I Almost Died in Childbirth

Wear dark socks, one book said, anything white will come back stained. True, birth is a bloody business.

Snapping your femur in half is less painful, another told me. I can tell you this is also true.

But when you hold that baby in your arms, you’ll forget it all. It’ll seem like nothing, said my mother, every movie, and all the gray-haired busybodies at the grocery store.

For me, this was not true.

My labor came on like a freight train. By the time I got to the hospital, there were no more separate contractions—just one giant’s fist around my belly, squeezing me to a pulp. Sometimes it let up just enough for me to breathe, but it never let go.

The midwife met us there. She dragged over a trash can for me to vomit in and rubbed my back briefly before leaving for “just a moment” to fill out my admittance paperwork. This was my first child; these things take a while, she knew, so no hurry.

Within minutes of changing into my hospital gown, I felt an uncontrollable urge. “Push—I think I need—get the—” I gasped, and my husband frantically dialed the midwife, who was still off dawdling over forms. Six calls, no answer. I got into the bed, afraid the baby might just fall out onto the floor.