Birth Story: Beth and Chad
Several things happened during the two weeks after J’s “due date.” I watched two seasons of “The West Wing.” I decided that the balance ball is the greatest invention of our time. I came to appreciate my job and the mental stimulation it provides much more than I ever thought possible. I grew larger and more uncomfortable every day. I ran out of shoes that I could shove onto my swollen feet. I researched and tried natural methods of induction and then researched unnatural methods of induction and agonized over the choices that we ended up having to make. I cried a lot. And Chad injured his thumb.
Since the beginning of our pregnancy, Chad and I understood and accepted that the calculated “due date” for J was about as meaningful as a co-worker saying “yeah, we should have someone look into that” or the meteorologist telling us there is a 50% chance of rain. We’ve known that 80% of first-time pregnancies are “late,” and I have known that J would be born later than the second week of January. I have felt all along that J would want her birthday to have some space from Christmas, and I believe that’s very reasonable of her. So when the due date came and went, we were unconcerned. She would get here when she decided, and that would be best.
But we really didn’t know how difficult it would be to creep up on the 42-week mark. Our OB, Dr. F., had been very supportive of all of our choices and abundantly reasonable about our care. At week 40, he mentioned that if we got to 42 weeks, we would have to talk about induction. We didn’t take that seriously because everyone in the room thought I’d go into labor in the next week or so.
But I didn’t.
At week 41, he discussed it again. In more detail. He talked about how the placenta was nearing the end of its life span, how the baby was starting to need more and get less from my body, how the baby was getting bigger, how the risk of broken bones or c-section was escalating. And he used the word “Pitocin.”
That got my attention, but we still didn’t worry because surely, SURELY, this would be the week.
But it wasn’t.
I talked to J every day. I said, “J, he’s talking about Pitocin! GET OUT OF THERE NOW WHILE YOU CAN!” I tried all of kinds of things the Internet proclaimed would help start contractions. My problem, though, wasn’t starting contractions. I had contractions (in the form of prodromal labor) for over a month. The problem was moving into active labor, and no visualization or mall-walking or blend of tea or what-have-you was getting me there. So I quit all of that and told myself that I’d be pregnant for the rest of my life and that was fine. That also didn’t work.
By Friday–three days before Dr. F. proposed that we strip the membranes and four days before he proposed starting Pitocin–I hit full-on panic.
And, look, I know that Pitocin is doled out like tylenol. I don’t begrudge anyone who makes that choice. It just wasn’t the choice that I wanted to make, and it screwed with a bunch of other choices that were important to me. I didn’t want continuous fetal monitoring. I didn’t want an IV. And I VERY VERY MUCH did not want to have the entire labor take place in the hospital.
I pulled out all of our birth books, all the materials our doula gave us, every handout from birth class. I googled and yahoo-ed and asked Jeeves. I read medical journal article after article. Fundamentally, I wanted to understand the risks of doing nothing. As ready as I was for J’s arrival, I was willing to stay pregnant until J decided to join us, and I wanted to know why our doctor was not endorsing that course of action.
Can I just say that birth research is very frustrating? I will spare you the details. After a lot of reading, consulting with our doula, and fleshing out all of the pros and cons Chad and I came to these conclusions:
1) probably, it would have been fine to wait it out;
2) but our care provider, whom we liked and trusted, was uncomfortable with that, and we didn’t want to create a situation that, in his mind, constituted an emergency that further restricted the way I would labor and give birth;
3) so, we would consent to his recommendations with certain conditions.
We went to the 42-week appointment ready to negotiate our birth plan. We decided that we would try Pitocin. We agreed to start at the lowest level possible and increase gradually. We agreed that if the Pitocin worked, we would turn it off and let my body take over. We agreed that if it did not work after a period of time, we would go home. I can’t count the number of times I explained to every person involved that I was perfectly willing to walk out of the hospital pregnant. We didn’t summon our families or tell the world that we were being “induced.” That’s just not how we felt about it. We were trying a method of induction that might or might not work. I was unhappy about it, but we had to make the best decision we could for J with the information we had.
So at 7:00 a.m. on Tuesday, January 25th, we went to the hospital. I got hooked up to all of the machines that I wanted to avoid. And for six hours, a nurse increased the Pitocin dosage every thirty minutes. For six hours, the same nurse (a very lovely, supportive, cheery person) constantly adjusted the fetal monitor, which fell off every time J or I moved. For six hours, my blood pressure sky-rocketed because of my fear of hospitals (fortunately, we had discussed this inevitability with Dr. F., and he agreed not to freak out when the nurses called him about it–which they did, about a million times). And for six hours, I tapped my fingers on a table, wondered why we agreed to this course of action, and thought about what I would do when we went home still pregnant.
Nothing…I mean NOTHING…was happening. I had a few contractions. None as strong as the contractions I experienced at home and work in prior weeks. I was convinced we would give up on this soon. Our doula, P., went to grab lunch. Chad sat on conference calls, answered emails, and asked for ice for his thumb (I’m not sure if it was really bothering him or if he knew it would provide some comic relief for me–probably a little of both). Chad smuggled mall pizza (my favorite!) into the room for me and kept a lookout while I ate. I drank a contraband vitamin water. And we waited.
At about 1:30, I dragged my cart of electronic crap to the bathroom. As I pulled the cart over the hump between bathroom and room floor, something felt a little different to me. I said so. The nurse came over to adjust the fetal monitor which had fallen off for the 8 millionth time. When she did, I felt genuinely angry. That was the moment I knew we were getting somewhere. (I can count on one hand the times I have been genuinely angry in the past five years, and I can describe the circumstances surrounding that anger with particularity. Here was this lovely woman who had been nothing but kind to me all morning just doing her job, and I was enraged. I could have, in that moment, ripped the IV out of my arm and thrown the whole unit out the window. This had to be serious hormonal change because I was not feeling like myself). I said nothing else, but I knew we were moving. P. later told me that she could tell by the look on my face that we had entered active labor.
From there, it became one fast, intense ride. In a couple of hours, the contractions were coming in giant waves, one right after another. There was one moment (only one) when I questioned whether I could make it through labor without medication. I was holding onto the bed, leaning over a balance ball. The contractions were strong, and I wasn’t getting any rest in between. Just as I thought to myself, “how long can I handle this?” I heard the nurse say that the contractions were too close together and that we needed to back off of the Pitocin. She and P. asked Chad and I what we’d like to do, and we decided to turn the Pitocin off completely. My body took over. The contractions remained strong, but I was able to rest in between. I could do this.
And I did. I moved around as I needed, ignoring the wires and needles as much as I could. (Looking back now, I realize how very patient our nurse was with me, and I’m very grateful that she didn’t push us to move to an internal monitor or try to restrain my movement.). I started pushing around 3:30. Chad fed me ice and told me I was doing great while I nearly broke his hand (as it happens, I chose the hand with the injured thumb. He didn’t mention that to me during labor, which I think was awfully decent of him). P. rubbed my back and suggested ways I could move to be more comfortable. The room became a flurry of activity in a hurry. Dr. F. showed up and hung out while I did what I needed to do. I breathed the way I had practiced for months and thought the things I had been learning to think.
At 5:34, J was born…all 10 pounds, 21.25 inches of her. Dr. F. complemented my pain tolerance and lung capacity. Chad would want me to tell you that I high-fived Dr. F. and asked him if the placenta could have made it another week. We all laughed, took pictures, and I worked on feeding J.
As a brief aside, I have to say this: labor was painful, but I did not suffer. I have suffered with fibromyalgia. There was not a moment during labor that was as distressing as some of the moments I have spent in my bed at home when the pain in my legs was almost unbearable. I say this because it’s so easy to give into this idea that labor is the worst pain women can know. It’s not. And with the pain of labor, I felt real gratitude. Every painful moment brought us one step closer to our baby and gave me the opportunity to understand what my body can do. When I first told a doctor that I wanted to give birth without an epidural, the doctor said, “well, after that, your fibro will seem like nothing.” The opposite proved true–I knew I could survive labor because it was so much better than some days with fibro. That’s another gift this whole process gave me–it made me grateful for the pain I’ve already experienced and the perspective that pain has given me.
I don’t know if inducing labor was the right decision or not. I do know that J is perfect and healthy and happy, and I’m so glad she’s here. I know that giving birth and being totally present for every second was the most awesome thing I’ve ever done. I know that we had a fantastic group of people supporting us: wonderful friends and family, a dedicated instructor in our birth class, a supportive OB, an informative and comforting doula. I know that my husband was a super-star throughout the pregnancy and birth (and now is a great dad…more on that later). So, all in all, I know that I feel happy and complete with our new family. And I’m happy to report that Chad’s thumb appears to be better, too.