My Birth Story

There is minimal scientific evidence to prove that drinking raspberry leaf tea, bouncing on a birthing ball, chowing down on dates, eating spicy foods, and having sex really kickstart labor.  Maybe those things help contribute to a baby descending into the pelvis, or maybe any induction of labor after committing to this “labor-starting regimen” is pure coincidence.

At thirty-seven weeks pregnant, I didn’t give a hoot whether it was legitimate or not.  I was willing to try anything.  

My pregnancy was by no means terrible, but I wasn’t having a great time, either.  I had become diabetic, and felt sharp zaps of sciatic nerve pain shooting through my lower back and legs whenever I tried to engage in any of my hobbies requiring physical movement.

My nights were spent up and down, up and down, making trips to the bathroom to pee dribbles of urine while my bladder was about to burst.  Each shopping trip, flight of stairs, and hoist to get out of bed felt like a 10k marathon, leaving me breathless and exhausted constantly.

I was ready to evict my baby boy and reclaim my body for myself, and all through my third trimester, found myself counting the days until my due date.  December fifteenth couldn’t come soon enough.

Though widely un-superstitious, I began following the old wives’ tales of how to prepare the body for labor.  Each day I’d hop on my birthing ball, bouncing and rolling my hips around, all while sipping on iced raspberry leaf tea.  A close friend recommended the Miles Circuit, a series of exercises and poses meant to help a fetus get into position, which my husband aided my in completing at thirty-seven weeks gestation.

Our OBGYN (a man whom I did not care for) suggested that these methods do nothing, but that “lots of sex” would speed things along.  At this stage in my pregnancy, “lots of sex” meant any sex.  My husband and I got to work a couple of times that week, a welcome (but physically challenging) undertaking since my belly was roughly the size of Jupiter.

On Thursday the 30th of November, my husband and I spent the evening after work going window shopping.  As brand-new homeowners (I’m talking two weeks since closing), we loved perusing the aisles of HomeGoods and Marshall’s for decor that suited our eclectic styles.  I was also deep in the throes of nesting at thirty-eight weeks pregnant, having spent the entire week painting and decorating our son’s future nursery.

We traveled an extra forty-five minutes to our favorite HomeGoods in our area, which was rarely over crowded, and carried some more high-end products than the ones in our immediate vicinity.  It was in those aisles that I began to feel the rhythmic tightening of Braxton-Hicks contractions in my bump.

This was one of the most uncomfortable shopping trips I’ve had.  Almost.  This is foreshadowing…

After a short and not-so-fruitful shopping spree, we called it quits and headed home for the night.  I don’t recall much of our nighttime routine, but what I remember vividly is being woken up at around 11PM to what felt like period cramps, about as intense as the ones I’d typically experience on the heaviest day of my period.

I went to the bathroom to further inspect and saw a little bit of blood in my undies, which I suspected was a “bloody show,” a common sign that labor is beginning.  My getting up didn’t disrupt my husband, as this was a normal nightly occurrence at this point.  

I decided that given the long few days ahead, I’d let him sleep as long as possible.  I returned to bed and tried to get some shut-eye, but that quickly became impossible.  The pain wasn’t very intense, but the thought that this might be it was enough to send my adrenaline soaring, and I just couldn’t sit still.

I tried to recall YouTube videos on how to prepare for childbirth, which often noted that in early stages, one should try and rest as much as possible.  It was in this moment that I realized how difficult that might be in practice.

Using my contraction timer app, I tracked the duration and how far apart my cramps were.  This went on for over an hour, with contractions lasting roughly thirty seconds and five minutes apart.  When I was finally convinced that I wasn’t just overexcited, I gently woke my husband.

“I think I’m in the early stages of labor,” I whispered in elation.  He groaned.

“How do you know?” he sighed.

I giggled, thinking of how obvious the answer was.  “I’m having contractions!”

We went back and forth for a minute, my husband too tired and shocked to immediately believe that it was really happening.  “Do we need to go to the hospital?” he asked.

“No, no, not yet,” I reassured him.  “Let’s wait till the morning and see how I feel.”

We continued to spend time in bed together, and when the pain intensified, I transitioned to my birthing ball, where I bounced and moved through contractions, closing my eyes and humming as I waited for each to climax and subside.

In the early morning, we tried to function as normally as possible.  I emptied the dishwasher, a task I’d normally avoid out of laziness, but which now worked as a crutch as I tried to avoid dwelling on the squeezing pain in my belly.  I clocked into work, remoting into meetings from my home office, responding to emails and making calls as necessary.

Most movies depict labor to be a quick surprise that comes with a splash of someone’s water breaking unexpectedly, or cries of pain with a flash forward to mom holding baby an hour later.  Well, that was far from the experience I had.  As usual, I clocked out of work around four o’clock and told my boss she likely wouldn’t be seeing me on Monday, or for the duration of my maternity leave.

As we settled in for the evening, I wondered if it was normal that my contractions, though coming at regular intervals, weren’t getting longer or closer together yet.  It had been almost twenty-four hours and they were bitter to work through, but not agonizing like I had envisioned.

I knew that as we prepared for bed, there was a significant chance that I wouldn’t be sleeping.  My husband, being the supportive person he is, insisted on staying up to watch TV with me while I rocked on my birthing ball.

After nearly an entire season of Squid Game: The Challenge, I was tired, but hopeful for the next morning.

At around 10AM-- so, almost thirty-six hours in-- I called my OBGYN’s office for advice.  The receptionist shared that the doctor was performing a surgery and was unavailable, so she suggested we go to the hospital to get checked by the on-call provider, as she herself was unable to give medical advice.

With great enthusiasm we hopped in the car and drove to the hospital, each bump sending shockwaves of pain through my body.  In general, though, we were happy and energetic.

Upon arrival, I was taken aback by how quiet the ER was.  We were at a hospital specifically dedicated to women’s health, which was known for its state-of-the-art labor and delivery unit.  So, there were no crazy emergencies going on around us.  It was mellow.

We were taken into triage fairly quickly, where we patiently waited for the provider to do a cervical check.  They hooked me up to the fetal monitor for a non-stress test, which I was familiar with after my experience with Gestational Diabetes.  The test would measure my baby’s heart rate and movements, to detect any abnormalities or signs of distress.

Our first trip to triage at the hospital, and a most flattering picture of me!

According to the doctors the baby seemed content and healthy.  Now was time for the moment of truth, where my cervix would be checked for effacement and dilation.

The OB looked up at me with lips pursed, not exactly the face of excitement I was hoping for.  “You’re zero percent effaced, and maybe one centimeter dilated at most,” she said plainly.  I shot a glance at my husband, whose face of empathy couldn’t even dull my disappointment.

“You might want to get used to this,” said the doctor.  “You’ll probably be feeling contractions like these for the next week or so.  I don’t think you’re actually in labor.”

Ouch.

“What do you mean I’m not in labor?” I probed.

“I mean these are probably just Braxton Hicks contractions,” said the doctor.

On the drive home, I broke down in tears.  “How am I supposed to live like this for a week?” I cried.  Though I was still talking through contractions, they were painful enough to prevent me from falling asleep or even laying down.  The only position that felt remotely tolerable was sitting upright on my birthing ball.

I felt dismissed, questioning myself and the legitimacy of my “contractions”... if they even were real contractions.  Was I just being weak?  And, if I couldn’t even get through pre-labor, how the hell was I going to survive the real thing?

To distract ourselves, we decided to go grocery shopping.  As we made our way through the aisles of Market Basket, things began to intensify.  My husband was in charge of keeping track of contraction timing, noting that they seemed to be picking up in length.

While this was welcome news, as it indicated things might be progressing, it sure was painful.  Every three to five minutes we’d break in the middle of the store, I’d wrap my arms around him like we were slow dancing, and we’d rock back and forth through the crescendo of discomfort.

Other patrons in the store looked at our spectacle, some (especially women) beaming in admiration and sympathy, while others (mostly men) got frustrated if we were blocking the products they were shopping for.  In hindsight we may have been a nuisance, but in the dead of winter I could think of nothing better to do to pass the time and keep me sane.

Back at home we prepared for another endless night of Squid Game and birthing ball exercises.  My husband finally succumbed to his exhaustion and slept for a while, which I envied but endorsed, knowing that he would be a better support to me if he was well-rested.  

The contractions were, to me, powerful at this point.  My whole body felt inclined to tense up and I began to dread the warning signs that a contraction was about to come.  

In sheer exhaustion I made one final attempt to get into bed.  Sleep would be a miracle, but to just lay down for a few minutes would be a possibility.  Immediately upon sprawling out, though, sharp pains swept in and without the ability to rock on my birthing ball, their intensity proved unbearable.

This went on for several hours.  Each time I had a thought that it may be wise to return to the hospital, I was overwhelmed with self-doubt, assuming that I was psyching myself out, and that it would be so embarrassing to return and have them inform me (again) that I was not even in active labor.

There finally came a point where, once my husband had woken from his short sleep, I gave up.  We stood in the kitchen together, in darkness, the outdoor floodlights filtering through the windows.  He held me and we rocked in place, tears stinging my eyes while I tried to suppress the pain in my belly.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“No,” I said, my recent contraction subsiding.  “They’re just going to turn me away.  It’ll be a waste of their time.”

“Who cares?” said my husband.  “That’s what they’re there for.”

It didn’t take much convincing.  We loaded our pre-packed hospital bags and hauled into the car, and for the first time, the excitement that this may be our final car ride as a family of two overcame me.

This is not to say that it was a fun car ride, by any means.  With each bump and curve, I squished the jesus handle in my fist, clinging for dear life as fierce contractions came in waves.

Though it wasn’t long before we arrived at the hospital, the ride felt like eons.  

Our second entrance into the emergency department was significantly less energetic than our first.  Dressed in sweats, having skipped a shower and running on zero hours of sleep, we were looking (and feeling) a little rough.

Surely the receptionist sensed by my apparent mood that things were not as trivial as last time, because we were taken directly to triage.  We went through the same motions of getting hooked up to the monitor, and waited (though somewhat less patiently this time) for the triage provider to meet with us.

He was a young and bubbly man with a happy energy that in that moment, I could not match.  He performed a cervical check and while I awaited the results, felt twinges of discouragement.

To my surprise, he erupted with a smile.  “You’re being admitted.”

“What?” I gasped.

“You’re almost five centimeters and you’re fully effaced.  You’re being admitted and you’re not leaving without that baby.”

In shock, my husband and I looked at each other, letting out laughs of joy and disbelief.  When the doctor left the room, we hugged.  “God, that feels so validating.  These last twenty-four hours haven’t been for nothing,” I said.

Our reactions to getting admitted!

Before heading up to the labor room, a nurse administered my IV for fluids.  This was the part of labor and delivery I dreaded most, because of my debilitating fear of needles.  I made my husband leave the room, so I wouldn’t have a crutch to get emotional with.  The nurse was phenomenal, ensuring that I barely felt the needle go in.  She took my blood in the same go, limiting the amount of pokes I’d have to endure.

Once that was set, the nurse (with the assistance of my spouse) helped me into a wheelchair and brought me to the labor and delivery unit.

The room was windowless, the walls a hazy yellow tone that was just a bit unsettling.  There was a hospital bed in the center of the room, bright spotlights beaming down over it.  The adjacent room shared a tiny bathroom with us, and, having to pee every five to ten minutes, I became insecure about it.

We met our first labor nurse almost immediately.  She brought me sugar-free yellow flavored jello-- not the most hunger-quenching snack, but due to hospital policy I was limited.  It felt unfair that I’d be asked to push a watermelon-sized infant out of my body without a proper snack first.

Me, proudly showing off my IV after being admitted and informed that we were going to have our baby!

I quickly requested a birthing ball, which I was assured would be provided.  Unfortunately for me, though, all of the birthing balls were already in use, and I had to wait hours before getting access to one.  

This is where my husband stepped up as my most treasured ally.  With each contraction, he held my hands, allowing me to squeeze as hard as I wanted.  He held me and rocked with me, speaking calming and encouraging words with each wave.  At one point he had to run to the car to grab our bags, which was the hardest five minutes.  Doing this felt impossible without his warmth and support.

There came a point that each time I had to pee (which was a lot), a painful spasm would be triggered, and I’d contract while trying to pee every single time.  This sucked.

The pain seemed to intensify and the breaks between contractions got shorter and less satisfying.

We finally met the on-call OBGYN, a middle-aged woman who swept in with vigor and confidence.  She asked me about my birth preferences, and shared some pain management options for a while.  I informed her that I wanted an epidural at some point, but wanted to wait until I progressed further, as I held a firm belief that movement would help the baby descend into position.  After days of consistent contractions, the last thing I wanted was to stall my progression.

She refused to do a cervical check, insisting that she didn’t want that to affect my decision as to when to move forward with the epidural.  Her motto was that I should trust my own mind and body, and that performing excessive cervical checks would only mess with my judgement.  In hindsight, I’m really thankful for this doctor and her encouragement to trust how my body felt.

In efforts to continue moving around for as long as possible, I opted for nitrous oxide.  This would allow me to self-administer an inhaled sedative by holding a mask up to my face during contractions.  The effects were more minimal, but were known to “take the edge off.”

I’m not sure if this method did much of anything, at all.  I religiously used the gas in feeble attempts to dull the pain, but still cried through each contraction, only finding comfort in my husband’s arms.

On the birthing ball, I let my head roll onto my shoulder, allowing my eyes to close and rest for a short minute before the next contraction.  “I’m so tired,” I whined.  “I can’t do this.”

It had been forty hours.  Forty hours of pain every couple minutes.  Forty hours of no sleep.  Forty hours sitting or standing, unable to lay down at all.

The pain was bad, but not bad enough that I couldn’t bear it.  The exhaustion, though, was excruciating.  

“I think I’m ready for the epidural,” I sighed.

Within minutes, the anesthesiologist entered the room with a cart.  On it, I spotted the world’s longest and most terrifying needle.  Before he could even greet me I felt my heart pounding in my chest, and my ability to breathe waning.

“I’m sorry,” I sputtered, through sharp, hyperventilating breaths. 

“Don’t apologize!” he said.  “I’m going to make this as easy as possible for you.”  He was a young man, exuding confidence with every word.

To my surprise, my husband was allowed to stay in the room for the administration of the epidural.  He was instructed to look me in the eyes and hold my hands through the whole process.

At the anesthesiologist’s command, I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, pressing my huge belly into my legs.  “Lean in further,” he said, and as I did, I began to cry.

“I’m scared,” I sobbed, envisioning the needle he held behind me.  The nurse joined my husband, kneeling on the floor in front of me.  She stroked my hair while I cried and hugged my husband, counting the moments and hoping it would all be over soon.

The needle felt weird.  The sensation was more of a discomfort than pain.  There was a feeling like ice trickling into my spine, and I cried and hyperventilated just imagining what was happening to me.

But as quickly as it had all started, it was over.

The nurse (who was a saint) laughed alongside me when I pointed out what a sissy I was.  My husband, on the other hand, was overflowing with empathy, crying at the fear and the pain he watched me endure.

It wasn’t long before the epidural did its magic, and in hindsight, I know that next time around, I’ll be asking for those meds the second I’m allowed to.  

The doctor returned and performed a cervical check, noting that I was still only five centimeters dilated, and had not progressed since arriving at the hospital ten hours prior.  “You’re kidding,” I said flatly, to which she shook her head.

“While I was checking your cervix, I also noticed that your son is facing sideways.  Ideally, we want him lying straight.  I’m going to turn you on your side to help guide him into a better position,” she said.  “I’d also like to break your water, which will help move things along.”

My first fear was that the epidural, which would prevent me from getting up or using the birthing ball, would complicate things and prevent my baby from positioning properly.  Many of the YouTube videos I’d watched insisted that epidurals cause complications, and ruin a mother’s ability to follow her body’s cues.

I had also held beliefs that the more interventions used during labor, the worse the outcome.  The thought of the doctor breaking my water went against the notions I held in my head, but my body said otherwise.  I was tired and ready to have this damn baby, so I permissed her to do it. 

With Cars 2 playing on the TV in the background, the nurse hoisted me onto my side.  By now, the epidural was in full effect.

I could still tell when I was contracting, because of the tightness in my stomach, but there was no pain.  I could somewhat move my legs, but when I pinched my skin, felt nothing.  My head still felt present, aware, and normal, but I could actually breathe and relax.

When I shared my concerns about the epidural affecting my mobility (and thus, my baby’s mobility) the doctor reassured me.  “I think you’re not progressing because you’re in so much pain and you’re tensing up.  Now that you aren’t feeling the hurt, your body can stay relaxed during contractions, and they’ll be more effective.”

I had some difficulty believing this to be true, but at this point, had no choice but to roll with it.

Before long, I drifted off to sleep.

I was woken once by the nurse to shift positions (again, to help guide the baby into the proper position).  She flipped me over to face the other direction, and within seconds I zonked out again.

The second time, I was roused by the doctor.  “It’s been about seven hours,” she said.  Jeez.  Time really flies when you’re not in agony.

“I’d like to do another cervical check, if that’s okay with you.  Just want to see where we’re at.”   I nodded in agreement.  

After the cervical check, the doctor shot a beaming smile at us.  “Time to push.”

What a thing to wake up to!

She sensed our disbelief, and went on to explain.  “You’re ten centimeters dilated and fully effaced, and your baby moved into the perfect position.”

Holy cow.  That meant I had slept through all of transition, the notoriously painful part of labor that I was dreading.  

At shift change, another nurse took the place of the first woman that had been with us.  She, the doctor, and a student guided me through contractions, informing me of when to push, how to push, and what was going on.

This was the moment that made me love my epidural.  I felt so calm.  I laughed and joked with the medical staff and my husband, completely present in the moment and actually able to enjoy it.  I was having fun while pushing a baby out of me.

“There’s hair!” said my husband.  The doctor (with little warning) used a mirror to show me what was going on-- totally freaky, by the way-- but it was true.  There was hair.

We kept going, and after almost an hour, our son was born.

My husband and I were in instant tears.  The months of wondering what our sweet boy would look like had come to an end; he was beautiful, and we loved him.  Our world would never be the same.

Our perfect boy, moments after joining us in the world.

Stay tuned for more on my journey in the first few days postpartum!