(It's a birth story. So, subjects under discussion include childbirth and bodies. If you're not here for it, wait for a fluffier post to follow).
After the longest pregnancy of my life (both literally and emotionally), she is here. She's astonished us all with her size, with the speed of her birth, and with her gender! We were all convinced that Tertius was a boy.
I worked until I was 41 weeks, and then I said, "I'm done." I was slated for induction on Tuesday, February 11 (Dad's birthday, incidentally) and I wanted a day to rest before undergoing whatever that experience turned out to be. I'd been uncomfortable walking around since around 32 weeks, so returning to caption four weeks of classes in the Spring semester... was not what I wanted. Each successive week it seemed more unreal that I was *still* not on maternity leave. The majority of my coworkers agreed. Every day was a gauntlet of variations of "you're still here?" from every direction on the way to the bathroom, classes, etc. I had begun to feel like a public obscenity.
So on Friday, I cleaned up my desk, deflated the yoga ball that had been serving as my office chair for the past two months (chairs being the first items to be declared "over" in the third trimester, followed by extended walking and pants), packed up my Harry Potter Lego collection, and declared myself on leave. And the next morning I woke up in labor.
Now, I had been having prodromal labor for weeks. Basically, that means I had near constant Braxton Hicks contractions, but also occasional painful "real" contractions, sometimes occurring in patterns that lasted a couple of hours. Once a week starting at 38 weeks, and then twice during week 41, I woke up to painful contractions that were 8 minutes, 10 minutes, 7 minutes, apart. They'd keep me awake, timing them, and then just when I'd think, "It's been a couple of hours. Is it go-time?" they'd space out and go away. It was maddening.
I had had, as I said, two episodes of this sort in the days before Joni was born, once Monday and once Wednesday, so when I woke up at 3:15am on Saturday to contractions, I didn't immediately spring into action. In fact, it took a couple of hours to believe it could be the Real Thing. There was a show this time, and contractions stayed consistently under 10 minutes, so I decided to wake Jon at about 5. As the intensity ramped up I got into the bath to see how that would affect things. After around 45 minutes in the bath, I knew I had limited time left to get dressed before I got too uncomfortable to care and I'd make yet another hasty exit from my house wrapped only in my bathrobe (see Adele's birth story, 2011).
Once dressed, Jon had made himself breakfast, and I got it into my head that what I really wanted was a McDonald's breakfast sandwich. Contractions were 3-5 minutes apart at 6:30 when I called Dad and asked if he'd come over in about an hour, and oh, could he get me some McDonald's?
(I just want to put in here that I never did get my McDonald's and I could really go for a hash brown RIGHT THIS MOMENT).
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| I took this at 7:09 because I wanted to remember that she was born during snowfall. |
We put Ally Wong's comedy special on while I contracted on the yoga ball. It helped me stay positive; also, it provided an excuse not to let the kids downstairs. Adult content, you know. Contractions were getting harder and were 3 minutes apart during this time. At 7:15 when the special was over, they were 2 minutes apart. Dad texted and said he would be on his way after a shower.
At 8:00, Dad went unreachable for a few minutes (turns out he was clearing off his car; we'd gotten several inches of snow the night before. Because, of course), right when it was becoming clear we needed to leave, and soon. We got in touch with Leah, who agreed to serve as backup (I was having flashbacks to Adele's birth, in which we were delayed leaving because were were waiting for caregivers and back-up caregivers for Miles). Agnes arrived just as we were leaving the house at about 8:30. I was waiting for my McDonald's. But, I made do with peanut butter toast. And thundercats were go!
Here's what I'm proud of: I was extremely positive during labor. Contractions got harder, but I remembered the advice I'd heard that the longer you can stay positive and in control and on top of the contractions, as it were, the better. There is a difference between pain and suffering. It was physically hard work, but it didn't disquiet me to do it. In the car, I reminded myself to go loose and relax between contractions, and to be in the moment at all times. "I can do anything for a minute," and "It's not stronger than me, it is me," and "I'm am doing it" were all helpful mantras, as was the reminder to myself that I had done this before without drugs and had only asked for them at the very end, so I wasn't a baby if I found it hard.
We got to the hospital a bit before 9, and walked in, stopping to contract every 1.5 minutes. A nurse saw what was going on and went up ahead of us to let L&D know that someone "extremely active" was arriving ("Thanks for noticing," I wanted to say, "But I haven't exercised in months!") (I couldn't say anything).
When we arrived at the front desk, I had such a strong contraction that I carefully got to my hands and knees on the floor. The wonderful front desk lady directed all questions to Jon, and then a small crew of people came to show me directly to a room. I'd told Jon as we were in the garage at home, "this baby is going to be born in triage!" but we never saw triage. These people are professionals.
I want to give a shout-out right now to the staff at Highland Hospital. They gave me humane, personal, and expert care throughout my stay there. And from the beginning, they didn't do anything that wasn't medically indicated, so that I was treated like a human and not like an inmate. To illustrate:
They let me push the wheelchair to help me walk to my room instead of forcing me to sit. They did not insist on my wearing a hospital gown. They did not try to attach me to a monitor, but instead intermittently monitored the baby using a hand-held doppler. They were kind and attentive to my requests; when I got to the room, the bath I had requested was already running (I never got to use it). They tried to put an IV in to deliver the antibiotics that my Group B Strep should have indicated, but when I was too ACTIVE to place it, they did not say anything negative to me. When in the throws of transition I requested an epidural, they never actually told me no or yes, just gave me a maternal "we'll see," which was ACE. They let me decide on a position to labor and birth in (I chose hands and knees, until I ended up needing to move at the end). They did not insist that I lie on my back for cervix checks or to push. They were reassuring and tolerant when I became frantic and doubted myself. And when Joni was born? I got that hour of uninterrupted skin-to-skin that I had never gotten with either of my other kids.
That last 45 minutes, which everyone who wasn't laboring insists was actually 25 minutes, was TOUGH. After one cervix check at which I was declared to be 8cm, my water broke. In the next contraction, I told them I wanted to push. They said, "go ahead." So, that's another thing in Highland's favor: they trusted my body to know when to push, instead of waiting for some artificial condition to satisfy like "being 10cm" or "having a doctor in the room" (I had the midwife on duty).
Pushing, with Adele, had been a relief; I could finally do something with the sensation and pressure I was feeling. She practically flew out. But Joni took some grit. A lot of grit. I mean, it was the hardest physical thing I think I've ever done, actually. For a long while in my mind, I vacillated between trying to push so that it could be over soon, and trying not to push because it was so hard and I hated it. I made a lot of noise. I said I couldn't do it, I asked them to help me, I might have shouted "get it out!" a couple of times.
But what I'm proud of is that eventually I made a conscious decision that I needed to go to the place where I didn't want to go, because it was the only way. The only way out is through, only, literally in this instance. And I began to push with more determination, and when they suggested that moving to my side might allow her to shift to a more favorable angle, I complied. I swear it took five minutes just to change position (apparently, only one minute).
So I was on my side, with a nurse supporting my leg, when I felt the "ring of fire." I need to say that though I didn't enjoy this sensation, it convinced me as the midwife's words did not that I was nearly there. I allowed myself to hear and respond to the midwife's encouragement, and within minutes, she was out.
She felt like a very small seal on my chest. I spent the next minute deliriously asking everyone to confirm that it was really over, and that it was really out. It was, and she was, because Jon told me she was a girl, and I abruptly came back to myself.
Not looking my best, but these were taken three minutes after she was born.
These are 45 minutes after she was born:
While they stitched me up (minimally), Jon held his daughter for the first time!
When they took her measurements, our jaws dropped. Joni weighed 9 pounds six ounces and was 22 inches long! Our biggest baby by far. She took the title "The Strongest Baby in These Islands" very seriously.
Instead of a hospital gown, I put my Beyonce tee back on. Bey gave me strength.
We took a video of the kids' reaction to learning they had a sister. It was the most fun secret we've ever kept. Watch for Adele to fall to the floor!
They're both extremely smitten-- more pictures of them interacting with her will follow.
Joni was very sleepy for her first day or so, but before we left the hospital we got to see her eyes for a good long while. She's got dreamboat eyes, if I say so myself.
Joni's names refer to our gratitude for the gift of her. Joni means "God is gracious" and is an allusion to Joni Mitchell (one of my favorites) and Jon's own name. Clémence means "merciful" or "mild"; we feel God has been merciful after our three losses last year. Pearl is a nod to the family name "Margaret" (my aunt and Grandmothers, and my own middle name); Margaret means "Pearl." Pearl is also the name of a dear friend of mine; I've always loved her name. And she is a treasure born out of adversity. Invaluable.
I still cannot believe I get to keep her. We're so, so grateful.
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