This story is in the form of a letter to my daughter. A few days after she was born, I decided that I wanted to write the way she came into the world—my own experience, in my own voice. I’m pretty candid in the way I talk about birth because I think birth is beautiful, and because that’s what comes most naturally to me. If those kind of details make you squeamish, then you might not want to read this letter. One day she’ll read this, and no matter whatever else she thinks, I hope her first thought is “Mom.”
. . .
Dear Phoebe,
I wanted to write your birth story for you while the memory is still fresh in my mind. Your birth was a miraculous, transformative event and I don’t want to forget even the smallest details. My hope is that one day, maybe when you are a mom yourself, you will read this and know how completely and perfectly loved you were right from the very start.
Labor started for me Sunday night June 30th. I say that now, but I didn’t know that then. I had just finished talking to your grandma (as I usually do on Sundays) and I remember telling her not to worry about when to come see you. “I haven’t even felt any Braxton Hicks yet,” I told her, “she seems content to stay right where she is. I’m just sure she’s going to be late.”
That night, I get ready for bed and as Daddy goes to sleep, I tell him I’m not feeling quite right and I think I’ll stay up for a while and maybe take a bath. There isn’t much in this life that can’t be cured with a nice dose of hot water. As the night goes on, I realize that the pains I’ve been feeling have a rhythm to them. I think that maybe these are the first contractions I’ve had, but having heard so much about false labor, I decide it’s no big deal. As the contractions get stronger and stronger, I think to myself that I should time them--you know-- just for peace of mind. I find that they are lasting for about a minute with about a three and a half minute break in between. From about midnight, I am in and out of the shower (I think I took four of them) and on and off of an exercise ball. I can’t seem to sit still. I spend a lot of time walking or on my hands and knees bent over the couch. At about five, I think to call the midwife’s office. I remember picking up the phone several times and putting it back down as a contraction came. I called in and got their answering service which said, “if this is a medical emergency, please call our on-call number” and I thought to myself “well this isn’t exactly an
emergency, I’ll just wait until they open
” as the intensity increased I decided to call the on-call number and speak with a midwife named Lindsey. I tell her I’m feeling pains and she asks how far apart they are. I remember trying to talk to her and having to stop and breathe. She says that she’s pretty sure I’m in labor and should think about heading to the hospital.
“Are you sure?” I say, “My baby isn’t due for another nine days. Couldn’t this pain be something else? Is there anything else that behaves this way?”
“No, I’m pretty sure you’re in labor. You should go to the hospital. Is there anyone with you?”
“Yes, my husband is here. I guess I should wake him up.”
“Yeah, I’d do that and head on in”
I wake up Daddy and he’s in a daze. I tell him we need to go to the hospital.
“Now?”
“Yes”
“Why?”
“We’re having a baby.”
“Now?”
“Yes”
At this point I hadn’t packed a hospital bag, but I had written a packing list. I hand it to daddy and we start frantically stuffing things into a backpack. Dad watches me drop to my hands and knees every few minutes and is worried. He says that he really thinks we should just go now. “Don’t worry” I say “Babies don’t just fall out.”
I hug a nursing pillow all the way to the hospital. Sitting in a seat in the car is very uncomfortable. When I get to St. Marks, I have trouble filling out forms and answering questions when I am admitted. I grip the edge of the desk and chair hard with my hands. When they put me into the labor and delivery room, I crawl onto the bed on my hands and knees and rest my arms across the table at the foot. Several nurses come in and hook me up to monitors and try to check my cervix (which I had never had done to this point) and they tell me I am at 6 cm and 90% effaced. When I need to have a heplock put in, I ask them to put it up high in my arm so I can still use my hands. When they put it in, they blow out one of my veins. They grab another nurse from the hall, who puts it in my other arm just above my thumb joint. They will adjust this all throughout my labor. I find it very hard to sit still while they do this and I keep asking where my midwife, Kat, is. She was the one that I knew and trusted through my pregnancy. I never even interviewed anyone else. Sometimes you just have a sense about people.
When Kat gets there, the nurse tells her she checked me twice, once she thought I was at 6 cm and the second time she thought I was at 3 cm. Kat checks for herself and tells me I am at 3. She puts pressure on my hips through a contraction and asks me if I’d like to get in the tub. All the madness and chaos comes to a grinding halt when they put me in that tub. No more checks and probing by nurses. I understand now why they call it “the wet epidural.” I just sit in the hot water and point the jets at my low back. I am so much more relaxed and I spend the next several hours in here. They bring me juice and Jello and I eat it right there in the tub. I chat with Kat and Daddy in between contractions. The tub is very hot, and I sweat a lot, but in a good way. As the intensity increases, daddy wipes me with a wet wash cloth and tries to fan me.
They take me out of the tub to check me and I am at 5 cm. They hook me up to monitors again. This is very uncomfortable. The nurses and midwife are all very supportive of the fact that I didn’t want pain medication. One of the nurses tells me she had five children all natural and “I can do it!” At this point, I’ve casually mentioned how good it looks to me several times. I try to think about all the things I had done to prepare for the pain, but all of the sudden all the visualizations and relaxation techniques sound like a load of garbage. I don’t care that other women do this all the time, I don’t care about my stupid birth plan (which I wrote and failed to bring), I don’t care about anything anymore. They look at the monitor and see my contractions are right on top of each other. I sit on a birth ball (which is no help at all) while they try to adjust my heplock AGAIN and I ask Kat if there is anything that can be done about the pain. She says I am progressing just fine and am welcome to keep doing what I’ve been doing. They can also do phentenol through an IV or there is the epidural. She has everyone leave the room so Colin and I can talk about it. I am so tense and so tired that I am starting to cry during contractions. I decide to have them hook me up to phentenol to help me relax. About an hour later, I ask how long it’s supposed to take to work.They tell me it should be working, but I feel no different. I clench down on the side of the bed during contractions.They keep telling me to relax my shoulders and I want to yell at them “YOU relax your shoulders!” It seems so counter intuitive to relax into pain. I don’t want anyone to talk to me or touch me. I ask for the anesthesiologist to come in. I bend over the edge of the bed across the table as he numbs my back and starts the epidural.
After that, things get a bit hazy. I instantly relax and am dilated up to a 9. I think I nap a while in here, but it’s hard to remember. I look over at daddy and tell him I’m ok. I’m not so sure he is. I’m almost limp as they hook me up to all the hoses and monitors. It was such a stark contrast from the constant motion I was in before to be splayed out on the bed completely plugged in. I can still tell when I am contracting, but I don’t care as much.
When my water was broken, Kat said it looked like there was some meconium in the amniotic fluid. “It looks like thick pea soup” she said. Very calmly, she told me that they were going to call in the NICU team. “Better to have them here and not need them” she said. I had been so focused on myself, I hadn’t gotten to worry about you until just then. I was scared they would take you away--small and vulnerable--and that you might have trouble breathing.
They brought down a mirror for me when it was time to push. I was glad that I could see you on your way into the world. They had daddy hold one of my legs. My contractions had slowed to 7 or 8 minutes apart,and I could talk in between them again like I did at the start of labor. I would tell the nurses when I felt one coming, and they would hold my legs in tight while I pushed. At one point,Kat looks over at daddy and asks him if he’s ok. Daddy says he’s fine. She says that he looks a little pale and offers to have one of the other nurses hold my leg for me. There is a lot of blood, and dad comes and sits next to me instead.
I’m so motivated when I see your head crown. I want to push even when the contractions are over. I get so excited to meet you. When you finally come out, you come out all at once in a huge gush. I feel the greatest rush of joy I’ve ever experienced. Tears spring out of my eyes instantly and uncontrollably.They lay you slippery and warm on my chest and you look up right into my eyes—both of us seeing the world for the first time.
Daddy is holding my hand and I keep saying “Colin, look at her, just LOOK at her” and he is of course, looking at you. The NICU team whisks onto the warmer in the corner of the room and my arms miss you. This is the first time I hear you cry. You are so tiny and precious and my every fiber of my being just wants to protect you and keep you close. I tell daddy to go over there and watch you. They tell me you didn’t breathe in any meconium, and I am relived. They are working on my afterbirth and stitches now (I had a small tear). It doesn’t feel very good, but I don’t care. All I can do is look at you.
They wrap you up and daddy gets to hold you for the first time. I hear all your numbers: 6 lbs, 7 oz, 19 in. You are miniature in his arms. He says hello to you in a soft voice and you look in each other’s eyes as he moves the blankets below your chin. I know he’ll protect you and I am overcome with love for you both.
I nurse you right away and I am so impressed by how strongly you latch on. You are hungry and you eat like a champ. It’s a new sensation for both of us, but it feels completely right to have you so close to me.
Your birth story doesn’t end there. The next few days in the hospital are a whirl wind. They give you a bath the first night, and we try to guess what your hair color might be. I hate it when they make you cry by putting you under the faucet. You spend about an hour on the warmer getting your temperature back up. In the crib next to you, there is a little boy with a doctor. He cries and cries and there are lots of tubes and plastic objects in his crib. I see you pink and happy, holding daddy’s finger on the warmer, and I count my blessings before God.
Everyone asks us what your name is, and it takes us a while to decide. We name you Phoebe because you are so bright eyed and curious. Phoebe is also a bird, just like you are our little early bird. We wanted to give you a family name for your middle name and decide to name you after your grandma Lilace who passed away while your dad was on his mission.
We have one set of professionals after another come into our room. They pepper us with papers and numbers and information. My head spins and I know I’ll never remember. I feel like everyone who picks you up besides us somehow does it wrong. At night, you are sleeping peacefully, I reach over and quiet you at the smallest fuss. We look at each other, me through the side of the hospital bed, and you through the plastic crib.
We doze off and I wake up to hear a choking sound beside me. I look over and there is brown stuff oozing out of your mouth. I’ve been around babies enough to know they are not supposed to spit up brown. I call in the nurse and tell them I think you’re choking. I’m absolutely frantic. They tell me that it’s meconium and that it’s probably giving you a stomach ache but that the colostrum you’ve been getting will help clear it out. When they told me you hadn’t aspirated any meconium, it never occurred to me that you might have swallowed some.
I am so tired and I let the nurse take you to the nursery for a few hours so I can sleep. I know I wont have the option once we go home. When she brings you in at 2 am, she barely says a word and leaves you next to the bed. You look puffy like you’ve been crying and I am so upset. I try to nurse you, but where you had been good at it before, you were suddenly having difficulty. I let them give you a pacifier earlier and I am now kicking myself with guilt. Is that why you wont eat? You’re so hungry you can’t seem to settle down. One of the nurses was very kind in helping me get you to eat. She said not to worry, and that hers had taken pacifiers and ended up breastfeeding fine. She says that they can give you just 10 ml of formula to get you to calm down and eat. I will do anything at this point to make you comfortable. When they bring you in later the new nurse says you ate a whole bottle, and I keep wondering if we’ll get this breast feeding to work.
I’m scared as I put you in the car seat to take you home for the first time. I’ve had such a busy flurry of professionals around me, that I am unsure if I can keep you safe on my own. You dad straps in the car seat and we leave the hospital almost as unprepared as we arrived. I suspect that now that we are parents, we may never feel prepared again. That’s ok though, in fact it’s great! We love you so much that we are willing to take whatever else comes our way. We can barely wait for all the wonderful surprises you have in store.
). It was tons of fun and hilarious to watch. Here are some photos:
