Dear Jonas,
I wanted to write this letter to tell you the story of your
birth while it’s still a recent event in my memory. I wanted a record of it for
both of us, but mainly for you, even though I don’t expect that you will read
this letter until you are much older-- maybe as a curious adult or awaiting
children of your own. I think everyone should know the story of how they enter
the world. It’s an awe inspiring event.
Human beings are miraculous, and you are no exception. Mostly I hope
that you recognize my voice as I tell you OUR story.
In the days leading up to your birth, I had a lot of false
labor. For a few weeks I would wake up at four-thirty or five every morning
with contractions about five minutes apart lasting a few hours. I never had
false labor before, so I kept mistaking it for early labor. Most days, I’d get
in the tub and relax for a bit, the contractions would stop, and I would go
back to sleep until your sister woke up.
My midwife had let me know that I was three centimeters dilated and sixty
percent effaced about two weeks before you were born. I was nervous that you
might come quickly—maybe too quickly for me to make the thirty to forty-five
minute drive to the hospital.
The day that you were born started like many other days. I
woke up around five in the morning with contractions, and went to go take a
bath to see if I could get them to go away. The contractions were getting
closer together and starting to last for about a minute each. I called my
midwife, Julie, who suggested that I go into the hospital, and said that if
this turned out to be false labor I could always go home. I woke up your dad
and asked him to finish packing the hospital bag and get ready to go. Dad and I
were both fairly calm at that point. I
woke up your Grandma T, who had come to stay before you were born, and called my
doula (Latissa) on the car ride to the hospital.
Contractions continued pretty steadily during the car ride
to the hospital. When I got there, they checked me and said I was four
centimeters dilated and seventy percent effaced.
My contractions had slowed when I walked into the hospital and they encouraged me
to take a brisk walk and come back to be monitored in an hour. It was a cool,
gray fall day and we walked around the grounds of the hospital and watch the
yellow leaves blow across the street in waves. The breeze felt good on my skin,
and I walked around in a t-shirt, working up a sweat and adjusting my pace with
contractions.
When I got back in to be monitored, they told me I had no
change and that I should go home. I felt silly and apologized to the nurses and
Latissa for the false alarm. They all said that it was perfectly alright.
Latissa rubbed my ankles and looked me in the eye, “I think this baby is going
to be born today,” she said, and we left to go home.
Contractions picked up again in the car. I told dad he could
go ahead to work since his office was close to the hospital. Aunt Julianna
would be home, and could stay with your sister Phoebe and Uncle Jake if Grandma
T needed to take me to the hospital. When I got home, I sat down in the living
room and breathed through a few contractions. Grandma looked at me and said,
“This looks like active labor to me. I’m not sure why they sent you home.” I
tried to rest and Grandma made me soup for lunch. I had a cold leading up to your delivery and
still had a stuffy head. As I sat at the kitchen table, about half way through
the bowl, I felt an unmistakable gush, and I knew my water had broken. Luckily
I was prepared for that. Grandma and I loaded up the car and headed back to the
hospital.
When I got back to the hospital they told my water was definitely
broken and I was six centimeters dilated. Labor was going pretty smoothly at that time.
I had to concentrate through contractions, but it was pretty manageable. Julie
came and told me I was welcome to go labor in the tub for a while. When I got
up from the bed, it was obvious that there was meconium in the amniotic fluid,
so I knew the NICU team would have to come again, like they did at your sister’s
birth. I was disappointed, but glad to be in good care.
I asked dad to come and sit with me while I got in the tub.
I turned on music that I thought would make me think of you or help me relax. There were a lot of songs that were soulful
and a few lullabies. Dad sat by the side of the tub and smoothed my hair. I
closed my eyes and went back and forth between making a rocking motion and
going limp. This was a wonderful part of labor. It’s this paradox that’s hard
to explain -- I felt fully present and somewhere else at the same time.
A friend asked me once if labor made me feel beautiful. I’m
not sure if that’s the word I’d use to describe it. I usually associate feeling
beautiful with feeling confident, graceful, or put together, and I didn’t feel
that way. I’ve heard other women say that labor makes them feel strong and
powerful—like they can conquer the world. I don’t know if that’s true for me
either. I think the best word I can come
up with to describe it is humbled--deeply, deeply humbled. It’s is like
watching a storm sweep across the mountains, or the feeling I get when I look
at the ocean. Labor is a force of nature and it reminds me of my own smallness,
but at the same time it is awe inspiring and majestic. It’s not something I
feel like I can control. It feels like something I need to surrender to. In
moments like these I feel very close to God, not just because I get to
participate in the beginning of a human life, but because in recognizing my
complete dependence, I can also recognize His care.
Labor became more forceful in the tub. Latissa and Julie sat by me like silent sentinels.
Latissa would put pressure on my shoulders and hand me cups of water. In the
midst of the waves of contractions, I noticed I was trembling all over. I went
from breathing through contractions, to humming, to moaning. I opened my eyes to
tell Julie, who assured me that it was normal. Later I learned that she told
Dad and Grandma that she thought I was in transition. Eventually I felt like I wanted
more pressure on my hips and decided to leave the tub so Latissa could get a
better angle on me. Before I left
however, she spoke to me directly and let me know that once I got out of the
water, things would get more intense, and that I should be prepared.
She couldn’t have been more right.
I sat on an exercise ball by the side of the bed. Dad sat on
the bed holding my hand and rubbing my shoulders. Latissa sat behind me and
pushed my hips together (while I felt like I was splitting apart). I was nine
and a half centimeters dilated when I left the tub. This is where any sense of
control I might have thought I had completely disappeared. I felt like I had
lost my mind. I squeezed dad’s hand and cried out anything that came into my
head to say. From this time to your birth was only about a half hour—15 on the
ball and 15 minutes thinking about pushing. It was so brief, but amazingly
intense, for more than one reason.
When I was sitting on the ball, a nurse had come around me
and held a monitor to my stomach. I was too focused to notice that she was even
there. Apparently this is when they discovered that your heart rate was
decelerating. Julie had looked at me and
said, “I’m going to have you push, because I think that’s what you really want
to do.” I climbed into bed to tried and push on my hands and knees. As soon as I
flipped over, I felt my body push you all on its own and I yelled, “The baby is
going to fall out!” I decide I’m more
comfortable on my side for the next push and I start to notice all the nurses
in the room. I was told later that some of them were talking crouched down near
the floor so I wouldn’t see them and get freaked out. Suddenly, I noticed
someone put an oxygen mask on me and that there was a doctor in the room that I
didn’t recognize. I saw Julie looking at
the monitor and whispering to herself “Come on baby, come on baby.” This is
when I started to realize something might be going wrong. I asked who the doctor
was and he started explaining about things like a vacuum extractor and doing an
episiotomy. I was yelling that I couldn’t breathe and that I thought I would
get a break before pushing. “Your baby needs oxygen,” they told me as they put
the mask back on. I yelled that I
couldn’t do this, “But you are doing this!” Latissa told me. Grandma came over for the first time and stood
opposite of Dad at the bed and told me the same thing. “Your baby needs to be
born” I hear. “Push through the burning.” They told me to hold my breath while
I pushed, which was hard because I already feel like I couldn’t breathe. There
was a pause where everyone’s eyes are on the monitors for just a split second.
I took a deep breath and looked up at the mirror to see you while everyone was
looking elsewhere. Instead of telling them when contractions were coming, this
time I decided just to push and trust that they’d see what I was doing. I
thought of you and summoned all the strength I could muster, and in one great,
gigantic surge of energy you came barreling out into the world--head, shoulders,
and the rest of your body all at once.
They put you on my stomach with your back towards my face,
and I cried out, “My baby! My baby! Colin! Look at our baby!” I’d felt this
amazing euphoric rush and a calm sense of relief when you came out. You were
only there for a minute before the NICU team in the corner had to check on you.
I heard you cry and it was like music to my ears. I was so relieved that you
were safe. Dad and Grandma each got to
hold you while they did my stitches. I was grateful that I was able to push you
out on my own without any interventions. They handed you to me all swaddled in
a neat little package. You seemed so content and peaceful. You nursed right
away and fell deeply asleep.
Phoebe came with Grandma the next day to see you in the
hospital. She was clutching a white teddy bear that I had made for you (and she
had taken slight ownership over). She was two years old and we weren’t sure how
she would react to you coming. We’d been trying to explain what would happen,
but were never sure how much she grasped. We asked her a bit nervously when she
came into the hospital room who she thought you were. “That’s my BABY BROTHER!”
she shouted and climbed up on Dad to see you. We were all relieved to see how
much she loved you. “He has such little eyes and such a little nose,” she said,
“but Mama has such a big nose!” She tried to make Dad get out of the way so she
could sit in his chair and hold you on her own, or as she says,“Byyyyyyy
naself”
Dad and I had been thinking about names for you for a while.
We were determined to pick one before you came, but never had. The name Jonas means dove, which I thought fit
what a peaceful baby you seemed to be. You are my peaceful little warrior, and
I hope the name serves you well through your life. Your middle name, David, is
after Grandma T’s father. My brother, uncle, and cousin, all share the same
name-sake (and like you, many of them share his cleft chin as well). Great
Grandpa David passed away when Grandma T was young and I never got to meet him,
but he is remembered as a good man and loving father.
Early on, when I was pregnant with you, I had some
complications, and we weren’t sure that you were going to stay with us. I
worried and prayed over you constantly. You were very real to me from the day I
got a positive line on the pregnancy test, and if we had lost you, even at that
early stage, I would have been devastated. From the earliest moments, when I
heard your heart beat, or felt you move in my stomach, I knew you were strong.
You gave us a scare again at your birth, and again came through triumphant,
peaceful, almost as though nothing had happened. If you take nothing else from
the story of your birth, I want you to remember this: You are miraculous. You
are stronger than you’ll ever know. You are watched over by God and profoundly
loved by your family. I love you my baby boy!--Mama
