My youngest child recently celebrated his fourth birthday. He is a lively little boy—quick-witted, affectionate, and (at times) quite the handful. Yet, my experience during his pregnancy was anything but joyful.
I don’t mean to imply the usual discomforts of pregnancy like swollen ankles or back pain. My situation was far more severe; I felt as though my pelvis was fracturing. There were moments when I found myself crawling around the house to pick up toys, a prisoner to my own discomfort.
He was due on March 24, which meant I was faced with either planting my garden on hands and knees or with a newborn strapped to my back. From the 14th week onward, I experienced daily contractions, as my uterus seemed perpetually irritable. The last week of my pregnancy was essentially one long labor, with contractions occurring every eight to ten minutes—an exhausting cycle that seemed to drag on indefinitely.
On March 26, amid another night of relentless contractions, my water broke. It wasn’t dramatic, but enough to necessitate a change of clothes and bed sheets. Given that I had been enduring contractions for what felt like forever, the post-water break contractions were merely a continuation of my ordeal.
I woke my partner, John, informing him of the situation, and asked him to prepare the birthing pool in the kitchen. I contacted my midwife—a remarkable 70-year-old woman with hair cascading down her back in a tight bun—who assured me she would arrive promptly. I also called my doula, who came without delay, and reached out to my eldest daughter, Mia, to care for my youngest, Lucy, who was still under two. I even prepared a chocolate cake (that’s just how I cope) and whipped up some buttercream frosting.
As the hours passed, nothing seemed to change. By early afternoon, my midwife suggested I take some herbal tinctures, which tasted as terrible as they sounded. I attempted to stimulate contractions by nursing my 17-month-old, embodying the quintessential “natural” approach. Meanwhile, my midwife made a quick trip to Costco, presumably for supplies.
As the day transitioned into evening, the birthing pool became a hub of activity. Friends and family gathered, partaking in the chicken noodle soup I had prepared and frozen weeks earlier. Yet, despite the bustling atmosphere, progress was stagnant. More blood appeared, alongside additional water, but my baby remained stubbornly high, unwilling to descend.
As night fell, John put Lucy to bed amidst the chatter of guests and the presence of an additional midwife who engaged in yoga on my living room floor while discussing her car troubles. Despite my efforts, I remained stuck at 7 to 8 centimeters, with the clock ticking past 24 hours since my water broke. Exhaustion set in, compounded by anxiety rooted in my previous experience with shoulder dystocia.
We took a shower together, and John soothed my back as I managed my contractions. We lay on our bed, intermittently napping for about 45 minutes while contemplating our next steps. Unfortunately, when we awoke, my contractions had slowed, my body clearly fatigued from the prolonged labor. It was then that we silently but painfully decided to leave the comfort of our home and head to the hospital.
This is the juncture where people often express relief that we transferred. “You just wanted a healthy baby, right?” they say. Yet, in that moment, I couldn’t help but cry as I donned a dress, packed my bag, and hugged my children goodbye. I sobbed throughout the 25-minute drive to the hospital, through the intake process, the hospital gown, and the IV insertion.
I was fortunate to have a dedicated team advocating for a natural birth. My midwife stayed by my side for seven additional hours, helping my son to find his way down, yet I continued to sob. Yes, I was relieved that I responded well to the minimal pitocin required to jumpstart my contractions, and yes, I was grateful that I didn’t end up with a C-section. Ultimately, he was born healthy and hefty at over 10 pounds, after just two significant pushes.
Yet, I sobbed anyway.
This was not the birth experience I had envisioned. The plan was for a serene delivery in our kitchen, surrounded by loved ones, welcomed with cake and laughter. Instead, it was a stark reminder that childbirth does not always align with expectations.
To those who say, “At least he is healthy,” please know that sentiment fails to address the emotional turmoil I experienced.
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In summary, my journey through pregnancy and childbirth was fraught with unexpected challenges that left me grieving the loss of my ideal birth experience. Despite the joy of welcoming a healthy child, the emotional weight of that experience remains.