly turned my back to Anne and my husband Sean, held on to the counter, and breathed. Once I turned back around, Anne was looking at me, eyes excited, and said, “Oh yeah, you’re having contractions.”
So the day rolled on. I downloaded a contractions timer app, ate a peanut butter and jelly at one point, and called my parents who would eventually have to start making their drive from LA to Phoenix. “Things are happening!”, I said, “but no rush, they are a good 15-20 minutes apart. It could be a while.” A few hours later, they hit the road, anxious to get into town before they risked missing anything.
Is this the part of the story where things inevitably intensified quickly and they miss the birth because it happened so fast?! Ha. Haha. Nope. Little did they know, my parents could have slept in their own bed that night.
My contractions now were a full minute long, sometimes longer, but they were still 8-10 minutes apart. Then finally 6-8 minutes apart. Nonetheless, the inconsistency was as debilitating as the pain. I called the doctor on call and spoke in my usual chipper voice about how I could not talk through my contractions, it was getting harder to breathe through them, but they weren’t following the 5-1-1 rule. She said the dreaded words: prodromal labor. I had to google it.
Then, the mooing started. The full blown farm animal moo. Sean sat on the couch dumbfounded at my state, unable to do anything to help me. I didn’t want his help. I didn’t want to sit. I didn’t want to lie down. All I wanted was to hold on to the back of the couch and close my eyes. AND GOD FORBID IF THAT MAN TRIED TO TALK TO ME WHILE I WAS IN THE ZONE…..
I had every intention of braiding my hair into warrior goddess pigtails, but a pony tail would have to suffice. I had been standing since 6am. By 9:30pm, I had enough. It was time to go to the hospital. I cried of sheer relief. Things were happening. It had been 15 hours since I got out of bed. Let’s do the damn thing.
On the 12 minute drive to the hospital, NOT ONE CONTRACTION. Only until we were literally turning left into the plaza did I feel like I wanted to kick the door down in pain.
So thankful that I registered ourselves at the hospital online, we arrived at the desk, and I was “that girl” huffing and puffing in the maternity ward.
And they couldn’t find my info. They asked for my address, my insurance card- I wouldn’t have been surprised if they asked for my fucking horoscope. Just get me a room. Now.
Triage was packed. The nurse checked me- 4 centimeters dilated. Hooked me up to monitors- contractions were 2 to 3 minutes apart but were back to back. That explained some things…. The nurse left and Sean and I were ready to enter the battle zone. The few minutes the nurse had me lie down was excruciating, so I stood up, and blood trickled down my leg and splattered onto the linoleum floor. Things WERE happening. She offered to have us walk around for an hour and come back and I considered it, but then another contraction came full force, my legs were starting to shake, and I made “The Decision”….
Epidural!
Many people say they get shaky after anesthesia, but I was in full blown shakes as I got pushed via wheelchair into labor and delivery. Alas, God himself arrived in my room, the anesthesiologist. My husband Sean held my shaky legs still as I bent over the pillow, full c-curve, waiting for the sweet relief. And there it was.
By midnight, 18 hours after I got out of bed, I relaxed into my comfy, happy self. Sleepy and excited. Family members came in to say hi as I got flipped from my right side to my left with a huge peanut ball between my legs. Sean fell asleep on the shitty chair/couch/bed, and I dozed off between the beeps.
7 centimeters. They broke my water. Still 7. Got creative to adjust the baby’s position.
8 centimeters. Started pitocin. Still 8. Baby’s heart rate was starting to get wonky. The nurse looked at the monitor and said, “Hmm, you contractions are very irregularly timed.” Yes, apparently they are.
Baby’s heart rate was starting to concern them so they gave me a shot to stop labor completely, to get my body to bring it on naturally again. It was wild. They gave me a good three hours with no intervening to see how we would do. They said we both looked great! My doctor went home, cracked a joke about it being Sunday morning and wanting brunch. Everyone was relaxed and confident.
8 centimeters. No, 9. No, 8 and a half? It depended who you asked.
But it wasn’t ten. They gave me pitocin one more time but warned me: if baby’s heart rate drops again, they’ll probably want to do a csection.
It was over 24 hours at that point and I was ready. Let’s just have a baby today. Let’s keep us healthy and strong.
My parents “slept” on the chairs in the waiting room, and Sean came out and told them a csection was most likely coming in the next two hours or so. He went to move our bags, brush his teeth, say hi to our adoring fans… meanwhile, my ice chips and water were taken away and they were prepping the OR. It was my turn in a half an hour. I called Sean.
He didn’t answer. I cried at the let down of no vaginal birth, of exhaustion, of relief. And I was all alone. WHERE IS SEAN? He wasn’t answering his phone. Finally, he picked up.
“Get up here now! We’re goin in soon!”
“What?! I thought we had a couple hours!”
“No! It’s time!”
(That’s definitely a part of this story we BOTH won’t forget.)
Down the hall we went. Calm, excited, nervous. Everyone in the room was in great spirits. It wasn’t an emergency. Yes, it was certainly unplanned. Yes, I had to rearrange my expectations. I had to let go of my perfectly clear vision of that golden hour, where my gooey newborn was flopped onto my chest and crawled up to my breast for that first latch. But the csection was simply the best thing to do, for me and baby. And goddammit, I was so ready to meet him.
The spinal block snuck up to my chest, into one of my arms, but still, we all were calm. We looked at the clock. It was 11:10am. On November 11th. Were we about to have a baby on 11/11 at 11:11?
His head was so deeply nudged in my pelvis, it took that extra minute to yank him out, and he was born at 11:12. And he was perfect. He screamed. He cried. I cried. He yowled. I yowled. Did I mention that he was perfect? The nurse brought him over to me, and as I was being put back together, he latched for 20 minutes. Everyone was elated. Sean and baby boy Dylan hung out in recovery as they finished me up, and I fell into a morphine cat nap. As I saw my boys together, it still remains as one of the sweetest memories of that day- seeing my husband holding that blanketed bundle. Post-birth magic remained despite the pain killers. Dylan latched again, Sean fed me ice chips, and now that silly kid is about to turn two and tomorrow he’s off to college. At least that’s what it feels like.
My csection was not Plan A, but it couldn’t have been calmer, sweeter, gentler. Recovery was hard- 30 hours of labor and major abdominal surgery. 5 weeks of nipple pain. 8 weeks of survival mode. Over a year of breastfeeding. And almost two years of love so deep it makes my scar throb.
The moral of my story? My csection was a beautiful birth. It filled me up with pride. It was not a demotion. It was not a failure. It was not any less of a transformative experience. It made me a mama. I still saw rainbows and butterflies. I am still so proud of myself.
And as I write this, my scar is gently covered by a protruding pregnant belly. And it may just make another appearance as my chosen exit point. Or maybe I won’t be able to make the choice at all. I don’t know how it’s going to go down this time. But what I do know, is no matter how this next life exits my body, I’m gonna be a fucking proud mama again. That is the only for sure thing.
