The Scary Parts

The scary parts don't start until the afternoon of August 6. The first inkling was in the early afternoon when my midwife Ruth checked me and I was at seven centimeters, but the baby's head still wasn't engaged. My bag of waters was also still intact, and with each contraction it would bulge through my cervix like a bubble. She suggested they rupture my membranes as this would remove the excess amniotic fluid and allow the baby's head to descend into my pelvis, press on my cervix, and finish the job of dilation so pushing could begin. I felt a little sad and trepidatious at having my water broken, but I also realized that this couldn't go on forever. She did say that my bag of waters was very tough, we all made jokes about what a tough bag I had.

Breaking the water was strange, I was lying there and she inserted the water-breaky thing which looked sort of like a crochet hook. Suddenly there was a huge gush of body-temperature fluid all over the place, which of course she had prepared for by putting down those blue and white pads to soak it all up. She mentioned that there was some meconium in the amniotic fluid, which was what she expected as I was nearly two weeks past my due date. Not to worry, she said, keep an eye on it and if there's evidence of more meconium than was there presently, we'd have to transfer to Mercy Hospital.

I felt a quick twinge of panic then, but told myself not to worry. The baby wouldn't be doing any more pooping in utero because he was going to descend and get the show on the road.

After the tub I was checked again, and nothing had changed. Ruth said that we needed to hurry things up now that the water was broken and seeing as I had been in labor so long. She told us that we would have to try to get the baby to descend in the next hour, or the only option would be to transfer to Mercy and be put on pitocin. That was the last thing I wanted, as being put on pitocin made contractions harder, longer, and you had to be on a fetal monitor the entire time which meant lying in bed.

Michael took control at that point and got me on my feet and out onto the street. The five of us trooped around the block countless times, and with each contraction they would press on my back and pelvis to make is as strong as possible. It hurt. I screamed with the effort and didn't think I could keep my feet under me. There was a twinge of panic amongst all of us. Something was wrong. Up and down stairs, two at a time in the birth center, walking on curbings, squatting and groaning and sweating. By the time we finished the walking outisde I was sobbing from the effort. I was hanging on Michael and he helped me walk, kept me going, kept telling me how proud he was of me and he wished he could take the pain away.

Back in the birthing center, I held onto Michael and squatted as low as I could, someone pressed the pressure points in my hands and ankles to bring on another contraction. While I was in this position, Ruth checked my cervix again. It hurt so much. She said that the baby still wasn't engaged.

Contractions to this point had been painful yet bearable, I would moan deep in my throat to ride out the pain and it helped immensely. Yet the last hour had been spent not just dealing with contractions but actively seeking them out, and seeking to make them as intense as possible. I felt like I had been deliberately pounding my own fingers with a hammer. I had to get this baby out. I didn't want to go to the hospital.

Ruth sat down and told us that from what she could tell, my contractions just weren't strong enough and we'd have to go to Mercy for pitocin. Perhaps I'd been in labor too long, but now after having gone so many hours with no progression whatsoever, we couldn't wait any longer.

Everyone bustled around the room, packing up, and I curled up on the bed in misery. Someone put a blanket over me and I could hear the tub being drained. I felt as if my will were being drained with it. My natural birth, my destiny as a woman, trusting my body and working with my baby...I had failed. Jenn lay with me on the bed and stroked my hand while I replayed the words over again in my head. My contractions weren't strong enough. I couldn't do it. To add insult to injury contractions kept tearing through me, and instead of being all Zen I sobbed piteously and let them hurt me. I deserved it. It felt like a joke to keep having contractions when there was no point. I had a real feel of dread for what was to come. How could I handle harder contractions than what I had been subjecting myself to? How could I keep going? It was around 8 o'clock, I had been laboring for nearly forty hours by this point. I was so tired. I was defeated.

I was asked if I wanted to walk to the hospital as it was only two blocks away, but I was so weary I said I wanted Michael to drive me there. I put on some clothes (it felt so weird to be getting dressed when I had spent the last twelve hours naked and free) and shuffled out to the curb. The door of the birthing center closing behind me sounded so final. Go away, you're not wanted here. You're not strong enough. Click.

In the car the contractions seemed to get more of an edge, as if being bitten.

I got to the hospital and went in the emergency entrance, where Ruth met me and took my hand. She led me to the maternity ward, and was so good to me. She stopped and held my hand with each new contraction, and I had pulled myself together somewhat by this point so was back to moaning and breathing deep to ride each one out. She told me how wonderful I was doing. I felt terrible.

We were greeted in the homey-yet-distinctly-hospital room by the nurse, who was going to put me on an IV and take some blood and all that good preparation to hook me to the drip sort of things. The only way I could hack the contractions by this point (I could feel myself starting to panic, feeling like this was a steadily progressing nightmare that I couldn't stop) was standing up, so they let me stand against the wall while putting in the IV. I was hooked to an external fetal monitor, which was running the entire time they were getting me ready.

All day long the baby's heart rate had been wonderful, Ruth checking me during contractions and saying, "He's very happy in there!" I could hear the thud of his heart and watch the numbers on the monitor as the paper scrolled out of it. A monstrous contraction gripped me, and what I saw next made my blood run cold. The baby's heart rate dipped from 138 to 92, then 88, then back up to 112. Dear god, I thought to myself, please let that be a mistake. The next contraction it dipped again, and the sound of his heartbeat slowing down was as loud as a drum in that room. I wondered if anyone else had noticed. No one was saying anything.

Unbeknownst to me it had been noticed and the nurse had slipped out. All of a sudden Ruth was back with a battery of nurses, and the room exploded with rushed-yet-calm activity. I was instructed to lie down on the bed, which of course I didn't want to do as I knew the contractions would be much, much worse. I lay down and they thundered through me, I started to cry and I knew that I was losing it.

Now they were hooking the baby to an internal fetal monitor, which is a wire screwed into the skin of the baby's scalp, another thing I had wanted to avoid at all costs. When Ruth put in the monitor I screamed because it hurt, her hand abruptly so far inside me. The next thing I knew there was an oxygen mask being pressed to my face and Ruth was saying, "Jen, you have to turn over on your side, right now." The finality of her voice told me that we were no longer in a position to negotiate. Something bad was happening. I felt my body lifted by two nurses and they rolled me on my side. The pain was excruciating. I paniced, my breath coming in ragged gasps and tears squirting from my eyes. It hurt so much. I was so tired. I was so scared. What was going on? Through the haze I heard Ruth telling me that for the sake of my baby I had to take deep, even breaths of the oxygen. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. Just a few hours ago I was lying in a tub of warm water, smiling with each contraction and now I was in hell.

I opened my eyes and that's when I saw Michael. He was squatting in front of me and staring deep into my eyes. He was speaking, telling me that I needed to focus on him, that I needed to relax, that everything would be all right. I locked onto his gaze and it was my lifeline. Everything around me faded but his eyes and the sound of the fetal monitor. I was so afraid that it made me want to start sobbing again, but I knew that it would be the worst thing I could do. He told me to breathe with him, and I did. I held onto him with my gaze like I was trying to keep from drowning, I let his voice consume me and I did everything he said. Keep calm, he said. I love you so much. Our baby is going to be fine. Just breathe.

I calmed somewhat even though I was terrified. I have no idea how much time passed, but the contractions that had previously been like hiking a tall slope or pedaling a bike uphill became running into a vertical wall. There was no cresting these contractions, there was only sharp and sudden pain. I reeled from it. I had no idea how to cope. I started saying Oh my god it hurts it hurts it won't stop but every time I would start to cry again Michael was right there, his eyes, his hand holding the mask over my nose and mouth.

Suddenly there was someone else there, a female doctor with a kind face. This is Dr. Trask, Ruth told me. We need to discuss something with you.

My hopes crashed to the ground. I knew what was coming. I had no idea how I had gotten to this place, but I knew what was next. Somehow I had known since Ruth told us we had to go to the hospital for pitocin. I was going to have surgery. My mind reeled. How was this happening?

Dr. Trask gently explained that they had checked me and the baby and right now were doing just fine with me on the oxygen. They could try the pitocin, she said, but that if it sent the baby into distress (which it would very likely do) that I would have to have an emergency c-section. The other choice, she said, was to choose the c-section and they would do it immediately. This way they would have a little more time to prepare and it wasn't an emergency situation. She said she could give us a few minutes to talk about it.

Michael and I looked at one another, and without speaking came to an instant agreement. Let's do it, Michael said to the doctor, let's do the c-section, get it going right now. We both knew that it wasn't worth risking the baby any further when we knew the result would likely be the same. It wasn't up to me any more, it was up to the baby and he had to come out as safely as possible.

I thought for a split second that I was so glad we had researched c-sections as a possibility (though who really thinks they're going to have one?) and it was part of my birth plan. I told Dr. Trask to please do a two-layer suture on my uterus to sew up each layer separately, and she seemed impressed that I knew of and brought up such a thing. She asked if we had any further questions and we said no.

Everything was activity again, as I was prepared for surgery. I felt calmer somehow, though the contractions were so painful and I was scared to death about what was to come. I saw Jenn and Sandy standing behind Michael at this point, and they were both crying yet trying to hide their tears. I looked behind me where Virginia was pressing on my sacrum to help ease contraction pain, and I asked her what she thought. Her job was to assist with labor and not to impose her personal views, but I needed to know. She said, "I think we've done everything we can do, this is the only choice." I caught her wiping away a tear before she thought I could see it.

Someone brought Michael scrubs to wear into the operating room, and he knelt by me, still holding my hand. His eyes were brimming. I've seen Michael cry once, maybe twice, the entire time I've known him. Don't cry, sweetie, I was saying, don't cry. I love you. It will be all right.

Jenn and Sandy came to me and kissed me and told me that they loved me. We all had the thought in the back of our minds that I might not make it out of this, it was major surgery after all and there's always a chance of dying. I tried to think of all the things you say to someone when you think you might be about to die and couldn't think of anything to say. I told them not to worry and that I loved them.

That was the calm before the storm, as suddenly the contractions were back and worse than ever. I started to gasp and said to Michael, I can't take it any more. Now that we're going to do this thing, I need the pain to stop. I need it to stop right now. My mind was whirling, I felt like I was barely clinging to my sanity. Always his deep blue eyes were before me, and I was clinging to his gaze.

Then I was being whisked away to the operating room, I lay there looking up at the ceiling watching the tiles go past, breathing as deep and as calm as I could while my mind freaked out entirely. The theatre was just as scary as I had imagined it, huge behemoths of metal and bright white light above me. It was so cold. They sat me up so the anesthesiologist could administer the spinal, my legs straight out in front of me. A contraction started that had me screaming, and someone helped me bend my knees and drop my legs to either side of the narrow operating table. It helped a lot. The needle entering my spine felt like a wasp stinging me over and over again, but after what I had been through it barely registered. They lay me down again and I lay there, bewildered. This was all a dream. It had to be. I wasn't here right now, preparing to be cut open so they could retrieve my son. This wasn't happening.

I was asked if I could feel this and that, and I was vaguely aware that the contractions had stopped and someone was tugging on my legs. There was nothing below my breasts, I was made of mist. Then Michael was there again, beside me, after being denied entry until I had been properly numbed. He sat down beside my head and all I could see of him were his eyes above the blue mask and below the blue head covering. There was so much blue. I was shaking uncontrollably. It was so cold.

I tried not to think about what was happening to me as I have a deep fear of knives and being cut. I focused on Michael instead, and we talked to one another. I told him how much I loved him, how glad I was to be his wife and that I wanted to grow old with him. He held my hand closest to him, which was strapped to a board and prickled with IV lines, and told me that he loved me so much and was so proud of me.

I started to feel sick. A basin appeared next to my head and I vomited into it, I could feel a hand wiping my mouth and I vomited again. Michael stayed right where he was and kept looking deep into my eyes, he didn't get grossed out by my vomiting three inches in front of his face. I vaguely noted that they were going to give me something to help with the nausea, and then I started to feel very weird. I started to float. I remember vomiting a few more times and professing my undying love for Michael, he kept talking to me about whatever I rambled on about.

One of the nurses told him he could stand up to see the baby being born, and pushed the curtain down between my head and the rest of my body. He stood up to look, then quickly sat down again. I wanted to ask him a million questions but was struck dumb by whatever drugs they were giving me.

I remember hearing something about "wrapped three times" and "12:07am".

Soon after, I heard a cry. I started to cry. That's our baby, I said. Yes, he replied. Our baby, he's all right, he's all right, I sobbed, and one of the nurses held aside part of the curtain so I could see across the room to the warming table. A tiny hand thrust itself into the air, fingers splayed, and his cry echoed in my head. He's all right. I felt so relieved. And very exhausted.

After what seemed like an eternity they brought the baby to Michael, and he held him to my cheek. I kissed and kissed his tiny face as best I could and told him not to cry. Michael and I held one another with our eyes over our baby. I decided that this would be a good time to pass out, and I did.

I don't remember a lot after that, whatever they gave me for the nausea not only didn't stop me from puking, but put me into la-la land for a couple of hours afterward. I remember waking up back in the room and throwing up again. I remember people bidding me goodbye now that all the excitement was over, and heading back to their respective homes. I remember lots of I love yous and he's so beautifuls. I remember Virginia trying to help me breastfeed, but I was so groggy that I had to let her do it for me.


The things I didn't know until later.

The baby's umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck three times. Ruth had to unwrap it before she could even remove him from my abdomen, it was wrapped so tightly. That explains why he never descended. It also means that I never would have been able to have a vaginal birth.

It's a slight consolation that we now know that the c-section truly was the only option available.

I did throw up on Michael, though he described it more as "a fine spray." He also said that he wasn't going to eat fruit cup for a long while (the last thing I had before going to the hospital). He also said it looked the same coming out as it did going in.

Everyone was trying not to cry in front of me so I wouldn't be scared. Jenn said that she was struck by the fact that I was telling her not to cry, that just before I went into surgery I was strangely calm.

When I was wheeled out of the room and Michael wasn't allowed to go with me, Jenn said that he looked "so lost." Virginia went to him then and hugged him, and he started bawling.

Michael spent most of the first night walking up and down the halls of the maternity ward with our baby, bonding with him in those first lucid, quiet hours before sleeping. I'm so glad that he was there and the baby wasn't left alone during that time.

So that's the story, but there are a number of things that I think about as a result. Those I suppose I'll get into later. Right now it's late and I should go to bed. I think the baby has stayed calm and asleep on purpose, because he knew I needed this time to think and to write.

Goodnight.