Four days past my due date of February 20th, labor felt further away than it had the week before. People at school stopped asking if I was still pregnant and instead offered to let me scrub their floors or reminded me I could still try castor oil.
Five days past the due date, I cleaned the bathroom and mopped the floors and repacked the hospital bags. Around 1 am that night, I noticed a dull pain in my lower back. I couldn’t sleep, so I fired up a heating pad, put a movie on, and spent the night on the couch.
By 7 am the pain had only intensified, so I called Erica, our doula, who thought it sounded like back labor–the baby must be “sunny-side up,” with the back of her head against my spine. Since I still wasn’t feeling much of any contractions, I thought “real” labor was still a long way off. But because the back pain was so intense, Derrick called in to work and I took a shower. The hot water felt good on my back and I started to feel contractions. Once I was out and dressed, my water started leaking–not a dramatic flood, just enough to keep sending me back to the bathroom again and again.
The morning was a gray one, and it was starting to storm. I had hoped to do most of my early labor in the serenity of the gentle colors of the baby’s room. So thither I went, down on my hands and knees to rock through the back labor and the strengthening contractions. If I could get the baby to turn, hypothetically I’d get relief from the back labor.
At some point, the electricity went out. Derrick tracked my contractions–3 to 4 minutes apart. I was a bit disoriented by the process already–where was the slow start-up, the restful breaks between contractions? I had thought this stretch of early labor was supposed to be quiet and serene; I had planned to work on the baby book, cut up t-shirts for washable wipes, and flip through old Real Simple magazines. Instead, I could only think of one thing: finding an elusive comfortable position.
When we called the doctor mid-morning, he said we must come in immediately. During a break in the rain, Derrick carried our bags to the car and I pulled on street clothes. We headed for the hospital a mile away.
At the hospital, we went to the Emergency Room entrance, bypassing Registration. Earlier, I had asked several times if it were possible to pre-register, and everyone said absolutely not. When one smart-aleck said that was Derrick’s job, I raised my eyebrows and said, “No, his job is to be with me!” They guy had reluctantly admitted that bedside registration was possible if I was very close to delivery. So as they escorted us to Labor and Delivery, the woman at the ER registration desk called after Derrick to come back later and register. He shot back, “No, you can come to us!”
Hello, hospital. Your high-maintenance patient has arrived.
Our county hospital has two delivery rooms. One is a standard hospital room and the other has faux cherry furniture, a whirlpool, a cd player, and lots of space for pacing or using birthing balls or other non-invasive pain management techniques. There are many times when the ward only has one patient–or none at all, so we were anticipating the nice room would be available. But that wasn’t to be; another laboring woman had beaten me to it.
Our nurse soon had me hooked up to the machine that goes beep! (for anyone who’s seen Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life). She said I was already dilated 8 cm–unbelievably good news!
Erica arrived with a bottomless bottle of massage oil. The venerable nurse had left us to our own devices, so we removed the monitor and I got out of bed. The next few hours were a haze of relentless back pain and constantly intensifying contractions. Erica and Derrick took turns rubbing my lower back, the only way I could find some measure of relief. Between contractions Derrick fed me bites of granola bar and offered me water. When my moans pitched upwards, Erica modeled low vocalizations that reduce body tension. When I started breathing too fast, she reminded me to take long, slow breaths. I leaned against a table, rested my head on the bed, sat on the toilet, and then went back to bed for a moment of rest–all the while Erica applying counter-pressure to my back. Her hands and arms must have been sore for a week.
At some point, I was ready to cry uncle and raid the drug cabinet myself. But when the doctor and the anesthesiologist came by, they felt I had progressed too far for Demerol. As much as I wanted a break, I didn’t want the immobility of an interthecal (alternative to an Epidural) since there was no guarantee it would relieve the back pain. An interthecal would have put me flat on my back–the worst possible position when you’re having back labor. The anesthesiologist cheerfully told me that if I changed my mind, she would only be a 30-minute drive away. At that point, thirty minutes seemed as close as the next galaxy.
Around 2 pm, the doctor said I was 10 cm dilated–ready to push except for a tiny lip that had to dilate first or there would be swelling and gnashing of teeth. I held my legs together and tried to relax and resist the urge to push while keeping an eye on the clock. Around 2:30 they said he would be back to check again in thirty minutes. The minutes dribbled by; Erica kept encouraging me that I was doing great, we were moving along well, it would be over soon. Even as I was moaning, flailing my arms in pain, I quickly realized that the meaning of “soon” was extremely elastic when it came to childbirth.
Shortly after 3 pm, the doctor finally gave the all-clear: I could start pushing at last! But as luck–or biology–would have it, the contractions suddenly changed. They came more slowly and lightly which gave me a chance to rest. At the same time, I was now feeling more tired than ever. I was hanging on to a metal bar at the end of the bed, squatting, and pushing even though the urge had all but vanished. They were telling me that it would soon be over, but all I wanted to do was lay down and take a nap. After all these hours, why the sudden rush now?
Another nurse, Angela, came in to help coach me. While Erica massaged my back, Angela told me when I was having a contraction so I knew when to push. Again, we went through a round of different positions, but most of the time I was hanging on the end of the bed and moaning loud enough that even I was surprised no one shushed me. The mother next door had already delivered; I imagine she was either fighting the urge to come slap me or had fled, placenta trailing, to the serenity of a recovery room. At moments bizarre thoughts–completely unrelated to the task at hand–flitted through my mind. I don’t remember what they were, but I had to consciously pull my mind back to the present. Derrick tells me now that was my brain trying to disassociate.
Eventually, a dark head of hair was visible. Derrick, Erica, and Angela were all yelling, “Push, push, push!” The older nurse kept trying to get a reading of the baby’s heart rate what seemed to be every five minutes or so. It annoyed me at the time, but since the readings were all strong, it probably prevented more invasive procedures. The doctor was squatting next to me ready to catch the baby.
But she wouldn’t come.
Finally I crawled back up on the bed with what felt like a bowling ball between my legs and they set up a squat bar for me to hang on to. Again, my cheerleaders were yelling encouragement and I was pushing with everything I had. The doctor was now very concerned; he brought out the suction device. And then he said what I had spent my entire pregnancy hoping to avoid–”I’m going to have to do an episiotomy–you’re not pushing hard enough to tear and you’ve been pushing for three hours. She has to come out.”
“Okay,” I whispered, unable to argue with his logic. Later Angela told me it was the only time she had ever advocated for an episiotomy.
In the intensity of the moment, the incision didn’t register with me. I was beyond low moans at this point and let myself do the high-pitched scream that had been growing in me all day. The doctor said, “No more screaming; just push!”
And in a flash there was a purplish baby wriggling on the bed. Liberty Faye was born at 5:49 pm, not sunny-side up–just 10 lb., 7 oz., and 23 inches long.
The nurses immediately took her to the warmer in the corner where they suctioned her nasal passages as her purple color turned red. Derrick had a front row view; he looked across the room at me with tears in his eyes, overcome by the mission accomplished.
Of course, as that phrase has come to signal, the mission wasn’t quite finished yet. I had a few more low moans to go–delivering the placenta and getting stitched up. In the meanwhile, Derrick brought the baby nearer to my bed. When she heard my moans, she turned to look at me. With that kind of maternal association, the poor child must be scarred for life. In a few moments she was in my arms and began nursing immediately.
We had all but decided on a name for her when Derrick suggested Liberty a week before she was born. I didn’t much care for it at the time, but agreed to consider it. After she was born, Derrick was inclined to go back to the original name. But when I looked at this big, healthy baby with her dark hair and eyes, I knew only a strong name like Liberty would suit her. Considering the events of the day, Derrick would have agreed to anything I wanted, he now says. So she was named Liberty Faye, the second name in memory of Derrick’s paternal grandmother.
In retrospect, I expect a c-section would have been inevitable if I had taken an interthecal since I barely had enough strength to push as it was. In the days immediately following Liberty’s birth, a c-section didn’t seem like a bad idea, but my rapid recovery has changed my mind. Even the intensity of my memories of the day are fading.
What I won’t ever forget, however, is our team–Derrick, Erica, Angela, Elsie, and Dr. Windsor. Each one gave their undivided support, attention, and care. Even though some of them probably rolled their eyes when they initially read our birth plan, they accomodated our preferences which made it much easier to trust their judgment when it was time to alter the plan.
Tomorrow will be the last day of Derrick’s paternity leave. I’m sorry to see him go back to work, but we’re so glad for the time we’ve been able to share decoding Liberty’s cries, problem-solving breastfeeding issues, and struggling to get up in the morning after a fragmented night.
Liberty is amazing, of course. At a week old, she smiled back when we talked to her. She has hung in there through a myriad of nipples and nutrition we’ve put in her mouth. She usually sleeps at least one four hour stretch through the night, sometimes two. Her facial contortions, limb-stretching, and hand-wringing as she wakes up tickle us every time. We’re a little more nuts about her every day.
One Day Old
Two Days Old
