My Birth Story

You’ll just know.

Come on, people. No, I won’t.

After reading about the 4 billion different possibilities for what the beginning of my labor could look like, I thought that was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. I still do. Here’s what I did know – something hurt, and I wanted to go to the hospital to have it checked. As it turns out, I was in full on active labor. Good guess, Tara.

It was the day before my due date, and I decided I needed a pedicure and Peter needed a haircut. I was obsessed with both happening no matter what. We weren’t going to look like shabby hooligans in all those post baby hospital pictures. We managed to do both, and I was glad. Side note: it’s hilarious to watch people’s faces when they ask you when your due date is and you can say, “tomorrow”.

First family photo. You can definitely see my oh so needed pedicure.

Our evenings as of late had gotten pretty low key as the big day loomed. I had been having Braxton Hicks contractions for weeks, but as we sat watching TV, something was different. That shit hurt.

“Peter, I’m going to time these. They might be the real thing.”

“What? Really? Ok.”

An hour goes by.

“Peter, they’re like 5 minutes apart. I think this is real. I want to go to the hospital.”

“Nah, let’s just wait a little bit.”

“No. We’re going.”

Bags in car. Text to doula. Cousin Jeff called to pick up dog. Off we go.

I could have murdered Peter for every bump in the road that he hit. Like he had control of that or something. Regardless, he apologized for every one like a gentleman.

When we got to the hospital, it was already after hours so we had to use the call button, which I could barely press I was in so much pain. Thankfully, a nurse walked up and got us in quickly – she could tell I was legit.

When we got to triage, they asked for my insurance card and ID. Wait… where’s my ID? Seriously? Yeah, I had lost it. As I doubled over with the pain of the next contraction, the receptionist told me don’t worry about it, but that I needed to sign here, here and here. God only knows what binding contracts I had just put my name to.

I got into a room full of machines, changed into a hospital gown, and almost immediately ended up in a giant puddle of mystery liquid. (As it turns out, both labor and motherhood are just a series of one disgusting fluid after another. You’re literally soaked in… ummm question mark?… for months. Perhaps years. I guess I’ll find out.) I just knew my water had broken. I guess it was actually some other bunch of liquid because they said my bag was still intact, which seemed impossible after the puddle I just saw.

Next, they did an ultrasound to make sure E was facing the right direction. He was, and then I got to hear one of my favorite memories from labor. “Look! Your baby has hair!” I didn’t even know you could see that on an ultrasound, but sure enough he had HAIR. Evidence below.

Yup. That hair.

After they were really, really sure I was for real, I got moved to a labor room. Somewhere in that period of time our doula, Julie, showed up. You guys… get a doula. Yeah, the word doula is cringe worthy, but I don’t know what Peter and I would have done without her. She coached us and held our hands through what would turn out to be another 20 hours. That’s right, I said 20 HOURS.

From here forward, things are blurry for me. Breathing, vomit*, whirlpool, breathing, vomit, concentration. That’s about it. It’s pretty much how nature guarantees you’ll do this again. Here are the parts I do remember:

•  At one point, hours and hours in, Peter had fallen asleep or went to get food (fuzzy) and I was with Julie and a nurse named Marsha. Out of nowhere, I was hit with this moment of extreme calm and love. I reached out and asked for a hug from Julie and then started rubbing Marsha’s arm. For a moment, I was serene and happy, and I loved those two women more than I can describe.
• “You’re still 7 centimeters dilated.” After hearing those words for the third time in 12 hours of active labor, I pleaded for an epidural. Yes, I tried to go all natural. Ha.
• The exhausted excitement I felt when it was actually time to push.
• The terror when my baby came out not making a sound and was whisked away to a small table in eye shot of my bed, surrounded by a half dozen nurses and doctors. His tiny chest was moving up and down so rapidly, struggling to take those first breaths of this life. Before he was taken to NICU, I was allowed to have him on my skin for a brief minute. Then he was gone. I sent Peter with our tiny baby boy and Julie knelt by my side, held my arm, and started to pray. Soon after stitches and delivering the placenta everyone left, and I was in that empty room alone. I watched World Cup silently on TV, my heart filling up with fear and sadness instead of love. That feeling is something that I still haven’t been able to completely shake.
• Relief when I finally got a short video from Peter. It was of our little boy crying. Still, every time I watch it, tears of joy roll down my face. Our baby was breathing.

Thankfully, E is strong. He only spent a few hours in NICU before he was cleared to be with us. In that amount of time my mom had made it to Denver and she was able to hold her grandson for the first time. I was exhausted, confused, in pain, and happy. We had made it through labor and my baby was here.

That is my birth story as I remember it.

*My sister reminded me that I told her I threw up at least 20 times. It’s true. Every time I had a large contraction, I blew chunks. And THAT little detail, friends, is why you write things down.