The Birth

If you are reading my birth story because you want to know whether or not I had a medicated or unmedicated birth because somehow that is what peaks your interest the most, then let me save you minutes from your day; I did have an epidural.

For those of you who are enamored by birth and its individuality, its ability to be a force or presence in your life unlike anything else then I invite you to read my birth story:

The Birth of Daphne

Sitting around, waiting, filled to the brim with excitement and anxiety-- even though this is my third baby-- because each pregnancy, birth, and baby were different but in no way were any of them less deserving of all of my feelings. As week 40 draws to a close I enter the space of impatience. I am ready to meet my baby. I am ready to hold my baby. I am ready to love my baby outside of my body. I am also ready to not be pregnant. As each day passes I am in my head a bit more, pausing at every contraction-like feeling, wondering (and hoping) if this is the onset to the big push.

On a beautiful Sunday afternoon, I had the opportunity to poop-- alone. As I was sitting on the toilet nearly finished, I felt an unusual gush of liquid, coming from… well, I was almost certain it wasn’t coming from my urinary meatus. Naturally, I went to take a gander, which was unsuccessful due to my rotund belly. Ever the problem-solver I grabbed my cell phone to do two things: text my husband and use the selfie-mode to get a look at my parts as this mysterious liquid escaped my body. My husband was busy getting the kids ready for an afternoon in the pool with one of the families in our pod, so he wasn’t able to watch my parts and the selfie-mode wasn’t all that helpful. I decided to wipe up and move on to the next test of confirmation-- lay down for 30 minutes, and then standup to see if amniotic fluid was indeed the liquid that had me perplexed while pooping. As I lay on my side, I was comforted by the fact that my doula was already en route to my house, as she was the matriarch of the family in our pod, coming to enjoy the pool on a hot summer day.

I heard their arrival. My husband updated my doula and my phone vibrated with a text, “Do you want me to come into your room?” My response was an immediate, “Yes please.” I was still laying on my side, a white towel folded between my legs, waiting to stand up. We chatted for a bit, sharing in the excitement that this could be it; this could be the beginning of the birth of my third daughter. I stand up and no immediate gush or obvious flow of liquid escapes my vagina, so I don a pair of my husband’s boxer-briefs (an outfit that I will live in during those first few postpartum days) and tuck the towel into the necessary position. We head to the backyard to enjoy the kids playing, our husbands, each other, and wait. As I sat, perched on the edge of the chair, big belly exposed I was near giddy with anticipation. I was misty while watching the kids play together, knowing I was close to bringing in another sibling and friend. I was also nervous at what the next minutes and hours would be. I was a bit sad because I knew soon I wouldn’t be pregnant anymore. I sat there appreciating the moment and thinking about the future-- both happening at the same time. And then, I felt another rush of warmness, wetting the towel that was stuffed between my legs. With more confidence I told my doula that my water had broken.

We headed inside, glancing at the clock, taking note that it was about 3:00PM, and standing in my bathroom, we examined the towel; the towel was wet and there were no indicators that there was any reason to be concerned or worried. We both wanted to shower, to clean up and to be ready for what was to come. As I showered, we quickly confirmed the plan, as it was adjusted for the pandemic: labor at home as long as possible, go to the hospital, accept no interventions, and push out my daughter with the support of my husband. My mom and doula would not be with me. I, once again, mourned what the pandemic had taken from me; I, once again, voiced my anger over what the pandemic had taken from me. My doula listened, empathized, and validated my feelings. And perhaps, in a symbolic attempt at letting go a much bigger gush of amniotic fluid flushed itself out of my body, eliminating all doubt and ignited the excitement that is unmatched to anything but birth. I called my mom, who had been patiently waiting, with her bags packed, for the call.

My doula, April, suggested that we finalize our snacks, round up our chargers, and pack our bag. As the minutes passed by, and then, those minutes turned to a couple hours I had not yet had a contraction. April’s family had already headed home, my mom had arrived, and we waited, and waited for that tell-tale sign that birth was imminent; we were waiting for contractions. My husband, April, and I discussed when I should call my OB. Now, as much as I have a foot firmly planted in what I lovingly call the hippy-dippy world, I also have my other foot planted in the world of obstetricians and hospitals, so making the decision to not call my beloved OB, which did not follow her protocol but felt right, was a bit of a conundrum I had not planned for. But that is birth, a beautiful conundrum.

Quickly, it was dinner time, bath time, story time, and bedtime for our girls. I was acutely aware that I still had had no contractions, hypersensitive to any sensation that my body had, hoping that the rumble I felt or the odd, perhaps not even really there movement, was indeed a contraction, so it was a comfort and relief to have the additional support at home. April, effortlessly snuggled with my daughter, while my mom made dinner, and my husband and I continued to get ready. I wanted to curl my hair-- and I did; my other daughter kept me company in the bathroom. We were ready.

Finally, as nothing was happening, April went home, leaving me with sage advice to rest and sleep now-- while I could. My husband, my mom, and I all went to bed, assuming we would see each other in a couple hours. I planned to labor in my bedroom. I had candles selected, a playlist ready, artwork that inspired me, and crystals to use for grounding. April was prepared to come back whenever I needed her. I layed down. I was tired. I felt ready. I fell asleep waiting.

Essentially, I slept through the night. (I say essentially because at 40 weeks three days pregnant, sleep is a bit elusive.) The girls woke up, starting our day at 7:00AM. We got them ready and dropped them off at Play Care because it had to be any hour that my contractions would start, right? I had a hearty breakfast. As the morning went on I knew that calling my OB would become necessary; I put off calling because I knew she would want me to head to the hospital immediately and I knew they would want to offer interventions. My husband and I talked with each other, with April, and Googled, and we still decided to hold off calling. My mom sat with us, uninvolved in decisions but a present force of strength, support, and love-- she knew how to truly help.

Finally, at about 10:00AM I called my doctor’s office. The front desk transferred me to her medical assistant who told me one truth and one lie; the truth that my OB was in surgery and she would text her a message; the lie that the concern is my baby wouldn’t be getting air if my water broke. I hate to admit, that even though I was confident the medical assistant didn’t know what she was talking about, I did a quick Google to confirm. As I waited for a return call from my doctor, April sent me The Miles Circuit, hoping that these positions and movement would get my little one into a better position, triggering the start of contractions. As my mom was on a Zoom work meeting and my husband squeezed in a workout, I was in my room on my bed, in the first position, a hellish open knee chest pose for 30 minutes. April, once again, was en route to my house to help and encourage me through the circuit. Thankfully, as I ached in position one my friend faithfully talked to me on the phone the entire time, providing unwavering support, love, and distraction. She heard April’s entrance and an invisible torch was passed between the two of them.

The medical assistant called me back, with word from my doctor that I needed to go to the hospital soon. Soon? Telling me soon allotted for some wiggle room and interpretation of time. April, my husband, and my mom were by my side for position two, and we moved the party outside for 30 minutes of curb-walking and side stepping on stairs. No, I have not forgotten to speak about my contractions-- I still was not having any. After The Miles circuit was complete, I ate a large lunch, fueling my body for birth. We said our goodbyes and took off for the hospital at 2:00PM. In the car, the windows down, listening to one of our anthems, “Choices” by E-40, my phone rang, and it was my doctor; she was not happy, she was concerned, she wanted me in the hospital. Albeit, feeling a bit reprimanded I loved the care I could hear in her voice.

Arriving at the hospital, things were different for my husband, Brendan, and me. First, it was during normal business hours, which meant no ER entrance and we were in the middle of a pandemic. I checked myself in, answered the nearly memorized Covid-19 screening questions, and was taken to a triage room. I waited alone, looking at the clock (2:45PM), diligently keeping track of the passing minutes. Within ten minutes my nostrils were swabbed for my Covid test. The triage doctor introduced herself, most of her body behind the curtain and her face fully protected-- I was an unknown. The nurses were not afforded the same safety precaution, they were in the room with me, examining, asking, and talking; as I sat anxious, desperately wanting to be reunited with Brendan, wondering why I still had no contractions, the nurses spent time (I am sure they did not have) chatting with me, shooting the shit, making me feel less alone. The results of the Covid test came back within the hour and I was negative but they still were waiting for the results of the test to confirm that my water broke despite my admission of certainty. And eventually, like a giddy-school-aged child I was reunited with Brendan and we walked down the familiar halls to my labor and delivery room.

As we settled into our new space, my OB stopped by to check-in with me and lovingly scold me; she was on-board with the plan, laboring at home as long as possible, she was glad I had a doula, and she supported my choices-- as she always has. Since my waters had been broken for over 24 hours, interventions were necessary. She emphatically explained about the risks of not doing anything, and the choice was made to start pitocin. At 5:30PM the drip started, and I was comfortably hanging out, mobile thanks to the wireless fetal monitor. As the nurses popped in and out, checking on me, the phlebotomist took blood, and the anesthesiologist came by to introduce himself, informing me that he would be in surgery later, to which I replied thanks but the plan is that I will not need your services. Everything was humming along like a well-oiled machine-- except my contractions. Sure, I had felt a couple but nothing noteworthy, nothing that required my attention. As time ticked by, my husband and I decided to start a movie-- Arnold’s Pumping Iron-- and while he got the movie setup I called my doula to give an update. While I was on the phone with her at 8:30PM, I finally felt a contraction that made me get excited, that made me slightly pause but that I talked through; she recommended we prepare because you just never know how fast a birth can go-- especially with kid number three.

I sat on the birthing ball, at the foot of the hospital bed, draped over the peanut ball, listening to Rhianna’s “S&M” and another contraction hit with more intensity than the previous one. I looked at my husband and asked him to get behind me because that was more than I had anticipated. As he was getting into position another contraction hit and I remember curling my toes, thinking, “What the fuck-- that was awful, can I do this? Yes, I can. I have time to adjust, practice, get into my space, get into…” and then another awful contraction hit. I focused on the music, and my breath but this one was worse than the last. I looked at my husband and he told me, “You got this, trust your body.” As another contraction rolled in, I grunted out, “Counterpressure!!” I thought, how is he going to keep this up for the next several hours, how am I going to do this for the next several hours, why the hell are these contractions…

Another contraction. Another level increase of intensity. This time I panicked because I thought I was going to poop. I thought I was going to poop on my husband as I bounced on the ball in front of him. I asked him to check. He saw no poop. My nurse looked at me, reassuring me that this was a good sign, this was normal, and I wasn’t going to poop. She reminded me that my body is the best indicator of when my baby is coming and this is my body telling me that my little girl was due to debut soon.

I dug deep to quiet the internal voice of fear. I growled through the next contraction, letting the fear escape and channeled a primitive force, keeping my octave low and the volume up. I shouted in between the break of contractions, “Something is wrong, I think the baby is coming out?!!” I looked down, expecting to see her head, expecting something to be wrong. Brendan calmly assured me everything was okay, I was okay, the baby was okay, and I could do this. I struggled to believe him. I felt like I couldn’t catch up. Each contraction was so much worse than the last. I didn’t know what to expect. I noticed the energy level in the room shift. I remember seeing more faces. I remember feeling angry that I couldn’t catch up to my body, that my mind was barely able to process. I remember engaging our code word, the word that would let my husband know I wanted interventions. It was 9:15PM and I wanted an epidural.

My nurse needed to examine me, which meant I had to move to the bed. I didn't want to move. I didn’t think I could move. I needed time to freeze, to give me a chance to process, to understand, and to prepare. My baby didn’t want to wait. I moved to the bed. My nurse and OB patiently waited until I could lay down. I writhed in pain, moaned with a voice I didn’t recognize. Holding on to the thought that relief was on its way. The epidural was the answer. At 9:30, I was draped over my nurse as the anesthesiologist, with precision, buried that big needle in my back. I kept saying sorry. Sorry to myself. Sorry to my husband. A silent sorry to my doula. Sorry to my OB. I was sorry that I wanted the epidural. I was sorry. But as I surveyed the room, filled with more unfamiliar faces than familiar, I heard their encouragement, their praise, their support and love for my birth. And from the most familiar face, Brendan, he gave me strength. The energy of the room demanded I give myself grace.

As I was waiting for relief from the drugs I had to get into the pushing position. The familiar pose. The pose that told me I was almost done. But there was no relief, yet. I was on fire. I was growling. I was yelling. I was crying. I was all the things. But the fire was hot… until it wasn’t. The fire was extinguished because my baby, Daphne, was born at 9:38PM. The relief from the epidural didn’t come; the relief came because I had birthed my daughter.

I wanted an unmedicated birth because I wanted to know, I wanted to feel all that birth has to offer-- and I did.