Giving birth for the first time is one of the scariest moments in a woman’s life. Birth pains are the worst pains. Everyone knows that. I’m not sure how other women overcome that fear. Do they have mothers, sisters or aunts to walk that path with them? Is the support enough? Do they elect medication or the knife far in advance to avoid the battle completely? Or are they like me, seeking out the best methods to do it the most natural way possible, so it doesn’t feel like a battle at all? But to instead see it as possibly one of the most transcendental experiences of one’s life.
Pregnancy was a beautiful experience for me. It was fun. Getting to read all the different size fruit my baby was growing as through the pregnancy apps. Learning each week what body part was developing. I had a glow. I was overflowing with love, joy and connection – the oxytocin was running through me like a river. As my belly grew, so did the realization that there was only one way this baby was entering the world. I like to say that my personality isn’t necessarily “Type A”. But more like a Type B+. I know how to accept things for what they are, but deep down I overanalyze how things ought to be. Which typically sets me up for disappointment in the natural world. I imagine God looks down at me and laughs at all the plans I have. Particularly my birth plan.
My ideal birth looked something like this: I wake up at 4 am like I had been during my pregnancy. Four o clock on the dot. I must have seen that time on my phone over a dozen nights. The universe, God. Someone must have been trying to tell me something at that time. Right? But instead of being woken up by the need to use the restroom, I was woken up by a mild cramp-like pain. I ignore it at first, but it returns repeatedly. Inconsistently the surge runs through me. I realize what it is, and I smile. I keep this as a secret to myself as I try to go back to sleep. I need rest for the marathon of labor that is to come. As I go about my day the pain comes, and it goes. I listen to worship music, and I fill my heart with joy knowing I will soon meet my baby girl. When early labor turns into active labor, my husband and my doula are with me in the hospital. I’m dressed in the soft labor gown I bought for myself. My music playlist I created is playing in the background. The string of lights is hung up. I am in the labor tub. I’m allowed to labor in it, but I’m technically not allowed to give birth in it. But I do anyway. I am miraculously able to avoid all pain medication. I remember with each contraction that the waves cannot be bigger than me since they are me. My baby enters the world surrounded by love. The cutting of the cord is delayed as long as possible as I perform skin to skin with my baby. I am fully present. I am filled with joy. The pain was not easy, but it was purposeful. I thank God for His presence every step of the way.
I desperately did not want to be rushed from one unnecessary intervention to another. I did not want to be another woman who was treated like a bed number by the medical system. I wanted my voice to be heard. I wanted to have a say in the choices that needed to be made. I wanted a natural birth and to ultimately avoid an unnecessary cesarean section. I wanted my baby and me to be a priority by my care team. I didn’t want one of the most important days of my life to be traumatic. But what would unfold would be far from it. An experience that I was afraid would break me turned out to be an experience that showed me my true strength…
It was on a Sunday when my water broke. Five days before my due date. I learned at that moment how exaggerated television can be. A gallon of water did not rush out of me, and I did not need to rush to the hospital immediately. I had time. But the amount of time I had was a risk I was willing to take. I knew the minute I arrived at the hospital I would be sent down a conveyor belt of interventions. Interventions that might help in the short term but might be damaging in the long run. Something I desperately wanted to avoid. So, I waited.
Sunday turned into Monday with no contractions in sight. I decided to see my acupuncturist Monday evening to help get my body to move along. But as I lay on the table with needles sticking out of me, I didn’t have much faith that it would work. It was too soon. It was as if my baby was ready, but my body was not. I wish I had realized in those moments that the challenge might not have been a physical one but a mental one. I wish I had remembered to take a moment to look within. A moment to look up to God and reconnected what seemed to have been broken.
By Monday night the contractions did come, but they only lasted through Tuesday morning. By 6 am they abruptly stopped. Night one of no sleep. Tuesday afternoon my doula came to the house to try anything and everything for my body to open and prepare the way for my baby girl. We walked the stairs; we walked the curbs. I stretched and bent but nothing budged. I was stuck in prodromal labor. I was not progressing. Castor oil was the last resort I had written down on my labor plan. And it became the next and last step before throwing in the towel and heading to the hospital. But the side effects scared me more than what I would potentially face with the medical team. At that point all my efforts seemed ridiculous. What was I trying to prove to myself? I knew the longer I kept this up the higher the risk of infection for me and my baby since my water had already broken. I knew the longer I waited the more fluid I was losing. The towel had to be thrown. So, we packed the truck with my pink hospital bag and cooler of snacks. As I closed the door of our home behind me, I knew I was closing the door to all my high expectations.
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