Caveat: If birth stories upset or discomfort you, you will want to skip reading this blog. I tried to keep it PG, but our rating systems, reader, might not perfectly match. Just a warning. Also, this is very long. So don’t read it unless you are genuinely interested.
Adele’s birth is a such a testimony of grace to me. You should probably know that giving birth is really meaningful to me; I don’t see it as just a means to a baby. I have long looked upon birth as a way to face death, learn from the experience, and still live to benefit from the experience. It is said that in labor, a woman faces her darkest hour and her greatest enemy, her own self, in the experience. In birthing Adele I faced myself and found myself to be, simultaneously, both stronger and weaker than I had believed.
I wanted an unmedicated birth for a host of reasons, which may or may not seem sound to everyone. I felt that for me, labor would go better if it was allowed to happen with as few unnecessary interventions as possible. I think the pain is important because it has a purpose: to tell the laboring mother how to move to best facilitate the birth; it would help me to interact with it instead of being a mere victim. PLEASE understand this is my personal feeling about it, not meant to extend to all women everywhere!
I was unwilling to experience again the side effects and delayed recovery that even an epidural (probably the most effective and benign medication available) can produce. Beyond the practical, I see birth as a rite, a valuable opportunity that can be empowering and can bring wisdom and insight; like running a marathon, climbing a mountain, or like any profound challenge, really. For that reason, I hired a doula, and planned to stay home as long as possible from the hospital to give myself a chance to birth without drugs. When I tested GBS positive, however, I adjusted accordingly, fully intending to go to the hospital appropriately early enough to receive the necessary antibiotics. My doula would still attend me.
I knew my last labor was long, and that because of my fatigue it ended with an epidural. I wish it had gone otherwise, but I don’t regret that decision; I do think epidurals have their places! However, I had great hopes that my body would be able to remember what to do and do it in shorter order this time around. All anecdotal evidence seemed to suggest that second labors were shorter, often by about half, if the first was very long.
Nothing could have prepared me for the labor I had, however. Labor with Miles lasted about 24 hours (depending on where you begin count). Labor with Adele: just under five hours, from first contraction to birth in a moving car.
I’ll tell it as a series of events, then. At 5:55 I woke up to a contraction, which was no different from the kind of uncomfortable contractions I’d been having for weeks. At 6:05, another followed. By 6:40, when we were all still comfortably in bed, I was able to tell Jon that there seemed to be a pattern to these and we might want to have breakfast soon.
We had a hearty breakfast of sausage and eggs, and I stood up to do a really groovy dance that felt really good every time I had a contraction. After breakfast, I texted my doula, who was attending another lady’s long and difficult birth, to let her know I was having some good contractions that were, at that point, about 4 minutes apart. Jon put on some music by Adele, a singer I’m starting to really enjoy, and I had some good dancing and singing, with Miles imitating me, delighted that I was apparently feeling so playful. This was about 7:40.
Around 8:00 I had Jon call his sister to ask politely that she begin to consider starting her two-hour drive soon, to come and care for Miles.
By 8:15 we amended this request: come now. This is happening.
Only in retrospect can I understand how fast I was moving through the emotional signposts of labor, from excitement to seriousness and concentration. There was an enormous change in about an hour. By 8:45 I was heading into the bath with purpose, and giving orders that Jon finish packing the bag and get hold of my doula, pronto. I crawled around in that bath and sang, rather like an ox would sing if it could. Miles sang my song back to me as he colored in the living room.
My doula arrived at about 9:15 to talk me down from my growing conviction that I needed to go to the hospital. The contractions did not seem to have a beginning or an end. But based upon my history and, I guess, upon my general appearance and expression, she judged that I had quite a long way to go and needed to pace myself. She talked me into vocalizing less, drinking more water, and relaxing as much as possible during contractions. Unfortunately, the other laboring mom was still laboring and needing a doula, so my doula had to go.
Brief interlude of solitude in the house while Jon helped jump-start my doula’s car so she could get back to the other birth.
At 9:40, the third emotional signpost of labor appeared: self-doubt and madness. I shouted, I threatened, I promised Jon I would deliver in the bathtub or he was required to drive me to the hospital and get me an epidural. He assured me he heard what I was saying, though he did not believe me to be sincere. Jon was in every place at once, packing the last of the bag, caring for Miles, on the phone with the birthing center, his sister, and some friends of ours he was able to get to come over and watch Miles sooner than Michaela could get here (bless them all).
About 10:15, still in the bathtub crawling around like a crazed animal and bellowing like a moose, I started pushing. It was involuntary. But it was what gave me the conviction to tell Jon: HOSPITAL. NOW. I MEAN IT. I think it took my water breaking on the porch for him to fully believe me, though.
Michaela literally pulled up just in time to buckle me into the car; she says this was at 10:44. Jon went 60 all the way down Main Street, speed limit: 35. He ran three red lights. He insisted that our daughter would not be born in a car. I insisted just as heartily that she would.
Our daughter began to emerge while we were turning into the birthing center’s street. She was born just outside the doors at the birth center. There was an ensuing flurry of hands and voices; someone lifted the baby up and put her on me where I could see her. I think I asked first, “Is she breathing?” and then “Is this real?” After being reassured on both points, we were all transported inside. Jon went with our daughter and I was stretchered and brought in more slowly.
There were some mild complications due to her hasty birth, but when the dust settled, I found myself in much better shape after this birth than I had been with my son. I was awake, strong, and coherent. My baby was able to eat (and did it enthusiastically) almost right away. Which was all what I had wanted, part of the reason for my crazy desire to be unmedicated during delivery. But I got it by sheer grace; after about 9:30, I had every intention of being as medicated as possible. I swore up and down to Jon that I did not care anymore about delivering naturally. If I’d had a gun, I would have pulled it on him. But I got what I wanted: I had my baby on my own, without drugs. I got the best possible outcome, through no particular act of bravery or wisdom or planning on my part. It was just a pure gift.
By the way: stats
Born: 10:50 am on Sunday, November 20
20 inches long, 7 lbs 15 oz
