As a behavior analyst, I've become a really good observer. Identifying patterns of behavior and manipulating environmental variables is my actual livelihood. But this skill set went into hyperdrive about the time I hit 37 weeks when I began having prodromal labor off and on (just as I had with Declan). I became a psycho for the next month trying to analyze every possible labor symptom in hopes of catching the right wave and hanging on so we didn't end up at 42 weeks again. This exhausting mental exercise is quite useless, by the way. 10/10 would not recommend.
Cerebrally, I knew that I couldn't control when labor would begin, but what kind of perfectionist would I be if I didn't try and control everything else around it? For weeks I attempted the fruitless tasks of keeping the laundry folded, the dishwasher emptied, the toys organized, the fridge stocked, and the beds made. Bless my mother's heart for helping me execute said rituals when she joined us in Jersey just before my due date.
Basically, I needed homeostasis. I wanted to be continuously well-rested, well-fed, well-hydrated, well-adjusted, and showered. Clean hair and shaved legs, bonuses. I barked orders from the couch to my kids as a hilarious attempt to keep them in this perfect state of readiness too. Even more hilariously, I checked the forecast multiple times a day as if I could will my baby to be born into the sunshine.
...
Friday night I climbed into bed as a new round of contractions began. My belly was high and huge as ever, and if Chris videoed what I looked like rolling over, it would probably be a viral gif by now. I shrugged off the (painful) contractions, irked that they would taunt me with spontaneous labor only four days after my due date. I was equal parts determined to sleep, and to stay awake neurotically timing my contractions, as if that would keep the waves coming. My neurosis won and I stayed awake the ENTIRE night tapping the contraction button every 10 to 15 minutes on my newly downloaded app. I finally nodded off after 6am, just in time for the kids to wake (me) up.
As I cynically predicted, my contractions petered out that morning, further reinforcing my self-fulfilling prophecy that I would do this song and dance for many more days and nights until my pelvic floor just fell out from under me. So when the same pattern of contractions began wrapping around my back and belly again that afternoon, I pushed all thoughts of labor aside. After convincing Chris (and myself) that there was nothing to see here, I sent him to Philadelphia in the driving rain to pick my dad up from the airport. Meanwhile I stared into my closet trying to dig up anything that could possibly cover my enormous belly for an ABA conference scheduled the next day. Pure denial.
By dinnertime, I was bleeding, contracting, and nearly dry-heaving as I hid in my bedroom away from the salmon in the oven. I texted my beloved doula, Kristy, (who moved out of state after Declan was born) to give her the TMI play-by-play that she's probably grown to expect from me now three labors deep. (Side note, everyone should have at least one friend that thinks conversations about mucus plugs and the like are completely ordinary.) Her sage advice, “you’re in labor; go to bed!”
Somehow Kristy’s encouragement and my own exhaustion weren’t enough to convince me to sleep, or that this was *real* labor. So with the leftover salmon safely in the fridge, and the kids tucked in bed, I rejoined Chris and my parents in our living room to do figure eights on my birthing ball in hopes of rocking the baby lower and lower. Eventually I went to bed, and closed my eyes for a contraction or two before it became obvious that I had missed my chance for any sleep. It was close to midnight and I knew I’d be holding my baby by the next morning. So instead of being well-fed and well-rested, I was starving and nauseous (a la first trimester vibes), and was heading into active labor with about 20 minutes of sleep since Thursday night. Perfect.
Looking back, I wish I had taken a Benadryl and fought for even a little sleep, or at least drowsy labor in bed. But strangely, all I wanted to do was get out of my house, away from my sleeping children, where I could labor selfishly. (I’m pretty sure birth is the antithesis of self-centeredness. What I mean is, I only wanted to think about myself— ergo, selfish—and wanted to be close to my midwife and far from my light sleepers.) So I called my midwife, Jennifer, grabbed a box of Cheerios to eat on the highway, and awkwardly moved my 20-pound bump out of the way to tie my sneakers one last time. Chris and I were off to the hospital and, embarrassingly, it almost felt like a date.
We met Jennifer in the ER and rode the elevator together to the sixth floor where we met our nurse, Katie. There are three midwives at my practice (all of whom have labored with me now!), and it always feels funny to see who’s on-call for your birth, like “hey, we’re about to do this really awesome thing together, but also, I’m probably about to get completely naked and shit all over you.” (But really, Yelena, sorry I almost pooped on your shoe last time..)
By the time we settled in, checked on the baby and my cervix, and went through my medical history with Katie, it was 2am. My labor had (predictably) slowed from my transition from home to hospital and I felt mostly fine. With no birth photographer this time around (why did you both have you move outta state, Esther and Kristy??), I took a “boomerang” of my hospital tube socks with the non-slip grippies for posterity, swallowed a few spoonfuls of applesauce in a failed attempt to curb the nausea/starvation combo, and then tried (and failed) again to sleep.
Soon enough the “leg shakes” came which had been my cue during my other labors that the real fun was about to begin. I asked Katie to fill up the Jacuzzi tub that I’ve come to count on, and I climbed in. Everything felt pretty familiar and pretty manageable… until it didn’t. In addition to the back labor that has come along for every second of each of my labors, an excruciating, invisible line appeared next to my spine that shot electric pain all the way up to my neck and down my left leg. And unlike the contractions that helped me out with little breaks in between, this ungodly line grabbed on to the contractions so the unbearable throb felt continuous. In that dark haze in the middle of the night, labor no longer felt like painful, hard work. It felt like suffering.
My trusty Jacuzzi tub let me down, and I needed out. And needed to puke. I remember catching a glimpse of my sallow face in the bathroom mirror as I threw away the barf bag and swished some water around my mouth, thinking, “what the heck has happened to me?” When Katie offered to start an IV with some anti-nausea meds, I was ALL in, and in the same breath I asked for an epidural.
I think I was almost as surprised to say the words as my midwife was to hear them. “That doesn’t sound like you,” she said. She was right— it didn’t sound like any conversation we had ever had in the years I have known her, but I also really didn’t feel like myself either. The pain from my other labors must be imprinted in my mind because I knew right where I was in my labor trajectory without a cervical exam-- just beginning transition, but still miles away from delivery. Even greater pain was on its way— unhelpful, intrusive third-birth baggage—and I was not ready to take on another layer of pain.
I’m not sure how they teach midwives what to say or do when their patient asks for something they’ve repeatedly said they didn’t want, but Jennifer knew. She massaged my back, offered more support and reasonable alternatives (if I had been up for listening to reason), and validated my pain. She walked the delicate line between encouraging me to stay the course (out of my own preferences, not hers), and helping me get the pharmaceutical pain-relief I was asking for. Most impressively, she did it all without letting me feel like a birthing failure, even if I wouldn't be getting the Ina-May-birthing-goddess experience this time. I suspect this kind of compassionate intuition is earned from her years of supporting women during the most painful and intimate hours of their lives. I remember leaning over the birthing ball, locking eyes with her, and shaking my head, “no.”
You'd think for all of my pregnancies that I would have read up on epidurals at some point (especially considering I'd persevered through two unmedicated births to avoid it), but I didn't have a clue. I don’t remember much from the procedure. Just the blinding lights and the way Jennifer and Katie held me like I was their own sister.
A few minutes later my contractions were erased. It was like magic, and I finally understood why most women pick the giant spine needle over the ring of fire. Although some of my back labor persisted, and that devil line on my left side hung on tight, I finally fell asleep for the first time in two days.
As I cynically predicted, my contractions petered out that morning, further reinforcing my self-fulfilling prophecy that I would do this song and dance for many more days and nights until my pelvic floor just fell out from under me. So when the same pattern of contractions began wrapping around my back and belly again that afternoon, I pushed all thoughts of labor aside. After convincing Chris (and myself) that there was nothing to see here, I sent him to Philadelphia in the driving rain to pick my dad up from the airport. Meanwhile I stared into my closet trying to dig up anything that could possibly cover my enormous belly for an ABA conference scheduled the next day. Pure denial.
By dinnertime, I was bleeding, contracting, and nearly dry-heaving as I hid in my bedroom away from the salmon in the oven. I texted my beloved doula, Kristy, (who moved out of state after Declan was born) to give her the TMI play-by-play that she's probably grown to expect from me now three labors deep. (Side note, everyone should have at least one friend that thinks conversations about mucus plugs and the like are completely ordinary.) Her sage advice, “you’re in labor; go to bed!”
Somehow Kristy’s encouragement and my own exhaustion weren’t enough to convince me to sleep, or that this was *real* labor. So with the leftover salmon safely in the fridge, and the kids tucked in bed, I rejoined Chris and my parents in our living room to do figure eights on my birthing ball in hopes of rocking the baby lower and lower. Eventually I went to bed, and closed my eyes for a contraction or two before it became obvious that I had missed my chance for any sleep. It was close to midnight and I knew I’d be holding my baby by the next morning. So instead of being well-fed and well-rested, I was starving and nauseous (a la first trimester vibes), and was heading into active labor with about 20 minutes of sleep since Thursday night. Perfect.
Looking back, I wish I had taken a Benadryl and fought for even a little sleep, or at least drowsy labor in bed. But strangely, all I wanted to do was get out of my house, away from my sleeping children, where I could labor selfishly. (I’m pretty sure birth is the antithesis of self-centeredness. What I mean is, I only wanted to think about myself— ergo, selfish—and wanted to be close to my midwife and far from my light sleepers.) So I called my midwife, Jennifer, grabbed a box of Cheerios to eat on the highway, and awkwardly moved my 20-pound bump out of the way to tie my sneakers one last time. Chris and I were off to the hospital and, embarrassingly, it almost felt like a date.
We met Jennifer in the ER and rode the elevator together to the sixth floor where we met our nurse, Katie. There are three midwives at my practice (all of whom have labored with me now!), and it always feels funny to see who’s on-call for your birth, like “hey, we’re about to do this really awesome thing together, but also, I’m probably about to get completely naked and shit all over you.” (But really, Yelena, sorry I almost pooped on your shoe last time..)
By the time we settled in, checked on the baby and my cervix, and went through my medical history with Katie, it was 2am. My labor had (predictably) slowed from my transition from home to hospital and I felt mostly fine. With no birth photographer this time around (why did you both have you move outta state, Esther and Kristy??), I took a “boomerang” of my hospital tube socks with the non-slip grippies for posterity, swallowed a few spoonfuls of applesauce in a failed attempt to curb the nausea/starvation combo, and then tried (and failed) again to sleep.
Soon enough the “leg shakes” came which had been my cue during my other labors that the real fun was about to begin. I asked Katie to fill up the Jacuzzi tub that I’ve come to count on, and I climbed in. Everything felt pretty familiar and pretty manageable… until it didn’t. In addition to the back labor that has come along for every second of each of my labors, an excruciating, invisible line appeared next to my spine that shot electric pain all the way up to my neck and down my left leg. And unlike the contractions that helped me out with little breaks in between, this ungodly line grabbed on to the contractions so the unbearable throb felt continuous. In that dark haze in the middle of the night, labor no longer felt like painful, hard work. It felt like suffering.
My trusty Jacuzzi tub let me down, and I needed out. And needed to puke. I remember catching a glimpse of my sallow face in the bathroom mirror as I threw away the barf bag and swished some water around my mouth, thinking, “what the heck has happened to me?” When Katie offered to start an IV with some anti-nausea meds, I was ALL in, and in the same breath I asked for an epidural.
I think I was almost as surprised to say the words as my midwife was to hear them. “That doesn’t sound like you,” she said. She was right— it didn’t sound like any conversation we had ever had in the years I have known her, but I also really didn’t feel like myself either. The pain from my other labors must be imprinted in my mind because I knew right where I was in my labor trajectory without a cervical exam-- just beginning transition, but still miles away from delivery. Even greater pain was on its way— unhelpful, intrusive third-birth baggage—and I was not ready to take on another layer of pain.
I’m not sure how they teach midwives what to say or do when their patient asks for something they’ve repeatedly said they didn’t want, but Jennifer knew. She massaged my back, offered more support and reasonable alternatives (if I had been up for listening to reason), and validated my pain. She walked the delicate line between encouraging me to stay the course (out of my own preferences, not hers), and helping me get the pharmaceutical pain-relief I was asking for. Most impressively, she did it all without letting me feel like a birthing failure, even if I wouldn't be getting the Ina-May-birthing-goddess experience this time. I suspect this kind of compassionate intuition is earned from her years of supporting women during the most painful and intimate hours of their lives. I remember leaning over the birthing ball, locking eyes with her, and shaking my head, “no.”
You'd think for all of my pregnancies that I would have read up on epidurals at some point (especially considering I'd persevered through two unmedicated births to avoid it), but I didn't have a clue. I don’t remember much from the procedure. Just the blinding lights and the way Jennifer and Katie held me like I was their own sister.
A few minutes later my contractions were erased. It was like magic, and I finally understood why most women pick the giant spine needle over the ring of fire. Although some of my back labor persisted, and that devil line on my left side hung on tight, I finally fell asleep for the first time in two days.
While I slept, my body labored on without me. And when I woke up an hour or two later, the sun was beginning to rise and my body was instinctually bearing down. By now it was 7am (shift change), but instead of tagging out, Jennifer stayed with me, and Danielle joined our team.
Usually at this point in birth, my body is splitting in two and I look something like this:
But this time I casually sat in bed and chatted with my midwives. It might have been brunch with mimosas except that I was fully dilated and completely aware that with each contraction I was shitting myself. (Insert soapbox of how undignified birth is and how birth workers somehow manage to give that dignity back to you.) I asked Danielle about her recent trip to Disney World with her kids, commented on how completely unlabor-like "labor" was with an epidural, and asked how delivery was about to go down-- something that happens organically and loudly when there's not an epidural muting the waves.
After a couple of pushes on my back (something I swore I'd never do again after my first birth), Danielle suggested I flip over onto my hands and knees-- a trick I didn't know was possible with an epidural. When I wasn't holding my breath and counting to ten, I was asking where the heck the ring of fire went, amused and incredulous that this was even birth. In fact, looking back I'm kind of sorry that I slept through transition, and skipped out on the ring of fire (in a really bizarre way), like I chose to miss part of my son's birth. There's just something about feeling every ounce of pain, and then trading it-- in an instant-- for the greatest joy and relief. I can't describe how odd it felt to know precisely what pain was happening where, but only feeling pain's dim shadows in its place.
I hugged the back of the hospital bed, and counted to ten one last time. Suddenly my baby was laying belly to belly with me, the sunrise shining on his pink back. My little Sunday sunrise baby peacefully curved around his old home, beginning our new home together.
When I finally recognized the telltale first trimester queasiness last year, I couldn't imagine why I was given this gift-- a gift that initially felt so misplaced, if I'm honest. Motherhood had lost a lot of its joy, and was riddled with anxiety, guilt, and shortcomings. A baby due at the end of January-- the month with some of the grayest days and the longest nights, when the tulips and daffodils of spring might decide to stay buried in the cold dirt forever-- it felt like another layer of control was pulled away from me.
On January 20, Porter's ill-fated due date, the first patient in the United States was diagnosed with COVID-19. Who could have guessed that the entire world was about to embark on some of its grayest days, and weeks, and months? Death and suffering stifle life across the globe while fear sits stagnant in the air. And yet the tulips and daffodils poked out of the dirt and decided to bloom, Jesus still rose on the third day, and in our little home, Porter Theodore sparkles as our brightest spot-- our perfect, undeserved Sunday sunrise.
When I finally recognized the telltale first trimester queasiness last year, I couldn't imagine why I was given this gift-- a gift that initially felt so misplaced, if I'm honest. Motherhood had lost a lot of its joy, and was riddled with anxiety, guilt, and shortcomings. A baby due at the end of January-- the month with some of the grayest days and the longest nights, when the tulips and daffodils of spring might decide to stay buried in the cold dirt forever-- it felt like another layer of control was pulled away from me.
On January 20, Porter's ill-fated due date, the first patient in the United States was diagnosed with COVID-19. Who could have guessed that the entire world was about to embark on some of its grayest days, and weeks, and months? Death and suffering stifle life across the globe while fear sits stagnant in the air. And yet the tulips and daffodils poked out of the dirt and decided to bloom, Jesus still rose on the third day, and in our little home, Porter Theodore sparkles as our brightest spot-- our perfect, undeserved Sunday sunrise.
