If birth stories are your thing, I’m going to share parts of mine this weekend as I reminisce on one year ago.
I was 40 weeks, 4 days (Or 41 weeks, 2 days if you count by my first date) and going in for yet another checkup. As it had been the whole pregnancy, I still couldn’t engage my emotions. For a person powered by feelings, this was a real bother.
Months earlier, lying in bed waiting for Dave to come home from planting, I’d felt a sensation like bubbles rising and popping just below the surface of my abdomen. My eyes widened and flooded with tears. Something, someone was stirring around to wave its first hello.
I didn’t know what to make of my tears.
For six more months I felt pokes and hiccups and waves and kicks, and my hands followed their movement, never tiring of tracking these greetings beneath my skin. We watched the screen while a barely even black and white image of fingers and feet and a little round nose came into view. Week after week I heard the louder and clearer beating heart. Still, it didn’t feel real.
I didn’t even know what feelings to hope for. I’m the queen of unrealistic expectations. I set my heart and happiness on ideals I create in my imagination, and fall flat time after time when all the feelings don’t fit into place. Having a baby was my big exception to high expectation. I’ve never been a baby person. Never been enamored by pregnancy and birth. I’ve been face down more than up in my motherhood journey. So I did not set my happiness on this baby. Rather, I spoke with counselor, midwife, husband, family, and friends about the likelihood of this being a very hard season. I know my propensity for depression, especially with a hearty dose of hormones and exhaustion in the mix. I couldn’t imagine that baby cuddles would be much of a cure-all. I don’t mean to sound harsh, truly I expected to experience love and delight, but I thought it would take time to get there.
I walked into my post due-date appointment and Jalana, my favorite midwife, greeted me. I’d wanted to stay off the hope/dismay rollercoaster, so I’d decided to wait until after my due date to check for dilation.
“Things are starting, you’re at a 2.” She grinned when she told me she had a high success rate among the midwives for membrane sweeps- success being that labor started in the following 48 hours. She recommended trying it in hopes of avoiding my family history of making it to 42 weeks.
I scheduled an ultrasound for the next week but all the staff said, “hopefully we won’t see you!”
My two desperate prayers were “please let me avoid an induction” and “however it happens, please let birth be an experience I remember with joy, not horror.”
That evening the girls and I skipped (sort of) the mile loop of Fort St. Clair, laughing, watching an albino squirrel, and soaking in the scenes of fall. We delivered taco soup to Dave. He shut down the combine and hopped in the car to eat with us.
“I’ve been feeling something different than Braxton Hicks” I said. There was an expectant energy in the air.
2:00 am I sat up thinking I had period cramps. When I fully awoke, my eyes widened. I waited a while to make sure I wasn’t imagining the pain, then I downloaded a contraction counter app. They were 4-6 minutes apart, lasting around 30 seconds. I watched the app for another hour, then decided to do something useful with my sleepless state and take a shower. The warm water soothed me. So much the contractions stopped. I crawled back in bed at 6:00 deflated. In an hour I’d be starting the day on 2 hours of sleep with nothing to show for it.
When Dave kissed me goodbye I said, “I was up all night with contractions.” His eyebrows jumped into his hair. “Don’t get excited,” I said glumly. “It was probably a false alarm. Go to work.”
I dropped the girls off at their class, went back to the Fort, and walked as fiercely as my weary body could move. I text Meg to ask how her contractions started. I could feel them creeping in again, but not regular. I went to Walmart and made a return. I became increasingly uncomfortable and suddenly desperate to get out, fearing I might be the next “People of Walmart” episode with maintenance paged to isle 12 for an amniotic spill.
Back in the car, I sent mom a screenshot of my contraction counter app. She was careful not to get too excited, but said if they were coming on in the morning, I’d likely be having a baby by the weekend.
I picked up the girls. I’d promised them a stop at the library and though I was getting extremely antsy to be home, I decided to go, thinking it may be a while before I’d be able to take them again. At the counter I smiled through clenched teeth, pretending to be interested in a kid’s program the librarian was telling me about. On the way home I called Mom. “Send someone over.”
Leaning against the kitchen counter, I willed myself to stay calm while I made PB&J’s. When Kj arrived, I gladly handed lunch duty over and told the girls I was going to rest.
I ate some peanut butter toast and applesauce, analyzed the contraction counter stats, and called my OBGYN office for the pager number of the midwife on call.
2:00 pm. I paged, Kim answered. She kindly asked about my day, encouraged me to take a bath and relax at home for as long as I felt comfortable. She said I likely wasn’t in active labor yet but to trust my instinct.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. “This isn’t how I’m supposed to feel.” I kept thinking. “I’m supposed to be packing my bag and watching a funny movie and washing the sheets so they’re fresh to bring my baby home to.” Instead I was terrifically tired and restless. I had no interest in anything on my “labor day” list.
4:00 pm. I wished for Dave to be with me. I laid down. Got up. Paced from the bathroom to bedroom. Called Mom. Burst into tears. “What am I supposed to be doing right now? How do I know when to tell Dave to come home?” She urged me to let him know how I was feeling. This was the tension of having a baby during harvest season that we knew we’d likely find ourselves in.
My final call to Dave was choppy. Between my tears and long pauses to get my breath he kept saying, “Are you there? Can you hear me?”
“It hurts to even breathe. I can’t talk!”
“Do you want me to come home right now? Should I call someone to put away the combine or do it myself?”
“I have no more words for farming,” I said through tears. “I just want you here.”
(My brother Landon was working with Dave and told me later, “You should have seen him. He kept forgetting what he was doing, checking his phone every few minutes, he couldn’t focus on anything.” Dave said he was so relieved to finally know it was time to shut off the combine and come home. I was too wrapped up in my own state to give much thought to the feelings on his end.)
Sometime in the waiting for Dave I wandered out to the kitchen. Kj had music playing quietly.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” She asked. Our normal chat and banter was gone.
“I don’t know what to do with myself.” I hesitated, “This is dumb but there is one thing I really wanted before I went to the hospital. I wanted to paint my toenails.”
Her face lit up. “I brought nail polish to do that for you but I wasn’t sure if you were up for it!”
“I’m sorry if I curl my toes,” I warned her. “I’ll try to hold still. And please don’t look at my gross toenail. I’ll paint that one.”
I sat on my bathroom rug and watched her paint a glossy wine color on my toes, bad nail and all. It was the happiest moment of the day. I gained such comfort from her touch. In the laborious hours that followed, the color would catch my eye and a wave of joy would wash over me seeing one place on my body that looked dignified and remembering Kj’s care.
Dave came home. I was increasingly withdrawn.
I paced aimlessly. I felt sad about feeling sad but I couldn’t muster excitement over the tired, the fear, the pain.
Mom came in and rubbed my back.
“How am I supposed to know when it’s time to go in?” I asked Mom. “You’ve done this six times, just tell me what to do.”
“It’s time.” Mom said.
She helped the girls gather their bags while I attempted to finish packing mine. Finding the few remaining items felt impossible.
Mom and Dad were ready to take the girls. I waited until a contraction was over and went out, hoping to give quick hugs before another one took hold. With a brave face I gave kisses and told them this was the day we’d been waiting for! Then Dad wrapped me in his arms and my bravery crumbled. If a person could win a trophy for hugs, this man would have a shelf full. He rested his chin on my head and my tears soaked into his flannel.
“Is Mommy ok? Will Mommy be ok?” I heard my little girl ask. I smiled at her through my tears and made a break for my room before emotions over took us all.
Then it was just Dave and I and a quiet house. Agonizing anticipation inhabited every cell in my body. Dave carefully moved about, carrying down the car seat, making himself a sandwich, holding me when I’d lean into the wall or dresser or bed.
Finally the bags and pillow and baby backpack were in the car.
“Let’s go, It’s time.” He reassured me.
“Wait.” I said. “Take a picture.”
To be continued…
