The Birth Story…and Frustration

Though it was starting to feel that way, the baby couldn’t stay in my belly forever.  It had to come out sometime.  I had a vision in my mind of how that would happen, a beautiful birth plan, everything.  Too bad that’s not at all how it happened.

Some time in the morning of December 18th, I started having contractions.  They were good, strong contractions, the kind that may indicate labor.  It was hopeful and terrifying at the same time.  I was ready, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up for a false alarm.  I held off on taking a shower until the contractions were good and steady, convinced that the warm water might send them away.  Even though I had contractions all through the shower, as soon as I got out I was exhausted.  I closed my eyes for a few minutes as I lay on the bed and before I knew it, I was waking up four hours later to no contractions.

Feeling a little sad that it was a false start after all, I went to work on the house.  Oz and I had determined that we were going to get the house ready for Christmas.  It was a mess and a disaster.  We had some serious work to do.  I told him that if he started cleaning off the furniture, I’d start on the floor.  We had made a significant dent the day before, but that just made it all the more apparent how badly the floor needed to be mopped.  In some areas I even had to get down on my hands and knees to scrub away the grime that had built up because mopping simply wasn’t enough.  The linoleum floors they have here are horrible.  I figured if I wasn’t going into labor, I might as well be doing something productive.  There was a lot left to do before Christmas.

Apparently my midwife was right about one thing, you really do get the baby out the way you get it in!  I had no idea scrubbing the floor would be such a turn-on when I started, but I can see how it might have been with what I was wearing.  I got pounced and, thankfully, the contractions kicked off again.  I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I was ready for this to be it.

I went to work pulling all the lights off the Christmas tree.  Yes, that sounds backwards, but it all makes sense.  This was one of those pre-lighted trees.  There was a set that wasn’t working right and it was driving me insane.  We agreed that we’d strip all the lights off the tree and put new ones on.  Who am I kidding?  We agreed that I would do it because Oz wanted nothing to do with it.  I had decided that would be a good labor project.  It would give me something to keep me occupied, but it would also take significant time.  I would probably have enough work to do to keep me busy through a couple false starts.  I was pretty set.  We would time my contractions if they seemed strong and close and would work from there.

When we finally started timing, the contractions were all of two minutes apart and lasted about a minute.  Silly me, I decided that I wasn’t really ready to call the midwife, so we went to sleep, knowing that when it was time for things to kick off, I’d no longer be able to get rest.  I figured any little bit of rest we could get would be worth it.

Two hours later we were timing contractions again.  They had slowed to about four minutes apart, but were stronger.  They had lengthened to a minute and a half and I was in serious pain.  We called the midwife and next thing I knew, we were off.  We decided last minute to have the kids stay with the neighbors, since waking up to time contractions at five-thirty in the morning was bad enough without packing up kids, so it was a quiet and quick trip out the door.

For a while things were flying.  When I got there I was checked at 4cm dilated.  This was good news!  Many hospitals and the like I’ve heard of won’t even admit you before then.  In the next few hours I was estimated about 6cm and it was into the tub.  Things were cruising along.  I have to admit, I half expected to have that baby born by noon!  Thorn showed up and I was certain things would be exactly what I wanted.

Unfortunately, that’s where things stayed.  I got chills from the tub and couldn’t stop shaking.  I was only at 7cm when they got me out.  I still had a ways to go before it was time for the birth.  I was counseled a different way to cope with the pain to resist the urge to push that I was already suspected to have.  No matter what I did, there was this fierce pain down my back and in my tailbone.  I feared getting out of the tub would only make it worse, though it thankfully didn’t.  At least I didn’t have that chill anymore.  I snuggled up and was able to catch some rest between contractions for a while.

The next time I was checked there was no change.  They got me up and walking, but I was so tired.  I was told a lot of women get stuck there.  It’s the last point of control in the labor.  Maybe Oz and I needed some snuggle time.  Maybe I just needed to cry or get angry.  Whatever I needed to do, I had to change something to get that baby out.  I paced up and down the hall.  I cuddled with Oz.  I confessed my frustration.  I cried until I no longer had it in me.  I yelled at my body to just get that baby out already.  It was draining, but I wanted that baby out!  I was ready to move on.  One of the midwives suggested chanting open through each contraction.  I focused.  I tried with everything I had.  I was convinced I could make this work.  Things would change.  I would progress.

Around three I was checked again.  I had made it a whole centimeter.  I was now at 8cm dilated.  It was a small victory.  I had been hoping for far more, but it was a victory none the less.  I began to plead with my body.  The last couple repetitions of the word "open" were wracked with tears.  I was too tired to pace the halls and bargained with myself.  If I did four contractions while walking I could wait one out while resting on the bed.  The pain was growing so intense down my back and tailbone that I would have gladly ripped out my spine to make it stop.  I was to the point of pleading with my body to bring this through to the end already.

Thorn told us she would have to be leaving around four, so when it came time for her to go, I knew I was in for trouble.  Both my previous pregnancies had nine hour labors, and this was already well beyond that point.  The midwife had me drinking wa

ter as fast as I could down it, hoping that it was only dehydration that was causing the baby’s heart rate to drop.  She thought it should have helped with the pain too, but as much as she told me it was impossible, the pain only seemed to be growing.  I had abandoned chanting open and opted for desperate moans, expressing in vocalization what I was feeling inside.  The water helped the heart rate, but I was wearing thin.  I was given protein shakes and pleaded with to eat, but it didn’t help.  Eating just wasn’t appealing and the protein shakes were only providing enough energy for short bursts.  I was quickly hitting the point where I just couldn’t take it anymore.

The suggestion was passed for a change of scenery.  Oz jumped on board and we went through the drive-through at Wendy’s in hopes that I could manage to stomach some chicken nuggets and the change might do some good.  When we got back I was moved to the other birthing room for the same reason.  The pale blue and white was appealing, happy and less mellow than the other room, but less to my tastes.  I felt out of place there, like I had somehow passed on to some sort of surreal dream.  Exhaustion hit me quicker than I knew and I slept like the dead.  I was shocked to hear my contractions had slowed to ten minutes apart because they felt right back to back for me.  I must have been solidly out between them.  It was clear things were falling apart.

The midwives there went off to have a chat leaving Oz and I to talk.  He couldn’t watch me like that anymore.  He wanted to take me to the hospital, see what they could do to help.  I felt like a failure.  I was so horribly defeated.  I just didn’t want to do it anymore.  I confessed that I just wanted the baby out and I didn’t care anymore, even if it meant a c-section.  I was done.  I needed to have the whole experience over with.  I just couldn’t take it anymore.  He was right.  We needed to go.

When the midwives stopped back in we didn’t even wait to hear what they had to say.  We asked them a few questions about what would happen if we went to the hospital, mostly Oz.  I didn’t care anymore.  I had given up.  He took care of everything, made sure everything that needed to be talked about was taken care of.  All I had to do was cry, suffer, mourn the loss of the experience I should have had, and try to put myself in the mental space to follow this through to the end.

We got in the car and I made my confession, posed as a question out of fear at the reception.  I wanted a c-section.  I was done.  That would be fast, easy, and over with.  Oz reminded me about the scar.  He wanted to know if I’d be okay with my decision afterward.  I had been all set for a home birth and had been dead set against any interventions that weren’t completely necessary.  Having a child surgically removed is the exact opposite of my wishes.  He wanted to make sure this wasn’t a decision made out of pain that I would regret later.  He confessed that he couldn’t watch me go through this again, that he couldn’t see me in that kind of pain again especially as he couldn’t do anything to make it stop.  We decided that we’d ask if it was an option when we talked to the midwife.

Much to my disappointment, I was told that I couldn’t have an elective c-section, but they would first have to try and start labor some other way.  The midwife said she’d get me on an epidural and then break the water, see how things progressed.  Unfortunately, after my last bad experience, an epidural wasn’t an option.  The only thing she could offer was some short-lived narcotic that would help take the edge off a bit, and we’d talk about all that once we were out of triage.  The nurse kept reminding me to breathe for my baby, that screaming and crying weren’t going to help the baby, but I was just too far gone in the pain.  I tried, but I know I didn’t keep with it.  I couldn’t focus anymore.  The pain would strike and I was beginning to react out of fear of how bad it would be instead of focusing on working through the pain.  I wasn’t moving with it anymore.  I wasn’t even trying to find a way to get relief.  I was just in misery.

What seemed like an eternity later, the IV was rigged and I had the narcotics.  The contractions were still bad, but I was starting to find a way to breathe through them, at least in part.  They were still rather slow apart, still about ten minutes, but I could get through it.  I didn’t know where Oz was, other than in the room.  The midwife from the birth center couldn’t get through the gate on base to be with me, so he was trying to arrange things with her.  A part of me wanted him there, holding my hand and making sure I was okay.  A part of me wouldn’t have even cared if he left.  I wasn’t there anymore.  I wasn’t in the birth anymore.  I was separate, miserable, and praying to whoever would listen for it all to end.  The moments between were still filled with the same dread of the next contraction, even though I knew the pain wouldn’t be as bad.  I couldn’t help it.  My brain was wired to be afraid.

The midwife came in shortly after to break the water.  There was a little meconium, so they would have to have me in a separate delivery room, just in case the baby needed attention.  As soon as that was done she checked me and I had immediately jumped up to 9cm.  She suggested I bear down just a little with the next contraction, see if I can get it to open up the rest of the way, since though it was a 9, it was definitely on the close side to ten.  One contraction later they were pushing me into the room I would have to deliver in.  Surprisingly most of the back pain and the pressure in my tailbone was gone.

Once we got there, I was ready to go.  My contractions had jumped up to two minutes apart, though the midwife kept telling me I was lying.  How could they be when they were ten minutes apart so recently?  She wouldn’t listen to the nurse who confirmed that fact several times.  Instead I got a lecture on productive pushing, to only push with contractions, and for the nurse to instruct me on when the height of the contraction was so I could push.  Sorry, but I wasn’t a first time mom and listening to my body got me through the first two times.  I think I know what I was doing.

On top of that, she kept insisting that I pull my legs up to my chest and pull on my legs with my hands while I push.  This was not working for me.  With both my other two births I held fast to the bed while two other people held my legs.  I pushed against the

m with my legs with all my might while holding myself in place with my arms.  It’s just what felt natural.  Pushing that way popped out my other two children pretty fast, so why would I do something different for this one.  Of course, I didn’t realize that until I was in the moment and the midwife wouldn’t listen to me.

This is definitely a bit of TMI, but I had a "bowel movement" during the early phases of labor.  The last of the pressure on my tailbone, the last of that which was causing me pain, was gone.  I suddenly felt ready to go and ready to listen to my body.  That small bit of business was out of the way, so I was ready to get down to work.  It’s like someone tripped a switch and my body went into high gear and knew exactly what to do.

Unfortunately, everything I was being told to do was very counter-intuitive.  I was being told to hold my breath when I pushed.  I couldn’t do it.  I wanted to let out some kind of primal cry that came from who knows where.  I wanted to tell the baby to get out.  I wanted to be as loud as I needed to be, but instead I was encouraged to hold my breath and bear down.  I was being snapped at for not focusing my pushes where the midwife was telling me too.  I was focusing my pushes where my body told me I needed to push, where my body told me my baby needed to go.  I was told to push for as long as I could manage, then take a breath and do it again when my body wanted to use smaller pushes with breathing and growling to get through, just using more of them.  I felt like I was being pressured to move my body faster than I really needed to.  I was being forced to hurry through at their pace.

At one point in time I lashed out and I know there were a bunch of people who moved in around me and pushed me back into position on the bed.  I guess I kicked Oz too from what he said.  It doesn’t surprise me that I would.  They were the enemy and I didn’t want to count him in as one of them.  I had to fight them every step of the way.  I was angry, enraged.  I would get through this in spite of them, not because of them.  I didn’t think about my baby being birthed in such negative emotions.  Instead, I simply wouldn’t let them hold victory over me.  I was having this baby and I would fight them every step of the way to do it.  I was a mother wolf defending her birthing space at the last minute.

By the time we were nearly through, I was growling and screaming, I’m sure.  I remember my throat hurting because of the low noises coming out of it.  That soreness continued for the next couple days.  They weren’t telling me anything.  I wanted them to tell me something.  It felt like maybe that was the head coming, but I didn’t know.  They turned me on my side to "get my baby in a better position", though I was told at the birth center he seemed to be in a good position.  Angrily, I blamed them for whatever had changed that.  It was better than being on my back, but I was so frustrated at that point.  I just didn’t want to deal with them anymore.  I vaguely remember someone pushing on my stomach and from that point, the labor was taking forever.  The midwife kept saying just one more good push, but it wasn’t one.  It felt like an eternity.  There was a screaming pain.  I was pretty sure I had torn.  No information was coming.  A part of me wanted to give up, but I refused to be that weak.  I refused to let them destroy every last moment.  I would have that baby out and there was no other option.

Finally, I had relief.  The baby seemed to be gone all at once.  The pain and pressure was gone in an instant, seemingly much too fast.  I somehow remembered it taking longer.  I somehow remembered a severe pain when the head emerged and an almost relief when I was asked for one last push as the body was freed.  This time it seemed like it was all at once.  There was no gentle release as the baby slipped free.  Instead there was just this feeling of almost collapsing as everything released.  I had done it.  I wanted to cry, but that would make me look weak and fragile.  I had fought long and hard for that moment.  I wasn’t about to taint my victory with tears, no matter how happy or relieved those tears may be.

The baby was gone before I could even see it.  The only reason I knew I had a boy was Oz appearing by my head with tears in his eyes.  I couldn’t help but smile.  As angry and frustrated I had been, it all melted when I looked up and saw his face.  He told me we had a beautiful baby boy.  I suddenly felt like I really had been victorious.  It wasn’t about the pain, the long drawn out experience, or anything else.  I had given him a baby boy.  He was a father now.  He had been hoping so much for a boy that I wanted to hug him.  Yes, I knew it was my baby too and I wanted to see it, but it was far more important that he enjoy the moment.  It was everything he wanted.  I was so happy for him.  I knew he would keep our baby safe, so I relaxed and tried to let go.  I turned the focus on me until I finally held him in my arms, content to listen to the cries and Oz talking to him, telling him it was okay and he was with his Daddy now while they did all their examinations of him.

The focus back on me, I still felt on the defensive.  I was tempted to kick the midwife for pressing down on my belly and messing with the cord.  She wanted pitocin to add to the drip so the placenta would deliver faster.  She was pretty much determined to get it out as quick as possible.  I never had that with my other son’s birth.  They gave me a moment before they even talked about it.  I wasn’t aware that it was such an emergency.  They hurried that out of me, then I had the tear stitched up, about a dozen stitches.  The whole time I was being asked repeatedly if I tore the last time and where I had my stitches because they didn’t do it right at all.  She blamed the former midwife for that one, though I know a woman is more likely to tear with long, hard pushes rather than the natural ones her body is inclined to give.  It was likely doing things her way that caused the tear to be so bad.  That’s when I found out the shoulder got stuck and was informed what I was to tell my midwife the next time it happened, to have me turned to my side and have someone press down on my belly.  Honestly, I still blame her fro the shoulder thing.  The baby seemed perfectly fine until she got involved with the whole thing.  I was glad I didn’t have to deal with her anymore.

<p style="text-align: justify;”>They put the baby on my chest for the first time and brought me back to my room.  I would be transferred to "Mother and Baby" as soon as I was ready.  I wanted to focus on my beautiful little boy, but somehow I almost couldn’t look at him.  I hated myself for thinking he wasn’t the cutest baby I’d ever seen, but it wasn’t his fault.  He had bruises on his face because of the fast delivery.  I didn’t want to hold him.  I just wanted to give him to Oz.  I don’t know what was wrong with me.  I couldn’t help but think that with Aris I wanted to see him, hold him, to nurse him for the first time.  With this baby, it just didn’t feel right.  Maybe I felt guilty because I birthed him in such anger.  Maybe it was the distance and separation that made it surreal.  I didn’t even get to see more than his little hands reaching out while he was cleaned up.  I didn’t even know how big he was or how much he weighed, though I thought I had heard a nurse say something about eight pounds and ounces in the teens.  I told myself it’s because I wanted Oz to have every possible moment with him because this was his first child and I’d done it twice before, but in the end, I think it was because I somehow felt undeserving.

When we got to the hospital we discussed changing his middle name.  It was supposed to be Lyland, but Oz decided last minute that he hated that name.  It was the name of one of his ex-wife’s brothers.  Instead I made a suggestion from very early on in our discussions.  He wasn’t there when I was asked to give his name on the paperwork, so I made an executive decision.  That’s when I found out our beautiful boy was born at 11:05pm and he weighed all of 8lbs 13oz at 23 inches long.  He was a big boy!  I gave him the name Jules Lysander, with his father’s last name.

It’s taken me days to process this experience enough to truly share it.  There are still things I want to talk to Oz about, but I’m afraid.  I somehow feel like a failure in all of this, not because I didn’t get my pretty birth plan, but because I probably would have had things go so much differently if I listened to my body.  The pushy feeling was likely due to constipation, and had I thought to express that it was a concern, perhaps something could have been done about it.  Maybe then labor would have progressed.  I feared that the problem was the water not breaking.  I almost asked if they would be able to just break it at the birth center, but again, I was afraid.  I didn’t want to come off sounding stupid or ask for something inappropriate.  A part of me knew that if one of those two things had changed, I would have just gone one without any more problems.  Instead I didn’t.  I really just need to learn to speak up when I feel the need, even at the risk of sounding stupid.  Maybe I’ll talk to him about this when all is said and done.  Until then, I have a feeling I’ll be having a lot of emotion filled days, falling to pieces, and crying my eyes out for apparently no reason.  I doubt it’s postpartum depression, but I’ll keep my eye on that.  I think I just need to cope with the fact that this birth happened in anger and frustration, not the emotions I wanted to have, and that it’s okay.  I’m a completely deserving mother of this sweet baby boy.  It’s all going to be alright.

~*~Raven Night~*~

Jules Lysander

Daddy and Baby