I distinctly remember going house hunting in the summer of 2013. Whatever place we found would also be the birthplace for my son that fall, and 6 months into pregnancy my mama instinct wanted to know what 4 walls would be around me on the big day. With a mere 9 days to find a place (in Denver, this is no small feat), we miraculously found a lovely town house along Bear Creek via the intercession of St. Joseph, on the 9th day of our search.
The 5th of November rolled around, a Tuesday. I’d had a few contractions the previous Saturday after a brisk 5 mile walk that I thought were the warm up to weeks of prodromal labor like the my first two births. I stood over the stove baking pumpkins and pie crust in our tiny town house, my own belly looking rather like a pumpkin in my orange t-shirt. A deep pulling sensation swept in and out, eventually dragging me away from the kitchen and onto the couch. I sat on the couch wondering why I felt so nauseous. When I succumbed to the discomfort and fatigue and laid down, I had the first contraction of the variety that announced true labor. Oops.
This continued all day and I fed my two year old dinner from my lap over that contracting belly, measuring the waves all the while. 5 minutes apart – not too shabby! Maybe we’ll have a baby tonight!
The midwife and her assistant arrived from their hour long drive at 11 pm after approximately 12 hours of labor. After the longest cervical check in my child bearing history we received the thrilling news (ha!) that I was 90% effaced and not dilated one whit. Huh? Seeing as there was no point in her hanging around, they packed up, told me to get some rest and that we’d be checking in with each other in the morning.
That night was was among the more strange and memorable in my life. I fell into a deep sleep, but about every 10-20 minutes felt like I was being hurdled through a portal from the dream world to my bed with a searing pain that left me clenching the sheets with a death grip. After 60 seconds it faded and I fell back asleep. This lasted about 6 hours when I decided I was done with it. I had never had contractions of this intensity before and no longer fancied being assaulted with them while I slept.
The morning of the 6th my mother in law was there to take the girls (3.5 and 2) out for the day. After breakfast my husband accompanied me for a long walk on the trail that ran near our house. Walking had really kicked things into gear for me with my first two labors but this time left me feeling spent, contractions petering. I began to struggle with feeling guilty for keeping everyone off work with this very, very long, strange labor that couldn’t seem to decide quite was it was doing.
There was one thing that made this labor, in retrospect, really quite marvelous and exquisite – the freedom I had. No wires, no beeping machines, no nagging nurses, cervical checks with loaded news of my “progress” or lack there of, no poking and prodding and unnatural interference with this mysterious and inward process of labor. Given how much faith I have in my body and the natural process, I feel infinitely more comfortable being left alone during labor, and this wish was fulfilled to the highest degree possible.
I spoke with my midwife at about 2 pm after attempting to rest, since this time laying down led to those lightening bolt intensity contractions versus the ghost version I got while walking. But still, no closer that 10 minutes apart at best. What on earth IS this labor?! She said, “It might not be real labor. Just forget it about and try to rest and we’ll talk later.” WHAT?! I couldn’t tell what I felt emotionally; anger, frustration and confusion all came out as tears. I knew this was the real deal, no way on earth contractions that intense could be anything else.
At about 4 pm I gave up on having a baby, got dressed and ready to go downstairs and make dinner. The girls and my mother in law were coming home. Just as I moved toward the dresser to grab some pants I was hit with the most intense wave yet, grasping for support to stay standing. Huh, maybe I’m not making dinner right now.
5 minutes later, again. And again. And again. Hmmmm. This seems suspiciously like active labor. I stayed in my room upstairs, listening to the faint din of my daughters playing downstairs and noticing that time had begun to fade away, and my tears had lulled into a deeply focused calm. After about an hour or two of this we called my midwife, who first said she would get ready, then thought twice (after that 2 hour drive for nothing the night before) and asked to listen to my contractions (also known as, how loud are you groaning? Yeah, not my cuppa tea). I explained that my contractions stop when I’m being watched like that but she insisted and of course, stop they did. “I’ve been a midwife for 15 years and you are not in active labor.” Anger and frustration bubbled up hot. I was about an hour and half out from birth and after 2 previous natural labors I knew that quite plainly. She just didn’t believe me.
I turned angrily to my husband and said “I can’t put up with this BS anymore.” He replied, “That’s okay, we can do this ourselves.” Oh yeah! I forgot! We had done a decent amount of research into unassisted birth a month prior when I got a gut instinct that I really didn’t trust my midwife but it was too late to switch. We had all the supplies, my mother in law had been a nurse for a decade, and the midwife would get there eventually. With a sigh of relief we got back to business, filling up the birth tub in our room and getting supplies out and ready.
I climbed in the tub hoping for the same instant relief I’d experienced from water with my second labor. After one or two contractions in the tub I realized relief was an illusion at this point. I intuitively stopped thinking and just found a focal point to zone into as a freight train wracked my body for the next hour. My husband offered sips of water between contractions and don’t think I said more than 5 words during that time. Eventually I figured I’d better get out and empty my bladder to make sure it wasn’t getting in the way of labor continuing as the pressure was getting quite intense.
My husband helped me into the bathroom and then walked off to find his dinner downstairs.
“Uh-oh.”
“What’s uh-oh?”
“There’s a baby in my butt.” (Ask any woman who’s had a natural birth – this is genuinely what it feels like.)
I sat down and attempted to empty my bladder and was met with nothing but intense pressure. Hmmm. I think I need to have a baby. Let’s check just to see where we’re at. Oh! Hey! That’s a head, and it’s pretty darn close to being in this room.
I yelled for my husband and turned to hold onto the bathtub.
“Do you want to go back to the birth tub?”
“No, I’m not moving.”
“Let me help you kneel down, I’m not catching a baby from that high.”
“No, I am not moving.”
(There’s a reason laboring women are stubborn. I can assure you that movement is the last thing a woman wants when there’s a human head exiting her pelvis).
My husband was as stubborn as I was about not catching a baby from a standing position and almost as soon as he helped me kneel down my water broke. As I pushed I noticed a pattern from my first labor that the head kept receding upward between pushes and I thought hell no, I am not letting this labor last any longer than it already has. I gathered all of my resolve and got his head out on the next push. Immediately my vision cleared and I felt joyously euphoric and ridiculously confident.
“His face is purple, push now!”
(With utmost carefree joy) “Nope, we’re fine! I’m waiting for the next contraction.”
After 2 seconds of glorious opening a cry filled our little bathroom and I turned around to my sweet pink baby, screaming and breathing and slippery wet and absolutely worth every moment of victorious struggle.
To be continued…
The Eye of the Needle 