8:00 pm. It was dark and pouring rain. I’d dreaded the car ride. Everyone acted like it would be awful, seat-belted for 50 minutes. I had my water, tea, and toast beside me, pillow in my lap. I breathed slow and Dave reached over. “Squeeze some of your pain into my hand,” he said.
In between contractions I made two playlists, Labor Hope and Labor Love. Why were the playlists made on the way to the hospital at 40 weeks 5 days? Valid question. But those songs have become holy ground.
The drive didn’t feel long. In fact, I felt a bit of relief. We parked and stared at the hospital lights.
“This is it, babe. We’re going to meet our baby.” Dave said.
I didn’t move. “I’m afraid,” I said. “Please pray.”
Dave took my hands and prayed softly and then opened the door and came around to mine. We walked in slow.
Leaning against the counter to give my name, I wondered what I looked like to the people in the waiting area. I had no clue what number to rate my pain. I sensed the nurse wasn’t convinced I was in active labor. I was only 3 cm. She put the monitor on my belly. “Oh!” her eyebrows raised. “You are having some pretty big contractions.” She made a call and came back saying Kim was on her way.
We got the only delivery room with a jacuzzi. I was glad, but aware that I didn’t care as much as I’d thought I would.
The nurse chatted chipperly and typed on her keyboard, asking an endless stream of questions while I sat on a birthing ball and leaned against the bed, waiting to answer until I could speak above a whisper. Over the phone, Kim assured the nurse to honor my request to avoid an IV unless a need arose.
When the nurse drew my blood, I told Dave to squeeze my hand as hard as he could to distract me from it all.
My eyes were shut, but I felt something running down my arm.
Mom arrived.
The nurse was apologizing.
I’m don’t know what happened, but when the draw was over she mopped blood from my arm and our hands and Mom grabbed a wash cloth and scrubbed my leggings. They didn’t want me to see it and faint. I found it funny.
When I settled into bed, Dave brought in my applesauce and weathered mug of raspberry leaf tea. I didn’t touch the food, but intermittently gulped tea and water. Kim had instructed me that if I wasn’t getting an IV, I had to make sure to stay hydrated. Constant thirst made it easy.
The minutes and hours blurred, sensations the only memories:'
frightening fatigue.
Aching cold.
Warring thoughts.
Unquenchable thirst.
I’d expected to be hot. I took tank tops and made sure Dave had a jacket. Instead, I got chilled soon after arriving and didn’t warm up for hours. My shivers shook the bed. Gretchen, my soft-spoken nurse, heaped warmed blankets on me. I was so tired but unable to rest.
“I’m still thirsty,” I told Dave. He handed me the ice water again.
“Maybe gum will help,” I said. He got a piece from his bag. I chewed it desperately. But when a contraction reached full strength I couldn’t synchronize breathing and chewing and swallowing, so I’d grab it from my mouth, breathe, and then shove it back in.
“I haven’t seen this method,” Dave said, and amusement lifted us for a moment.
12:30 am. Mom suggested a hot shower. Dave walked with me to the bathroom and sprayed my back with hot water. I found more breath and relief from the cold. Eventually the shower chair became uncomfortable. I pulled my leggings and sweatshirt back on. My legs were weak, knees shuddering with shivers again. Dave brought the birthing ball and I leaned against the bed and buried my head in my favorite pillow from childhood. The soft familiar smell hugged my tired face.
Of worse concern than my body was that I couldn’t find comfort in my mind. All the reading and conversations on positive thinking, on riding the waves of pain, on visualization and the opening flow of breath, it felt unattainable.
I tried to melt the tension in my forehead, jaw, feet. But I could not find confidence that my body would truly deliver, that I would make it through. I felt at the end of my rope, but I knew I had a great climb yet ahead. I feared my fear, worried my inner turmoil would worsen and prolong the process.
“I need to sleep.” I moaned. And then I did. I jolted and realized I was drifting off between contractions. I jumped again, mid-sentence.
“What?” Dave asked, his face against my hair.
“I was talking in my sleep,” I said in confusion. “ I’m freaking talking in my sleep during labor.” We both appreciated the irony, since I’m the worst when it comes to falling asleep.
I had Dave turn on the hypnobirthing audio, hoping to get ahold of positive, peaceful thoughts.
Mom started the diffuser with lavender and lemon oils.
I willed my spirit to lift but my thoughts rebelled:
I can’t relax my abdomen, stupid!
Good smells…
It smells like Lysol.
“You’re not helping!” I scolded myself.
“You’re doing a good job, Carrie. Your body was made to do this,” Mom said, taking a turn rubbing my back.
“I can’t do it, Mom. I can’t do the hardest thing in my life when I’m this tired.” I was too tired to cry.
“Let’s ask about Nubain,” Mom said.
Kim checked me. “You’re a good 4 cm, 5 with a contraction. Your cervix is soft and the baby is low. I think it’s a great time for Nubain,” she said. “It will give you some much needed rest, but won’t stop your body from doing its work.”
I heard her instructing the nurse, “give an injection, she doesn’t need an IV.” I was desperate enough I wouldn’t have resisted, but I felt so grateful for her quiet, confident minding of my wishes.
“I want anti-nausea meds,” I said.
“You’re only getting a half dose, and Nubain rarely causes side effects,” they said, “but we can give you something to make sure.”
“Yes please.” I’ll be darned if I get sick from medication.
They gave me a tablet to dissolve in my cheek.
There was a prick on the top of my leg.
A bandaid.
The wall clock glowed.
2:30 am.
Hynobirthing music played from the speaker.
A belly band held the monitor on so they could watch baby’s heart rate without disturbing my mountain of warm blankets.
The lights dimmed.
Dave says I was out in minutes.
Finally, I was riding the waves. I would surface as the pain mounted, see the dim glow of parking lot lights through the curtains, Dave’s sleeping silhouette on the couch, the quiet movement of my mom keeping vigil from the rocking chair. Then with relief, I’d glide back into oblivion. The sound of my own breathing would bring me to the surface again.
(She says at one point I called out in a little girl voice, “Mom? Mom? Is it ok that I’m sleeping?” The gentle hands that had soothed my myriad middle-of-the-night concerns through childhood, took their place to tuck in my now 32-year-old tossing. I have no memory of the exchange.)
Surfacing for a strong wave of pain, the baby startled and stretched and my eyes flew open as a burst and soaking sensation flooded my body. “My water broke! Dave! Mom!! The baby just broke my water!”
Lights came on. Blankets were thrown off. Nurses walked me to the bathroom. Contractions came quicker and harder.
4:30 am. I’d almost made it to morning. I had strength back in my body.
“I want to be in warm water,” I moaned as the shivering resumed.
“Then let’s get you to the tub,” the midwife responded.
“Are you sure it’s time?” I asked. I’d wanted to wait until at least 6 cm to save the relief of the water for when I needed it most.
“I can check you again if you want, but I don’t think I need to.” She said.
5:08 am. They walked me to the tub. I sunk into water and felt relief from the shivering, but pain rolled fast and hard. I was exceedingly thirsty.
“I want ice!” I croaked. Dave brought the spoon to my lips and I crunched feverishly, frantic to get it swallowed before my entire being became focused only on breathing. I feared I would choke if it were in my mouth a moment too long. I heard myself rakishly crunching and thought, “so this is what they mean by becoming animalistic.” I almost cared enough to be self-conscious. But then I was awash again and all that mattered was staying alive.
My thoughts were narrow, no buzzing from thing to thing, no analysis, no awareness. The intensity gripping my body was sickening. Mom pressed a cold washcloth with peppermint oil to my forehead. Was this it? The “transition phase” where most of my labor dread had dwelt? The predicted combination of relentless contractions coupled with sweating, nausea, and mental despair described my worst nightmare.
I wanted Kim to check and tell me I’d transitioned. But the risk of being told “not yet” would be my undoing. I was operating from breath to breath. Unable to access my mottos, verses, or visualizations.
“Turn on the music.” I muttered to Dave between breaths. “Labor Hope playlist.”
“God has not given you a spirit of fear but of power and love and a sound mind.” Mom whispered.
I tried to remember a mental exercise I’d read in a book. Visualizing the alphabet, each letter going by 3 times. I used a different font each time. A a A. I couldn’t remember how it was supposed to help.
“More ice.”
B b B.
I tried to visit my happy place. Big room. White furniture. Glass walls. Green plants. Soft rugs. Open the sliding doors. Feel the breeze.
“More ice!”
Ocean. Beach. Name everything that starts with S. Seagulls. Sand. Sunshine. Salt. Spray. I can’t think of anything else. It’s not helping. So thirsty. SO THIRSTY. Am I getting ready to puke? My body feels frantic. No, you’re not thirsty before you puke.
The contractions barely had a start and stop, more like a slight lessoning between feverish tightening. At the peak of one I felt an instinctual surge, almost like a sneeze but down instead of up.
“My body’s trying to push!”
“Let it do its thing.” Mom said.
Was I relieved? Excited? Scared? The sensation was startling and icky. But I had a sense that progress was being made.
Each contraction now peaked with a low, groaning pressure. Mom and Dave said later they could tell I’d transitioned and my breathing changed, but the midwife didn’t interrupt my zone to check me.
“More ice!”
I heard Dave shift from holding my hand to reach the cup, and knock it over. The nurse went to refill it and I felt I would famish waiting for the cold pebbles to reach my mouth.
I was too withdrawn to be peevish, I only remember two irritations. One was the terrible screech of the heart monitor. When the nurse put the it through the water to get the baby’s heartbeat, it made a horrid sound in the otherwise calm room. I hated it.
The other brief irritation was when I was facing the edge of the tub, my head buried in a pillow. I was desperately trying to access a happy place again. Sand. Sky. Soar…music was playing but I was in second to second combat against frantic, and couldn’t concentrate enough to gain comfort. I heard sniffing. Someone is sniffing. Is Dave sniffing? He knows it’s bad on his sinuses. And that I hate it! Why won’t someone get the boy a Kleenex?! I almost popped off a sharp command to do so, but then submerged into primal thoughts of breathing and swallowing again.
(Later Mom and I were reminiscing. “I’ll never forget when you were clearly at one of the hardest points,” she said. “A song came on and Dave was holding you and tears started rolling down his face. Then the nurse, who’d been at your side all night whispering encouragement that you never heard, started crying. We all were.”
“Thank God I didn’t yell to stop sniffing.” I told her through my own tears. My people were so present, willing me to strength.
Later Dave heard this chorus and told me it was the song:
“I know a breakthrough is coming
By faith I see a miracle
My God made me a promise
And it won’t stop now”
-Elevation Worship)
I opened my eyes and heard The Sound of Music. The lights in the pool were green. Green is good. I like green. The rest of the room was dark. The pressure was increasing but so was my awareness between contractions.
6:40 am. “let’s check and see where things are,” Kim said. “Oh! Your baby could not be any closer! You’re at a 10 and probably have been for a while. Let’s have this baby.”
Kim became more involved, leaning over the tub and coaching me to put all my energy into pushing. The vortex of pain lessened its grip and I caught my breath and exchanged bits of conversation. Pushing felt like shoving a vehicle up hill on ice, impossible to get traction.
I couldn’t settle on a position. I was weak and aching everywhere.
“I can see his hair!” Kim exclaimed.
From the little red speaker Lauren Daigle sang,
“I hear you whisper underneath your breath
I hear your SOS, your SOS
I will send out an army to find you
In the middle of your darkest night
It’s true, I will rescue you.”
“You’re doing awesome, Carrie!” Mom said. “He has long hair!”
I looked over towards her. “But he’s not moving!” I said. I still had persistent doubt that I’d actually be able to deliver.
“Can I feel his hair?” I asked.
“Of course!” Kim laughed. “It’s your body!”
I felt little wisps of soft baby hair. He was right there. I’d felt him! Maybe this whole thing would actually work.
“I am strong and full of life
I am steadfast, no compromise…”
the Heslers sang.
The heart monitor was on my belly again. Several times I heard the nurse say a number and Kim respond, “I’m fine with that.” I briefly wondered what number would not be fine, and what that would mean.
Kim was giving quiet instructions. There was movement around me. A nurse on one side, mom on the other, Dave behind me, holding me up with his gentle presence. I heard them wheel the baby bed over.
There was a change in the atmosphere. The dim hush of the night was exchanged for lights, movement, quick conversations about warmed blankets and taking photos, and who would do what when the baby came. At least someone thinks a baby will be arriving, I thought.
“Who’s going to catch the baby?” Kim asked. “Dad?” she looked at Dave, and he looked at me. “Grandma?” Kim asked Mom. They all looked at me.
“I want Dave here,” I said, clutching his hands. “Mom can.”
Dave held me tight. Mom grinned and put on gloves.
All the voices.
All the power my body could possibly summon.
All the pressure and weight and downward force my senses could possibly endure.
“Good! Good! Good! Don’t stop! Give it all you can!”
One final gasp and heave and desperate yell from my entire being and suddenly, Kim’s voice: “Open your eyes! Take your baby!!”
I looked down and saw the softest little body lifted onto my stomach.
I reached for him and my hands shook so badly I could hardly grasp him. The feel of his warm, wrinkled skin and tiny heaving ribcage in my hands, his wet hair brushing my chin, are etched in permanent memory upon me.
I looked into his face as his eyes opened and met mine and a wave of desperate wonder, of love and relief, as powerful as the waves of contractions just seconds before, washed over me. I cradling his head, luxurious soft hair against my neck, and wept uncontrollably.
Broken Vessels Amazing Grace rang from the speaker.
“Time!” Someone called out.
“7:27” Another voice answered.
It’s morning. I made it to morning. I had a baby. I’m holding my baby.
Part 3 conclusion coming soon…