Birth Stories (Part Five): We’re missing one

This is Part Five in a series of stories about my pregnancies. Here are Part One, Part Two, Part Three, and Part Four.

My son was only about three weeks old. I was in bed, either nursing, or… Let’s be honest, I was probably nursing. Because newborns? They. Eat. All. The. Time.

I remember looking at my husband, daughter, and son and thinking, “We’re missing one.” I had this feeling that there was supposed to be one more member of our family. I know that sounds a little woo-woo, but it’s the truth.

So, when my son was about one and a half, we started trying again. My fourth pregnancy had been more physically taxing than my first. Partly, that was because of the other pregnancies in between. But partly, it was because my body was older. I wasn’t old, but I was very aware of how my body was changing as I aged. So, I wanted to get started on baby number three as soon as possible.

And, despite my obsession in previous pregnancies about getting pregnant right away, I don’t remember being bothered when it took a few months this time. Maybe it was because I had two kids and less time to dwell on it. (That’s probably it.)

Then came the nausea. The loss of appetite. The weight loss. The exhaustion. And let me tell you, those symptoms are much worse when you have not one, but two little people who want your attention 100% of the time.

And then, the dreaded glucose test. See Part 4 for a detailed description of this horror show. This time, I bombed the first screening test so badly that I convinced my doctor to skip the second test and just diagnose me with gestational diabetes. So, it was back to the low-carb diet, lots of walking, pricking my finger four times a day and lots of extra appointments.

As my due date got closer, I realized there was a chance that this baby would share a birthday with my daughter. The due date was only three days later, and my other two had been a couple days early, so it was possible.

Also, I had no intention of even trying to do an unmedicated birth this time. I was a complete epidural convert. I was an epidural evangelist. They are lovely and wonderful and anyone who tells you not to get one is a sadist.*

Due to the possibility of complications from gestational diabetes, my doctor did not want me to go past my due date, so we scheduled an induction for the day before I was due.

But then, two days before my scheduled induction (on my oldest daughter’s sixth birthday), I went to the hospital, thinking my water had broken. Now, you might be thinking “Wouldn’t you know if your water broke?” But I didn’t, it was sort of… leaking. It wasn’t a gush, so I couldn’t be sure. The doctors did some tests, told me that I wasn’t going to deliver the baby that day, and sent me home.

The nice thing about a scheduled induction was that at least I knew I would have time to get an epidural. With my son it had been a pretty close call, and since I love epidurals so much**, I was really happy that at least I wouldn’t have to worry about that. If you know anything about foreshadowing, you can probably guess where this is heading.

I was scheduled to be induced on a Thursday. But I had to go in to the hospital Wednesday night. The plan was, at night they would give me one cytotec to soften my cervix, and another one in the middle of the night. I was told that sometimes just the cytotec on its own can cause contractions, but they would likely have to start pitocin in the morning. I asked repeatedly about when in this process I would get the epidural. The nurses, unconcerned, said we could start it when I started having serious contractions.

I had pre-filled paperwork about the anesthesia; I did not want anything to delay that epidural. And around 10:45 they gave me the cytotec. A nurse fastened monitors to my belly that were supposed to record if I was having contractions. I dozed for about 30 minutes. When I woke up, I felt like I was having a mild contraction, but it wasn’t showing up on the monitor. I told the nurse and she adjusted my monitors, but said they were probably not serious enough to register.

Then, they started getting serious. Quickly. And the monitor still wasn’t picking anything up.

I was certain I was in serious, for-real labor around 12:45am. The contractions still weren’t showing up on the monitor, but I could feel them, and since this was my third time around, I knew they were serious. So, I asked the nurse for an epidural.

“Okay, we just have to do some blood work,” she said.

And that’s when I knew: I would not be getting an epidural. These were not “let’s draw some blood and send it to the lab and wait for the results and call the anesthesiologist and then get you an epidural” contractions. These were “there had better be a massive needle already in your spine or that epidural is not going to be in time” contractions.

They came in and drew blood. And then they left. My husband and I were alone in the delivery room.

If you take a birthing class, the instructors tell you things like, “You’ll probably want to move around,” or “Try changing positions,” or “Breathe.” I did not want to do any of those things. I wanted to lay on my side, clutching the bed rail, eyes closed and moan until the contraction stopped. My husband kept encouraging me to change positions. I kept telling him to shut up.

And, as the contractions got worse, it really set in that this epidural was not happening. This was the first time I ever hit the “transition” stage of labor without an epidural. It was not worse than the pitocin contractions I had with my first delivery, but it was horribly painful in a different way. I was almost passing out from the pain and incoherent with the pitocin contractions. But this time, I was fully aware of the excruciating pain. I couldn’t control the sounds that were coming out of my mouth. I said, “I can’t do this,” repeatedly. A very, very small part of my brain was disappointed at how cliché that was.

And then, I let out a guttural scream. So loud that not only my nurse, but another nurse came running in. They knew right away that this baby was coming now. Not in the morning after pitocin, not after another cytotec, not even after my anesthesiology blood work was done. Right. Now.

Earlier, I had noticed a few small things our nurse did that made me think she was fairly new. Just small hesitations, not being totally sure how to hook up my monitors. Nothing major, but I suspected she wasn’t a seasoned labor and delivery nurse. The other nurse who came in while I was screaming, on the other hand, was clearly a veteran.

They checked to see how dilated I was, and she said I was a 5. You’re supposed to be a 9 or 10 when you push. But this baby was coming no matter what. I vaguely recall one of the nurses calling the doctor, or saying they had called the doctor, and then the nurse said to me, “If you can *not* push, then don’t. But if you feel like you have to push, then you can.”

And I had to push. I mean, my body was doing it whether I wanted to or not.

And, as my husband tells the story, that baby flew out so fast that she skidded on the table before the nurse caught her.

They let me grab her and pull her up onto my chest immediately, and she was perfect. She looked even more like my first daughter than my son had.

Two minutes later, the doctor showed up. Ten minutes later, the nurse was checking my charts and said, “Well, your blood work just came back.”

Once I had my baby on my chest, I was chatting with the nurses. They said they had been at the nurse’s station when I started screaming and my (relatively new) nurse said, “What was that?!” and the veteran nurse said, “That’s someone about to have a baby,” and they came running.

Even though this was not a planned epidural-free birth, and even though I wanted that epidural so badly, I’m glad I had this experience. For two reasons. One, I realized what I could endure. Two, I had a much faster recovery. My daughter was born at 1:55 on Thursday morning, and I was walking to the farmer’s market with her in a stretchy wrap on Saturday morning. And I felt great. My recovery with my other deliveries was not that fast. And the labors were also much longer.

I shared these stories, not because they are unique or because they are special (though they are), but because they are common and universal. I know these days you can find lots of stories about pregnancy, birth and loss, but I think it’s important that we keep sharing them. It helps remind us that we’re not alone. Thank you for reading!

*I don’t really think people who tell you not to have an epidural are sadists.

** Since training as a doula, I’ve calmed back down on the epidurals. Epidurals are not always as effective as mine were, and sometimes can cause complications. That said, if a birthing person wants an epidural, I completely understand and certainly won’t try to talk them out of it. After all, mine were so pleasant!