I'm not sure what happens when; I try the pool again. The water's cool, but I don't care; someone puts more hot water in and I don't like it. I don't like much of anything. I'm making a hell of a racket, and it's not helping anymore; I can't find a position that helps. I feel unmoored. Sean says later I'm just writhing around in the tub. I'm aware that the water is full of all kinds of stuff, and that it's in my hair. I feel gross. "I don't want to do this," I tell everyone. "I'm done. This doesn't feel right, it doesn't feel right -- this is some serious PTSD shit!" I yell, hoping to impress upon my birth team the seriousness of my resolve to be ALL DONE, NOW.
J tells me that I was making the best progress pushing flat on my back -- I need to get the baby under my pubic bone. I also haven't broken my bag of waters yet. With every push the midwives lean way back, but it hasn't popped yet; there's some talk of this baby being born in the caul. I want it to break so maybe the baby will move more, and finally it does -- a huge gush of clear fluid with tons of vernix floating in it. Baby's heart rate is good, 120s, 130s, everything fine. Still trying to get past that bone and that lip.
"Sometimes when a baby is OP or a little malpositioned, this part is hard and you get that lip," J says. I know that! But...wait. OP? That baby was not OP when we started! What the hell? Malposition! Oh huh-uh no. That's one of my buzzwords.
"It may be something about your pelvis, this is just the way babies move to get through," J says calmly. "We know you can do this! If we weren't sure you could, we wouldn't be here -- we'd be at the hospital already." I am firm in my insistence that I do NOT want to do this, and furthermore am NOT going to, and you all are going to have to take me somewhere else RIGHT NOW. Because I am DONE. There is going to be an epidural, or something, and I am not going to have to do this ANY MORE.
Sean leans in close, and says wonderful, heartfelt things about knowing I can do it, I did it before, I'm strong, I can do this right here. He's crying. "Uh-huh," I say. "But I told myself that if there was another malposition issue, I was going to get pain meds." And in my head, my new mantra: I don't want to, I'm not gonna, and you can't make me.
Apparently I had neglected to tell him about my resolution. Or anyone else, for that matter. And the thing about women in transition yelling for some kind of intervention? Is that they are not particularly convincing.
The midwives explain what would happen if we went to HUP, our emergency transfer hospital down the street: sit in the ER. Admissions. No privileges for the midwives. Several people checking my cervix. Push bag of IV fluids. Then maybe some pain meds or an epidural, two hours from now. "Or we could stay here, and have your baby in two hours!"
I groan, but not because of a contraction. I don't like either of those options. The non-laboring parties gather for a talk in the next room. Ellen tells me later that she, knowing Sophia's birth story pretty well, lets the midwives know what might be going on in my head. A mental anterior lip, if you will. They file back into the room and suggest one more try at pushing, and then a transfer to Montgomery Hospital, where they have privileges. "You'll have to get dressed, and then we have a long car ride," someone tells me. I don't know if they think such things will dissuade me, but I'm resolute. Determined. I boss Sean into the bathroom to get me a headband, instruct Ellen to find me some socks.
It feels really, really good to put clothes on. Warm and dry and snuggly. I stop every minute or so, it feels like, to have a contraction, but I get clothes, socks, shoes, grab purse and keys. Getting out of the apartment feels like getting out of a stuck place inside my own head. We get into the elevator, which immediately stops to let someone else in: a batty woman with whom interaction is fraught, even on a good day.
"Is she okay?" she inquires of the midwives, who inform her that yes, I'm fine, I'm just in labor.
"Oh, I bet she's not even in labor!" squawks the woman. "My daughters always thought they were, and then they got sent back home! You'll have a baby in a couple days, honey!" In the part of my mind that exists underneath the shell of labor pain, I laugh.
Sean tells me later he asks the midwives what he should do if the baby comes in the car. "Pull over," J tells him. "And call us." The hospital is 40 minutes away, most of that on the Schuylkill Expressway. (For those of you non-locals, it's either a raceway or a parking lot, with semitrucks.)
We load into our cars and drive off. It's frigid outside, coldest day in two years. I'm not wearing my coat and I don't care. The cold is a distraction. I buckle up and set the seat back so I'm ramrod straight; I shove my fists behind my lower back and bellow like a cow through contractions. Ellen follows behind, and I see the midwives in their cars coming too. The sky is bleak gray and I watch our neighborhood roll by, think about what's going on in the world right now: La Leche League meeting. Kids in preschool. Sophia with neighbor, Grandma on her way. Each landmark we pass on the way feels like an item checked off on a list; I'm not going to have to do this for much longer. I am almost done, and I can let somebody else take over for a while. Between contractions I notice traffic is bunching up, thickening, slowing way down, even out here past the city interchanges where the road goes to three lanes. A blast of snow swirls down over the semi in front of us. I'm so glad it's snowing. Up in her car, J tells me later, she thinks of me when the snow starts -- I'd been asking, all night, if it was snowing. I wanted it to snow when I was birthing this baby.
River, snow, leafless trees, icicles hanging down the rocks. Contractions, one on top of another. I sit bolt upright, hold onto that handle above the door; I fight each contraction, doing everything you're not supposed to: I clench my toes, tense my body, will it to stop. Shove. I feel the baby move down. Shove. Again.
I puke all over myself, the orange juice and honey concoction J fed me, a miracle drink said to bring back the tiredest laboring woman from the brink of exhaustion, but which only served to piss me off because I hate sweet things when I'm in labor. "Oh, poor Joey!" Sean says. He passes me his handkerchief, which I am holding near my mouth when I puke again. Shove. I feel something now, something suspiciously lower than before. I surreptitiously reach into my pants to check, but it's still out of easy reach. I am not going to have this baby on the Schuylkill. Here we are at the hospital.
We work our way through the maze of parking garage, bridge, elevators. I trudge like a zombie, making zombie noises, pausing to hang onto railings for contractions. It's hard to walk with what feels like a canteloupe between my legs. Near the front desk, Ellen leans in and whispers to me: "Here comes the security guard with a wheelchair. You don't have to sit in it if you don't want to." And I really, really don't. "So tell them you absolutely can't sit," she says. Good doula, I think. I'm so glad she's there. The poor security guard, who has been listening to Night of the Living Dead coming down the hall, offers the chair right in the middle of a contraction. "nnnnNNNOOOO!" I say. "CAN'T SIT!" And maintain my trudge. (Later Sean goes down to thank her for her kindness.) Sean takes the chair and piles all our stuff on it, and up to L&D we go.
The staff at least knows me from my NSTs, and greets us; J and K are set up in a room already. I hustle best as I can down the hall, and Ellen is whispering again, saying they're going to offer me a gown but I don't have to take it. "I have puke all over my clothes," I point out. "I want the gown!"
I see they're hanging the IV bag; the rule is you need a bag of fluids before you can have an epidural. "But let's do a quick check to see where you are first," J says. I flail a little on the bed, looking for something to hold on to during a contraction, but submit to a check.
"The head's right here!" says a surprised (maybe not TOO surprised) J. I've been hearing that all night, and it's been meaning "way too far for me to reach, or for Sean to see," so I'm not impressed, but what she means is that it is RIGHT THERE, as in "about to crown." Sean is asking Ellen, "Does this mean it's past the pubic bone yet, and the lip?" And Ellen says, almost laughing, "Oh yeah. Way past."
"I need to pee!" I yell.
"Go ahead then!" says K, smiling. "Get J!" I try, but I can't. At all. I want a catheter, quick, and K obliges -- it feels like nothing, but all of sudden I don't have to pee anymore.
"Push!" says somebody, cheerfully, and this time I can. This time I feel like I have something I can push, and almost immediately I feel something I remember -- except last time I didn't recognize it. The ring of fire! That baby's head is on its way out, and I push, and it burns, and it feels really, really good. Ellen gets a mirror, and for a minute all I can see is the back of J's head -- and then she moves aside and a blue-gray head streaked with vernix is there. "There are the eyebrows, there's the nose..." somebody calls, and it burns, and they want me to slow down and pant, but at this point I don't care if I tear, I want this baby out NOW! And the head is out all the way, a little break in the burning, but it's time for the shoulders. I feel J give them a wiggle, another wiggle, and then she defers to K. I push, K does something bigger than a wiggle with those shoulders, and...
...the baby is out. There is a baby on my stomach, a beautiful squishy wet blue baby, and my first thought (and I think my first sentence) is "OOOOH that feels so much BETTER!"
"Daphne," I say, beaming. "Daphne Wren," Sean says, also beaming.
*sigh* made me cry a little. Great job mama! Welcome Daphne!
Posted by: erin | January 22, 2009 at 12:07 PM
Oh my goodness! How suspenseful! How...well-written! Thank you so much for sharing!
Posted by: Maren | January 22, 2009 at 12:18 PM
Fantastic! I love reading your birth stories.
Posted by: Mandy | January 22, 2009 at 12:23 PM
Applause!
Posted by: Tine | January 22, 2009 at 12:31 PM
Oh how wonderful and funny and terrible.
I remember that feeling of the baby being out. It felt SO GOOD.
Posted by: Brooke | January 22, 2009 at 12:44 PM
OH WOW! (wipes tears from eyes).
you were absolutely crazy in your need to transfer!!! As a local who doesn't live far from the hospital where you birthed, up here in Montgomery county, I cringe just thinking about driving up on 76. YIKES!!!
Well... I'm sure it did feel good to be distracted by the familiar sights passing by, the snow, the trucks, the traffic. That made the last part quicker. Too bad there was the puking.
Wow...
anyway, you're perfectly right, this must be the most comical transfer story ever. How do you feel about it? I mean, you just followed your instincts, you needed to get out. Wow.
And then hopefully there was a bit of pampering in the hospital to make you feel thankful that you did the whole thing anyway. or so I hope, as I wait for the last installment.
Posted by: Lilian | January 22, 2009 at 01:04 PM
What a great, beautiful birth. Add to your list of labor helpers: ride around in car during transition when faced with anterior lip. :-)
Great job, Jo!
Posted by: Karen | January 22, 2009 at 01:05 PM
Oh, beautiful. Thank you for sharing with us.
Waiting for the, "Hey, I ate placenta!" part.
Posted by: Heather | January 22, 2009 at 01:57 PM
That was an awesome story! Go you.
And thanks for putting in the part about "OOOOH that feels so much BETTER!" I remember that feeling of euphoria and relief from the birth of my first son and thinking about it makes me look forward to the birth of our second in about 12 weeks.
Posted by: Gina | January 22, 2009 at 02:13 PM
I loved the suspense of the story. Congratulations! What a great story with a wonderful ending. What is an anterior lip?
Posted by: lesley | January 22, 2009 at 02:16 PM
YEA, how lovely!
Posted by: sonyala | January 22, 2009 at 02:18 PM
Well, yea! Good job.
Posted by: Katherine | January 22, 2009 at 02:33 PM
It really sounds like everything happened exactly as it was supposed to. You needed that ride in the car to let your body just do its thing without the pressure-- i.e. even though you were tensing against contractions, perhaps in reality you weren't fighting it as much as when you were thinking you shouldn't tense.
Anyway: "Daphne!"
Posted by: Sadie | January 22, 2009 at 02:41 PM
lesley: see comments on previous post for discussion of cervical lips! :)
Posted by: Joanna Leery Polyp | January 22, 2009 at 04:58 PM
Thank you, Jo, for taking the time to write this. Beautiful. Just beautiful.
Posted by: Uncommon Julia | January 22, 2009 at 05:24 PM
Reading again, obviously. :-D
So, did you tear at all? Or not?
Posted by: Lilian | January 22, 2009 at 05:44 PM
beautiful! congratulations!!
Posted by: sozzled | January 22, 2009 at 05:54 PM
You are a hell of a writer. And a hell of a mother. Thanks for sharing all of this and congratulations.
Posted by: BrooklynGirl | January 22, 2009 at 10:15 PM
Wow, way to go! I'm so proud of you. Which I'm sure sounds crazy from random internet person number 497, but I really am. Daph-a-nee Wren is beautiful! A job well done for all of you!
Posted by: cs | January 22, 2009 at 11:13 PM
ouch, thank you for pointing me to the direction of the previous cervical lips posts. I am also curious... did you tear? Your stories are so great and you tell them so well. Thank you for sharing.
Posted by: lesley | January 23, 2009 at 12:05 AM
One last comment before I go to bed (since you said you've been enjoying them).
I'm sure the snow falling must have been reassuring. How cool that J thought about you when she saw the snow falling. You definitely had a great trio there in your doula and midwives. They knew that the only way to go was to "humor" you and their relationship with you made sure that they followed your cues.
You know... comparing this to the previous birth, in which I cried when you mentioned that "the bridge" existed, thinking of your previous post longing for such a bridge (midwives, hospital care, etc) -- it was such an emotionally fraught experience. I'm sure it paved the way to your semi-comical all aware experience of this time. After all, you'd done it before. You knew.
And, perhaps, since it didn't work out at home that time around, your "mental lip" didn't really want to let you do it there this time.
OK, enough over analyzing for now ;-)
Posted by: Lilian | January 23, 2009 at 02:07 AM
Man, can you write or what?
Awesome, powerful, moving and funny story.
I miss you all so much, and I can't wait to meet little DW!
Posted by: Menita | January 23, 2009 at 10:46 AM