This is the story of Irina's birth. It is long. Very, very long. I was going to break it up, posting it in chapters. But I just don't have the time right now. So read at your own peril. Go to the potty. Get yourself some provisions. And settle in for a nice, long read. And while your at it, post me a little love at the end. I worked hard on it.
Without further ado, I give you
The Arrival of Peace and LoveI awoke to silent darkness and before I even opened my eyes, listened for any signs of labor. All was quiet, in the house and in my belly. It was a few minutes before 4 o'clock and I was wide awake, for no reason. Frustrated and awake.
Two days before, I had gone to bed with consistent, but yet weak contractions. I thought surely active labor was not far behind. But, after having stayed up late watching the Grammys (where, I might add, the Dixie Chicks kicked fargin' ASS -- take that you incest lovin', gun totin', toothless, hillbilly chicken fuckers!), I fell into a deep sleep and awoke hours later to absolutely NO signs of labor. And I'd really had nothing more than a random Braxton Hicks contraction since then.
At a day shy of a week overdue, to say I was disappointed would have been an understatement akin to saying I disapprove of Ann Coulter.
In fact, I felt far more overdue than a mere week. I was certain this baby was going to be early. Way early. Reilly Kate was right on time. Exactly. Born precisely at 40 weeks. And that was with cervical scarring that prevented dilation. Roman came two and a half weeks early. Yes, that was with some help (membrane stripping), but labor wouldn't have started with that little bit of help had I not been ready. This being my third baby, I was certain to go early. I had already started losing my mucus plug at 32 weeks. I was... ummm... rather open down there, if you know what I mean. Things were starting to look ready to go. I felt ready to go. And yet... nothing.
Hell, we'd raced to find a house, a midwife, a job. We unpacked at a furious pace, even going so far as to set up the nursery, complete with wallpaper border and a fancy, lavender diaper changer cover. My mom had been in town since January 29th, which at the time I thought was too late. I told her repeatedly that she was going to miss the birth. I had even lined up a friend who lives 6 hours away to come just in case my mom wasn't here.
But my mom was here. We watched the Bears get spanked in the Super Bowl with the cute little outfit my mom bought for the baby to
wear resting on my enormous midsection. She saw my due date come and go. She watched the kids while I sought out reflexology to get labor started. She walked the malls with me. She went to bed early so Mike and I could have sex. But none of it helped. I was hugely pregnant, overdue, and overbaked.
That's where I was that early dark morning, a few minutes before 4 o'clock on February 13th. I laid there and silently started my mantra.
Contract. Dilate. Open. Out. I'd started doing this a full week before my due date. As if somehow with this mantra I could will myself into labor.
Contract. Dilate. Open. Out.I was hit with it then -- a contraction. No, not the kind you see on TV. Not the kind that one must breathe through or focus on. Just a little bitty contraction. In fact, it could have been a Braxton Hicks contraction (which, for those that don't know, are practice contractions -- meaning they don't really hurt and they aren't very productive). But with this contraction came the realization that today was an extremely poor day to go into labor.
Mike had some work related stuff scheduled for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. This particular work related stuff could not easily be rescheduled. Rescheduling could actually take months... and thereby throw off his entire work related plans. Worse still, if I went into labor while he was busy with his work related stuff, it was highly questionable whether I'd even be able to get a hold of him. There was a good chance he wouldn't even know I was in labor until he came home at night.
Suffice it to say, labor today would be bad. Very bad. Oh, so, so bad.
Mike said all along that I'd have the baby on that Monday, the 12th. But when the 12th came and went, I think we all figured it wasn't going to happen while he was busy at work after all. I assumed the baby was waiting till that was all over. Still, I didn't want to take any chances. In an instant I stopped my mantra and tried to relax. I tried to relax every cell in my body. Within ten minutes, another contraction hit. I made note of the time. Ten minutes later another. And then another at ten minutes after that.
Every ten minutes a contraction, like clockwork, for two straight hours. I remained calm, assuming that just like the night of the Grammys, these would peter out. Yet, something told me, something inside, something giddy with excitement told me that this really was IT.
When Mike's alarm went off and he stumbled toward the bathroom, I told him.
"Hey, I've been contracting every ten minutes since 4 o'clock."
"Excellent," was his facetious response.
We agreed that he would go ahead with his day as planned, but with periodic check ins providing me with a number to reach him at during all his various stops throughout the day. I silently vowed to keep active labor at bay till he was home that evening, despite his repeated assurances that he'd make it home.
"You and the baby are more important. Just do what you have to to get things moving," he said.
But I went about my day as gingerly as I could. I got up with the kids and ate breakfast. The contractions still coming every ten minutes, but not intensifying. I took a luxurious 2 hour nap then had a long, hot steamy shower. I blew out my hair. I did my make up. I put on my favorite maternity blouse. I was all dressed for the occasion. I emailed, surfed, posted, and googled. I watched TV and updated my iPod. Still contracting every ten minutes.
Now, when I say every ten minutes, that's an average. I'm not a regular kinda gal. I don't do anything strictly on schedule and that includes my uterus. So some were 12 minutes, some were 9 minutes. But they were all in the ten minute range. And they weren't going away. Plus, I'd started to bleed. Nothing horrible or bright red. No cause for concern. Just a sign that my cervix was changing and getting ready. Our baby was definitely coming soon.
I decided to call my midwife, Tammi. As many of you know, I did all my own prenatal care. I had concluded early on that I should avoid Korean doctors and their modern medical "wisdom" and instead put my trust in a divinely created, time honored, almost perfect baby delivery system -- my body. Doctors, while wonderful for those scant few women and babies that are truly sick and in need of assistance, do more damage than good to the vast majority of pregnancies and births in which they interfere. So I dug up a measuring tape to record my belly's growth. I took my blood pressure at the gym and bought a blood sugar monitor to check my glucose levels. I had a Doppler from my previous pregnancies and listened often to the baby's heart beat and the placenta. I was the picture of a perfect pregnancy.
When we left Korea and came to the States, however, I wanted to find a midwife to be there when I delivered. Having had no "professional" medical prenatal care, I worried that I wouldn't find a soul who would touch me with a ten foot pole, or a carefully latex gloved hand for that matter, because of liability issues. Midwives are already targets for persecution in our society (and have been for the last 1500 years or so); they needn't bring any more liability onto themselves. I prepared myself for two options -- delivering in an ER surrounded by machines and disapproving doctors just itching to diagnose me with something, and the more plausible, unassisted delivery at home attended by no one but my terrified husband.
So when I found Tammi online, and asked if she would take me as a client, I was so happy I nearly peed myself when she said yes. Tammi is a very motivated midwife -- an advocate for women and babies, for the empowerment of pregnancy and the sanctity of birth. And as such, she never hesitated to take me on -- something for which I could never repay her. Plus, she came with a free bonus, like a cool toy on the bottom of a box of your favorite sugared cereal: Lori, her apprentice (henceforth referred to simply as The Apprentice). Not only then would I have Tammi there to assist me should I need it, but I would also have Lori there, learning, helping, carrying on. I felt very blessed going into labor.
Anyway, I called Tammi to let her know that things were happening... again. But this time there was some bleeding and contractions that hadn't gone away. She said it all sounded promising, that I should keep her posted. She reminded me that she is from upstate New York and that snow and ice don't scare her. No matter the weather, she would be there when I needed her. And The Apprentice, despite hailing from Northern Virginia, has a beast of a vehicle that allows her to plow through the heaviest of precipitation. I was glad as the weather outside was turning ugly, very ugly.
As I figured, the kids were cooped up all day and would be for the next few as well. I had gotten some craft stuff together to give them something to do. We had a very large, poster sized piece of paper and some paints. I sat Reilly Kate on one side of the paper and Roman on the other and told them to paint a welcome sign for the baby.
"Why?" asked Reilly.
"Why we painting for the baby?" echoed Roman.
"So when she comes out, she knows she's arrived at the right place. So she knows we are her family. And that we have been waiting for her. And that we love her and welcome her," I explained.
"Because she's never met us before," Reilly Kate elaborated.
"Yeah, right, Tutu," nodded Roman.
And they set out to painting. Roman painted an octopus in the sky and Reilly painted a sky on the bottom. It turned out beautifully and after it dried a bit, I hung on the wall in the family room so it would be one of the first things our baby saw when she did come out. I love it so much that two months later it still hangs on our family room wall.
Mike called around 3 o'clock to say that he'd be gone about two more hours. I had actually planned on him being home hours before, closer to 1pm. So when he said two more hours, I choked on my shock, tears welling in my eyes. I was scared.
The snow and ice had started up pretty heavily and it wasn't going to stop. In fact, the forecast was that this night, this very night that my baby appeared to be arriving, was going to be the worst winter storm of the season. Virginians cannot drive in bad weather. They just can't. Not that I can, either. But I know my limitations. Most Virginia drivers do not. The traffic was going to back up and rush hour was close at hand. Again I was terrified that he just wasn't going to make it in time. For some reason, I was confident that Tammi and The Apprentice would make it here, but scared that Mike would not.
"What's wrong?"
I stifled a sob and answered him.
"Nothing," I lied. "It's just that I thought you'd be home by now."
"I'll be there. Don't worry," he said.
We said our goodbyes and hung up.
I decided to lie down on the couch, thinking that perhaps if I laid down for a while the contractions would cease. I watched the news about Anna Nicole Smith for about an hour and a half. How, you may be wondering, could I stand to watch that much Anna drama? I wasn't really watching. I was contracting. And they were getting stronger. I was still fully capable of carrying on a conversation during them, but they were definitely increasing in intensity. Not painful, but intense.
Mike walked in at 4:30 with a huge armload of firewood and a heart of optimism despite a very long, stressful workday that didn't end as confidently as he had thought it should. He set to work straight away to building a fire and readying the house for the arrival of our newest family member. It was a bone chilling cold outside and it was starting to leak through into our house. In fact, I had changed from my favorite maternity blouse into the enormous, hand knit Irish wool sweater that Mike's mom had made him. I was that chilled. Mike built up a roaring fire (the best he'd done in his rookie year of fire building) and piled the rest of the wood nearby so he could keep it going all night.
I made a few more phone calls to friends and family, to let them know tonight was the night. I noticed that while on the phone, my contractions weren't quite as strong or frequent. It made me worry that perhaps this was false labor yet again. I decided to quit the phone and use the computer instead and sit on my birthing ball. I really, really did not want to see these contractions peter out. I was ready for the baby and I felt she too was ready.
Mike called his parents in Chicago. His mom was so excited she said she would stay awake and pray for us until she heard that the baby and I were safely delivered. I thought that was sweet, and it felt really good to know someone was out there fervently praying for me. But it also added a bit of pressure. People were staying up, waiting for me and if it didn't happen... well, I just wasted a bunch of other people's time.
My mom cooked dinner, Salmon with basil butter and broccoli salad. I was starting to feel a bit nauseated so I turned it down. My mom, however, insisted I needed something and forced me to eat just a small amount. I put one bite in my mouth and ate that whole plate, turning to get seconds... and thirds. It was the best damn salmon I have ever put in my mouth. And that broccoli salad? Amazing. I don't know if it was the building excitement or my body asking for nourishment to take me through the night or just plain nervous eating, but that was the best meal I think my mom has ever made.
Everyone was insistent that I call my midwife again. My mom had been keeping track of my contractions and they were coming a little more frequently, between 5 and 7 minutes apart. I called Tammi up and gave her an update.
"Let me know when they get closer together," she said.
She was going to call The Apprentice and they'd come whenever I felt I was ready. The problem, as I saw it, was that I had no clue when I should call her. I didn't know when I'd be ready. My first birth was a medically managed, albeit midwife attended, pitocin induced labor. I didn't have to know when I was ready. I was told when I was ready. My second labor was more natural, although labor was encouraged by daily membrane stripping. Once I thought I was in labor, I was repeatedly told that it couldn't be active labor since my contractions weren't coming regularly, I could talk through them, and my uterus just didn't feel hard enough during them. Thankfully, Pat, my doula, is also a nurse and I talked her into checking me. She then told me I was not only ready, but that birth was close at hand. Hence, although this was my third baby, this was my first all natural labor and I had nothing and no one to tell me when I would be ready. It was all on me.
All I could do was tell Tammi that I would keep her abreast of my progress. We had to laugh at the weather which had gotten so bad I could hear the ice whipping against the windows. The storm was shaping up to be a real doozy. I could only imagine how horrible it would be to drive in it. But, she again reassured me, they would be here when I needed them.
Mike got the kids ready for bed and we talked to them about the baby coming. I asked them should they be sleeping when it was time for the baby to come out, if they wanted us to wake them. Reilly Kate said yes. Roman said no. But they were both so excited we told them that we'd wake them both. Reilly Kate didn't even want to go to sleep. She wanted to stay up and help me. Even after Mike had tucked them in and said night prayers with them, Reilly Kate stole downstairs for one last kiss to my belly. "I'll see you sometime tonight, baby," she said with her head resting on my big bump.
With the kids ensconced in their beds, Mike and I settled on the couch for some mindless Tuesday night prime time with my parents. My mom was still marking down my contraction times and the pain was starting to get bad enough that I really had to focus. Her recording the time was starting to grate on my nerves for some reason. When you're in pain, the weirdest things just bug you. Plus, I was starting to get tired and despite the roaring fire and the thick Irish sweater, I was chilled. I felt feverish, which was not a good thing.
A fever during labor can indicate an infection. I hadn't had a Group B Strep test and therefore didn't know my strep status. The American medical establishment is obsessed with Group B Strep. If I started to run a fever, I'd have to transfer to a hospital so I could get a round or three or more of antibiotics. I took my temp and it was 99.8. Not too high, but enough for me to feel it and enough to be on the radar of concern. I so did NOT want to transfer. Everything I had done to keep my pregnancy, labor, and delivery natural and uninhibited could come to a crashing halt with a fever.
I was getting agitated from it all. Mike suggested we go upstairs and lie down on our big, king sized bed. Just the two of us. A rare occasion for we usually have at least one kid and a dog in there with us. It sounded relaxing. So despite my feeling somewhat rude at just up and leaving my parents sitting in the living room alone with the TV, I lumbered my way up the stairs and snuggled into spooning with my hubby.
As soon as we laid down, I knew I wasn't going to Rip Van Winkle my way through the evening. The contractions were just too strong. When one would hit, my legs would writhe around on the bed. I even started to moan softly. Rest was not going to happen. I took my temperature again and it had gone up a bit. I was tired, cranky, and feeling fluish. I decided to take a shower to perk myself up a bit, relax my muscles, and hopefully reduce my temp before it rose to the point of being a real fever.
Mike wanted to call Tammi while I labored in the shower. He felt ready for her to come. As I walked into the shower, he was picking up the phone.
"Don't tell her to come right away. I'm not that close. I could be at this all night long," I told him.
Right after I slipped into the steamy world of my diminutive shower, my uterus kicked it up a notch. The contractions started coming closer together, with each and every one hitting hard. Before, I'd get a hard one and then three easy ones. Or two hard ones in a row, with a string of easy ones after that. When I say easy, I mean so easy that at times I couldn't tell I was having them -- like when I was talking on the phone I'd hardly notice them. But once I was in that shower, they were all pretty serious. I leaned against the back wall, resting my arms on the shelf, and let the water just hit my lower back. I started my mantra once again.
Contract. Dilate. Open. Out. Contract. Dilate. Open. Out.
It was nice to be there, in the shower, alone. Laboring, just me and my baby. I wrapped my arms around my belly, as I had so many showers before, and whispered to her.
Now is the time, I told her. Now is the time. We're going to do this together. We were co-conspirators in this gig. I knew that she must be in pain with the contractions bearing down on her wee body, compressing her fragile head. And scared, too. The entire world, literally, opening up to her had to be unnerving. Thrusting her out of the only home she knew: the safe warm haven of my womb. I patted what I thought was her bum as I built up to another contraction.
Mike came walking into the bathroom to tell me that Tammi warned against steaming too long for fear of raising my fever. She wanted me to call her as soon as I got out. Mike was lobbying hard for her to come over soon. He's the nervous type that way.
I relinquished my shower sanctuary and toweled off, not dressing right away to allow my body to cool and bring my body temperature down. Mike handed me the phone and I dialed Tammi. We talked in between contractions. I didn't want to drag her out in this treacherous weather, away from her family, and the comforts of her own home, to come over and watch me labor for hours and hours. Surely there had to be better television. Tammi, on the other hand, didn't want to come over and have me feel pressured by her presence. She wanted to honor my birth and give me my space. Typical women. We didn't want to hurt or disrespect each other. Mike took the phone and after talking to him, Tammi made the decision to come.
A sense of relief came over me. I hadn't realized how much I really wanted her to come now, even if she wound up sleeping on my couch. Any sense of pressure or tension melted down my back and dripped down my limbs. I felt relaxed despite the contractions. I took my temperature again and it showed a completely normal 98.6.
I came downstairs dressed and ready for the night. It was about 10:30. I sat down and posted a quick message to my online sisters, letting them know that my midwife and The Apprentice were on their way and that shortly I'd be holding my new baby girl. I clicked POST and went into the family room to settle into a birthing spot. My choice was on the floor, leaning into my glider rocker.
I worked through a contraction, rocking back and forth into the seat of the rocker. When it released me, I looked around and saw my mom and Mike in a flurry of activities, tying up loose ends, getting things organized, expending nervous energy.
I rocked my way through a couple more contractions and began to pray the rosary in between.
Hail Mary full of grace, the lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb...
Contraction.
...Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Hail Mary full of grace, the lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb...
Contraction.
Up until this point, I wasn't in unmanageable pain. For those of you reading this that have never been in labor, you probably hear the word "pain" and think unbearable, hideous, screaming banshee pain. But it isn't like that. At least for me. It'd been almost enjoyable. Exciting. I was having a baby and these contractions were the proof (okay, not that I really needed proof given the belly I was sporting, but you know what I mean). It was a slow build, up to this point. And this is the point at which things got hard, really damn hard.
My Hawaiian doula, Pat, taught me during my pitocin labor with Reilly Kate to splay open my hands instead of clenching them during contractions. The idea is to keep your hands open, your body open, your mind open, in order to get your cervix to open. So when the contractions hit, my hands would fly open, wide open, fingers reaching their full length. The harder the contractions, the bigger my hands seemed to get.
During one particularly hard contraction, I looked at my hands and saw my fingers shaking. Whereas minutes before I felt at ease and happy, now I felt out of control, almost frantic. I was racing, too fast, toward a finish I couldn't clearly see.
I called out to Mike and like any husband when his wife is in labor, he raced nervously to my side in seconds.
"When's she gonna get here? When'd she leave?" I asked trying hard not to sound desperate.
"Who Tammi? She left... ummm... she said she was leaving right after I talked to her," he said, looking at his watch. "She'll be here soon" he said and locked eyes with my mom. So started their over-my-head whispering that I couldn't really hear, but knew was about me just the same.
Another contraction hit me and I instantly was transported into my own world -- that crazy labor land where pain is the focus and thoughts the distraction. Where all that is going on around you is plainly visible, but easily unseen. Where your inner voice is sane and reasonable, but your spoken words are unintelligible and irrational. Labor land is really like no other. It is all fuzzy with crystals of clarity. It is forgettable while spiked with fleeting and often indifferent moments seared into memory. It is on a different plane entirely. I felt myself diving down, surfing toward, settling into that plane more and more with every contraction.
Between contractions, I rested on the rocking chair, back swayed, belly hanging low. I could feel the baby moving, making her way down toward the exit -- the entrance to the world that awaits her arrival. I could feel her laboring her own way out. Again I was reminded that we were doing this together, the two of us, the baby and I. I silently prayed that she not be in too much pain, that she not be too afraid, that she know she wasn't alone in this, that she journey safely from that world into this.
As I dealt with contractions and the building fear that things were progressing too quickly for the arrival of the midwives, my mom set up the camera, helped me take off my jeans, and put down some waterproof pads to protect the carpet.
Mike stoked the fire and rolled up our "fancy" Turkish rug from Korea. They each took turns coming by during contractions to rub balls on my back (tennis balls! get your minds out of the gutter for a moment, people!). My dad came by a couple of times before deciding to hightail it into the basement with a book.
I repeatedly asked when Tammi would be arriving. Mike and my mom continued their whispering while sounding completely calm and reassuring when talking to me. I've since learned that at this time my mom, in a state of panic, thinking that she would have to catch the baby, took off all her rings. I'm not sure why. Perhaps she thought that she would have to reach up and pull the baby out, inadvertently losing her rings forever to the deep caverns of my reproductive organs. I guess even grannies do crazy things in the throws of labor.
Finally Mike, giving in to my persistent cries for Tammi and The Apprentice, decided to call her on her cell phone to see where she was and her estimated time of arrival.
"No! No! Don't! Don't call her!" I screamed in terror. "Don't call her on her cell phone while she's driving in this ice! You'll distract her and she'll crash!"
"She won't crash," Mike said calmly as he reached for the phone.
"Do not call her!!" I insisted. "You call her and she crashes. Then what? What do I do then? I won't have a midwife at all because she'll be dead in a ditch somewhere. DO NOT CALL HER!"
And he didn't. You just don't argue with a woman in labor. You just don't. No matter how irrational. No matter what the reason. You just don't argue. Instead, you take a detour. And detour he did.
"I'll call her husband and find out what time she left."
That poor man must be really dedicated to the whole homebirth thing. I'm quite certain Mike isn't the first husband to wake him up on a school night all a-twitter with the Laboring Wife Blues... or more aptly, Jitters. He let us know that she should be there at any minute. Provided, of course, as my mom so thoughtfully pointed out, that she didn't stop by Starbucks for a quick latte and blueberry scone. Visions of Tammi and The Apprentice sipping caffeinated, frothy, whipped cream topped coffee delights and munching pastries while calmly discussing the childbirthing game plan cast clouds over my labor land. I would never deliver, doomed to labor land the rest of all my days. If only there was a Starbucks in labor land, eh?
By the next time I cried out the woeful tale of my missing midwives, they were both pulling up into the driveway, sans lattes. They hadn't stopped anywhere, coming straight to me, through the driving ice and treacherous road slicks. They were brought to me, safely and soundly. Again, I felt the tension melt down, relief pouring through me. It couldn't be long at all now. With the midwives in attendance, I'd be pushing that wee one out and be done with the misery of labor. Or so was my thinking... in labor land.
Tammi and The Apprentice walked in while I was wailing out my birth song. If you haven't heard that expression before, let me explain. A birth song is the laboring moans of a woman in childbirth. It varies from woman to woman with some groaning, others growling, some humming, or even singing. Some women cry out, some suck their breath in, others, in keeping with Lamaze techniques, pant. There are a minute few that stay silent but for their deep breaths in and out.
And then there is me. I am the Kevin Federline of the birth song genre. My lyrics don't really increase the artistic integrity of the birth song industry. In fact, I don't "sing" at all. I talk. I'm a talker of the worst kind. I don't just babble or whine, I talk and talk and talk and talk... primarily about how much I dislike what it is I'm doing or how I want it to stop. Here's a few examples:
"I can't do this." As if I had a choice.
"I don't want to do this any more." Again, like I had a choice.
"Somebody help me." Yeah, help me do what exactly?
"Isn't this over already?" I really doubt I'd need to ask that if it really was over.
"Ow." That doesn't quite capture the feeling, though, does it?
"I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't." Huh?
"This is killing me." Or it just feels like it is.
"No more. Please no more." Who was I saying this to, really?
"No." And we all know "no" means "no."
And the classic, all time favorite, "I'm done." With the occasional variation of "I'm so done."
This last one along with its variation is such a favorite that I kept repeating it throughout my labor. So much so that the next day when asked what she remembered most about the baby's birth, Reilly Kate answered, "You kept saying you were done. But you weren't done."
There is a whole host of crazy, K-Fed-ism lyrics in my repertoire. After having watched Roman's birth several times over in which I repeatedly exclaim my impending death -- "I'm gonna die!" -- I swore up and down that I wouldn't bellow crazy talk this final birth. And yet, I just couldn't help myself. I've watched this birth video, too, and before I allow anyone else to watch, I will be dubbing a lovely birth song over all my speaking parts. It's that bad. Like my kindred spirit Mr. Spears, I've only gotten worse with practice.
As I tortured my audience with my birth song or more aptly my birth rap, The Apprentice took my blood pressure and listened to the baby's heart beat. Everything was going great, they said. Everything looked good. Everything sounded good. In my head, clouded with visions of labor land, I should be almost done. After all, the midwives were here. They would bring about the end of this whole torture session. What were they waiting for? I wanted them to do it. Do it now. I was getting a little agitated that they weren't doing anything. Just do it, I wanted to scream. Do it!! In my head, in labor land, this all made sense.
Shortly after their arrival, my labor pains shifted from front to back. My back started to hurt, like a funny bone, pinched nerve kind of hurt, with every contraction. In between contractions, the pain would go away completely. I'd rest then, talking normally, sipping water, cracking jokes. But as soon as I felt the next contraction brewing, my back would twinge up and my nerves would scream out from the fire inside them. Still kneeling, I began to lean back onto Mike, twisting myself almost in half. Tammi told me that my back pain was most likely caused by the baby dragging an elbow as she made her descent. She rubbed arnica on my lower back which may or may not have helped ease the pain, but made me feel better nonetheless.
I was making progress. Tammi had taken a few peeks with the flashlight and told me that I was looking pretty open. I felt pushy and complained that I wanted to push, but was in so much pain that I was clenching. There was a constant struggle in my brain while in labor land. Clenching versus pushing. I was all messed up and feeling out of control. Tammi suggested I try pushing on the toilet.
This is the part I have no recollection of. I wouldn't even know that I spent several contractions
on the toilet if it weren't for the video. But I did. And by the time I walked out of the bathroom, Reilly Kate was awake, startled out of her slumber by my K-Fed birth song, and sitting excitedly, waiting for her sister's arrival. She and my mom were calmly watching the show, expectation lighting their eyes.
I worked through a few contractions standing up, my back swayed, supported by Mike, my head crooked backwards around his shoulder. This would be my labor stance, either standing or kneeling, for the remaining duration of my labor. It won me this award, given to me on my birthday two days later by my husband and children. This is what I looked like, only not quite so elegant.
This stance also won me a kink in my neck so bad that I spent the morning of my birthday at a chiropractor’s office. It'll be a long time before my back and neck are normal again after contortions of that nature. Stiff, out of shape, fat women should not contort. Not ever.
Despite Mike's own back problems, he was a great pillar of support. I leaned back on him, pushing hard against him. He stood strong and tall, at times holding me up as my legs buckled under me. He tirelessly cheered me on.
"You're doing great, baby," he'd say.
And again, "You're doing great, baby."
Again... and again, "You're doing great, baby."
And over and over and over again, "You're doing great, baby."
I know there is really nothing a man attending to his laboring wife
can say except, "You're doing great, baby." But after hearing it for the 976th time while not feeling so great about how you're doing, you just kind of have a mental break. Or, at least, I did.
"NO I AM NOT!! I am NOT doing great. Stop saying THAT!!"
"Okay. Okay," he said. "But you are doing great, baby."
I think it shows a tremendous amount of self restraint on my part that Mike still has all his appendages. Although, the next time he has some muscle spasms in his back, he's gonna get the whole "You're doing great, baby," treatment. Even if all he's doing is writhing on the floor suffering like an old arthritic dog with mange. Yeah, you're doing great, baby.
It was getting close to midnight and there was some discussion of whether a Valentine's Day birthday was desirable. My mom felt it was a great day to have a birthday and was hoping the baby would hold out till after midnight. Her theory being that the baby's future loves would never forget either her birthday or Valentine's Day. She'd always be guaranteed something. Mike wasn't convinced. He figured she'd get the whole combo gift thing and feel cheated. I didn't give a black rat's fat ass what day the baby came -- so long as it was “RIGHT FUCKING NOW!” The midwives wisely gave no opinion.
At one point in between contractions, I tried to feel inside to determine how far along I was, how much further I had to go. My spelunkering turned up nothing. I couldn't feel a thing besides mush. It felt like the insides of an overripe pumpkin, only warmer. Nothing that would give me any indication of impending birth. I laid down so Tammi could cop a feel. She merrily announced I was just about completely done (as I’d been saying all along, “I’m done. I’m done. I’m done.”). And there was much rejoicing. Additionally, she reported that my water bag was bulging.
"That's what all that pressure is you're feeling," she explained.
"The bag?" I asked as I looked at her with teary, pleading, pain filled eyes.
She knew what I was really asking and answered back right away.
"Let the bag be, Heather. Let it be."
After another back breaking contraction, I asked again.
"Are you sure you don't want to break it?" Read: Are you sure you don't want to be a humanitarian and put me out of my misery with a simple flick of the finger nail?
"No, because I don't know why it hasn't broken already on its own. It's better for the baby."
"It's cushioning the baby's head," added The Apprentice.
And while part of my brain thought, Screw them! Somebody break this damn water!, the inner, rational part of me, the mother inside my head, was so grateful they were there to prevent me from interfering with the natural process. I trust birth. I trust my body. I know the whole system is set up for success and any interference can cause a negative ripple effect. I know this. But yet in labor land the mind is clouded and so is judgement. Hence why I love midwives. A doctor or a nurse or any other swinging dick in the conventional medical field would have jumped at the chance to muck things up with their meddling. But not midwives. They respect the process. They respect nature and God. They respect women. And I’m stepping off my soapbox now.
Anyway, it was only a handful of contractions later that my water broke on its own. Nice and clear and beautiful. A relief for me. Not just from the physical pressure I was feeling, but that the baby seemed to be handling labor well and was healthy. Since she was a week past her due date (and by my inner clock, much later than that even), I was a bit concerned about meconium in the amniotic fluid.
Meconium is that gunk that piles up in a fetus' intestines and bowels. Normally, a baby will pass this black sticky tar stuff during the first few days of life. But if a baby is stressed, unhealthy, or sometimes simply post date (meaning the baby should have been born already), the baby will poop while still in the mother, staining the fluid in the womb. In and of itself meconium staining isn't a problem, but I felt better knowing the fluid was poop free. Fluid sloshing out of your vagina is always better poop free, don't ya think?
Of course, despite the plethora of pads and waterproof liners we'd scattered all over the floor making the room look much like a lunatic's mosaic quilt, I managed to spray forth such a gusher that I soaked the one tiny square foot of carpet that remained unprotected. My OCD brain kicked in and latched onto that one spot like a pitbull to a bone. All I could think despite the searing pain in my nethers was that I would never be able to get the smell of amniotic fluid out of my family room.
For the next twenty years we're going to sit in this room and smell amniotic fluid, barked the pitbull. No matter that we didn't plan on staying in this house longer than five years. No matter that we plan on pulling the carpet up and replacing it with hardwood in the next year or so. No matter I was in the throws of labor. No matter. What I wanted to do was rise up, grab my spray bottle of Folex, and spot treat before the stench set in. By the way, if you haven't discovered the wonder that is Folex, I suggest you do. Life is too short not to have a bottle or five under the kitchen sink.
"It's all over the carpet," I was finally able to whine after the pain demon had allowed me a moment's reprieve.
I was met with a chorus of supporters trying to make me feel better.
"Oh, no it isn't."
"Don't worry about it, baby."
"I don't think it got on there."
I would have
none of that. I knew it was there and they weren't going to make me feel better about it. Nope. I snapped at them instead.
"It IS! I just saw it!" My voice was high pitched and shrill and shaky.
"Alright."
"Okay."
"That's fine."
The chorus sang nervously. I think they thought I'd literally bite the head off anyone who denied the fluid stain on the carpet. Funny thing is that wasn't the worse to happen to the carpet that night. In the very next moment came… The Poop.
Now, let me explain to you birth novices about the poop. It's not something talked about in polite company. But if you've been reading here at my blog you know well enough that I ain't polite company. I talk about it all. You're about to get the whole poop on the poop. If you don't know, you need to. If you're a woman who hasn't been through childbirth (and no, cesarean sections do not count) or a man who's never witnessed childbirth (no, high school health videos also do not count) then you need to hear this. You need to know the indignities we women have to suffer in order to propagate the human race. You need to know what your mother did for you. And her mother before her. You need to hear this and be thankful.
When pushing out a baby, you poop. Okay, not every woman poops every time. But most women poop at some time with at least one of their babies. It happens. You're straining and the baby's head is pushing up against stuff and it's all in about the same vicinity and... well... it just happens.
I heard about this before Reilly Kate was born and I had mentally prepared myself for it. Honestly, you just have to get past the idea that you are going to poop because if you don't, then you won't push and if you don't push the baby just ain't gonna come out. So I prepared. I actually meditated on it. And then, it didn't happen. I mean, I was all prepared for it and then nothing.
But when Roman was born, oh, that boy, he had a nice round head. And that round head smashed my poor large intestine and I pushed out about as much poop as I did baby. I had so much pain in my rear with Roman I couldn’t decide if I was suffering labor pains or last night’s Chinese food. Mike's version of that birth story goes something like this:
"She shit all over the place. I've never seen anyone shit before. And there she was just shitting on the table in front of everyone. The midwife had to keep wiping it away."
No mention of the beautiful son I had just pushed out. No mention of what a sweet birth it was or how great an experience we had. No. All he remembers is the poop.
This time around I actually announced it.
"I'm pooping," I said. Right there. In the family room. Screw the OCD. Forget about the carpet. Don't worry about modesty or dignity. Just let it all hang out, so to speak. I knew I'd hear all about it later. But for the moment, I was just thankful for Tammi. She reassured me that this is part of her job and set about to wiping me up and keeping me clean. Have I mentioned how much I love midwives? Mine especially?
I was now at the pushing stage of labor. The pain was manageable. Pushing, while not exactly pleasurable, is a pain that feels productive. It has a point that is tangible at that very moment. It is exhausting, but it is exhilarating as well. I was feeling a sharp, intense pain. Gone was the pressure and the horrible, evil spinal flames. Despite the poop, this was the good part.
My mom had been debating about when to go get Roman. At Mike's instruction, she had started off several times to get him from his bed. Each time I had stopped her. I was worried that he'd get scared with all my Federline-isms coupled with the wailing and the blood. And now the poop. I was afraid that he'd freak out during that transition from sound sleep to awake whilst watching his mother writhe in pain, flanked by a fretting Daddy and women he hardly knew. He's a sensitive kid and I wanted this to be a good, positive experience for him. A pleasant memory. I figured the less time he was exposed to the unfamiliar and slightly gruesome (albeit natural) aspects of the evening the better.
The Apprentice had advised my mom to get him after my water broke. When it broke, my mom darted off quick as a jack rabbit only to screech to a halt as I bellowed, "No! Don't!"
Shortly after I started the pooping stage, my mom again attempted to get him. "Not yet," I demanded.
And then, I felt it -- the telltale burning, that infamous ring of fire that comes from the skin of the vaginal opening, the perineum, stretching over the baby's head as it pushes through to the world.
"She's coming," I whispered and gulped in a big breath. "Go get Roman."
My mom, followed by a happily skipping, totally delighted Reilly Kate, who, by the way, had been right up next to the midwife with a flashlight pointed at my yoni try to catch a glimpse of her sister’s emerging head, ran upstairs to retrieve the boy.
I heard Tammi ask Mike if he wanted to catch the baby. I had hoped that he would. What a story that would have made! But he told her he just wasn't ready for that. Perhaps it was the poop that scared him off. Honestly, though, I was surprised at how well he was coping. For a Nervous Ned like he to be actually enjoying the homebirth of his third child was impressive. Hell, before Reilly Kate was born he didn't even want to cut the cord. He was too afraid he'd do it wrong.
He's come a long way since those days. Although, he did repeatedly ask the midwives for help and guidance. “Where should she be standing?” “What should we do now?” “What position should she be in?” He even asked me “Do you want to ask Tammi what to do?” Poor Tammi just kept telling him that I was doing fine on my own. And I think now, that’s all over, he gets it. Hell, I figure, by the next baby… or the baby after that… or at least by the 6th baby anyway, he’ll be an old hat at this, catching babies like Johnny Bench. He’ll get into the Homebirth Hall of Fame. Or something like that. But for this one, he was content to just watch the professionals.
With Roman downstairs, fully awake, happy and excited, I started pushing in earnest. I knew we had reached that point at which it was all me. If I put my everything into it, I’d be holding my newest baby within minutes. So I pushed. And pushed. And breathed and pushed.
Pushing, by the way, is somewhat involuntary. You push without realizing you push. You feel compelled to push even if you don’t want to push. But when you make a concerted effort to push, the pushing becomes a pretty intense work out. Especially if you are laying flat on your back in a hospital bed. That’s when you have to hold your breath and push till blood vessels in your eyes pop. That’s when you have to have an oxygen mask just to catch your breath. And forget about it if you’re hooked up to an epidural, paralyzed from your waist down. That’s a damn near impossibility.
Fortunately for me, I wasn’t at a hospital, or in bed, or even lying down. I was squatting on one knee, pelvis open wide, allowing gravity to do its thing. Compared to my two previous, hospital bed deliveries, this pushing was nothing. It was the difference between a spring time after dinner stroll and a half marathon in the dead heat and humidity of a Chicago record high summer. Yeah, that big of a difference. Yes, yes, I love midwives.
As I pushed, I put my hand down in front of my yoni and could feel the baby’s head. It came out, then back in a bit as I relaxed, and out a wee bit more with every push. The ring of fire flamed my nethers as the baby burned her way out. I yelped as I pushed, crying out as all the others watched in near silence. After just a couple of minutes her head popped completely out. I held my hand down there, rubbing the top of her head as she lingered between worlds – the born and the unborn. Touching the open air, but not yet breathing. Still yet a part of me, but partly her own person. (If you look closely at this picture, and perhaps click on it to make it larger, you can see her head hanging down, The Apprentice's hands protecting her)
Those moments, those scant few moments, when the baby is not quite born, but I can feel the head and touch the nose, those moments are pure magic. There is nothing, absolutely nothing that can compare. To reach down to such a private and personal part of my body and feel another, whole person emerging… it defies description. Words are worthless, really.
I would have liked for that moment to last longer. Tammi, too, wanted that moment to last. She asked that I ease the baby’s shoulders out to protect my perineum.
“Gently, gently breathe her out, okay,” she suggested.
But I feared the shoulders. I feared if I rested for too long, her shoulders would settle into my pelvis and become lodged there. I knew this was going to be a big baby. All I had to do was see the shock and horror in the eyes of my fellow mall walkers to know that I was beyond the realm of normal pregnant woman large. I’m sure people thought I was with
children, carrying around a small litter. My waist came damn close to 52” and my weight… ha! Let’s just say it was… ummm… up there. So this coupled with the fact that the baby was a week late, I knew she was going to be big.
I once had a friend who had a big baby. His shoulders became lodged in her pelvis and he was born close to death. It was traumatic. It was a nightmare. He lived, but only by the grace of God and a kick ass NICU team. I lived and relived that story with her over the course of his first year. Their story is forever burned on my soul.
From that experience, shoulder dystocia is probably my only real childbirth fear. Midwives (have I sung their praises enough?) are well versed in the various positions that can remedy shoulder dystocia. Doctors not so much. So I knew I was in good hands should this happen. I knew that the chances of it happening were already greatly reduced just simply by the position I had chosen to birth in and the fact that I wasn’t lying in bed. Still, I wanted her out fast.
“I just want her out,” I said.
“We want to protect your perineum,” Tammi explained.
I took a breath. Then another. And one more then asked, “Now?”
“Yep. Perfect.”
And with that I gave one last push.
“Here she comes,” said The Apprentice. “Catch her, Heather.”
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t get my hands down there quick enough. Lori, The Apprentice, had a good hold of her, though. I heard something slap the floor (most likely her feet since she was so dang long) and the baby was crying before she even made it to my arms. My first thought was that I dropped her.
“Did she hurt herself?” I asked, guilt overwhelming any sense of relief.
“No, no,” was the unanimous response.
I have since been totally reassured that she was safe in Lori’s hands and that I did NOT drop her. The video is proof positive. I didn’t drop my poor baby.
Within a fraction of a second she was in my arms, screaming, and turning a beautiful pink color. I could tell right away she was a big, big girl. She was soft and wet and warm and lovely.
“BAY-BAY!!” Roman screamed.
Mike was laughing, a teary, emotional, hearty laugh.
“Welcome,” he said. “Welcome. Happy St. Valentine’s Day.”
Roman was the first to come running up, followed by Reilly Kate who charged right through the fluids and blood to come close.
“Hi baby sister,” Reilly Kate greeted the baby. “Mama, can I touch her?”
“What smells,” I asked. “Is that her?”
No one had the heart to tell me it was the poop Tammi had so kindly been whisking away. Well, no one had the heart to tell me just then at least. Mike let about 12 hours pass before he started in on the poop and how badly it smelled and how disgusting and on and on he went about the poop.
“That’s just the smell of birth, my dear,” Tammi covered. “Look at that nice, wonderful cord you made for her,” she changed the subject. And although she was changing the subject, the feeling in her voice was so genuine that I just knew she meant it, too. You gotta love a woman who appreciates a good umbilical cord. Especially if I’ve made the cord!
I asked Reilly Kate if she remembered the name I had whispered in her ear weeks before. Mike and I always keep the potential names we are thinking of secret till after the birth. We just figure that this way no one can really complain about them, not to our faces at any rate. But Reilly Kate really wanted to know. I swore her to secrecy. Made her pinky swear and everything. It was her first real secret and she kept it well. Not even mentioning to a soul that she knew the name at all.
“Irina!” she exploded with all the eagerness she’d pent up for the last few weeks.
“Irina Kealoha,” I added.
After a few minutes I passed the placenta which was still attached to the baby. We had decided to delay cutting the cord until it stopped pulsating to allow all that rich umbilical blood to make it’s way into Irina. Another wonder of the homebirth. Do whatever you want to with the placenta. You can even fry it up with some eggs or puree it into a smoothie if you want. But, really,
who on earth would want to do that?
Irina and I eventually moved over to rest on the futon where she curled into my lap and released a butt load (pun intended) of meconium all over me. It seemed poop was the theme of the evening.
Roman took one look at the cord and said, “Me cut that cord.” And so he did. Along with Reilly Kate and guided by Mike. The three of them cut the cord, severing Irina from me to attach her to the rest of our ohana (family). It was the first time in three births that I got emotionally teary. Such a blessing she was born into. Such a blessing she is.
My dad came up from his hiding place in the basement to meet his newest grandbaby. Smitten with her at first sight, he was. My mom sat happily snapping pictures and juggling the other kids. Mike stoked the fire and made a few phone calls to announce Irina’s arrival. Being the internet geek that I am, I had the laptop brought over to me so I could do my own announcing. And we all relaxed, soaking in the afterbirth glow.
The midwives did some measuring. As The Apprentice weighed the baby, I heard talk between Tammi and her.
“10…10…” is what I heard. “10…”
“So what is it? Ten even?” I inquired.
“No,” said Tammi stifling a laugh. “10-10. Ten pounds, ten ounces.”
I just about fell out of the futon from the shock. She was a much, much bigger baby than anyone expected. In fact, she is the biggest baby Tammi has delivered to date. I don’t think that’s a record she’ll be breaking any time soon, either. Almost 11 pounds is about as big as a baby can get without making the evening news. And thank God we didn't make the news. I always feel sorry for those poor women who have to be interviewed when looking the worst they've ever looked.
About an hour or so after she was born, Irina and I went upstairs. My mom had drawn us a nice warm bath with steeped herbs specifically for post partum. It was heavenly. The baby and I got to relax and wash up while everyone else in the house cleaned up after the mess we'd made. Well, not everyone. The kids stayed with us. Reilly Kate and Roman sat at the tub's edge, peering in at their new sister. They decided a little song was in order and began singing. With a start, Irina whipped her head in their direction. She knew their voices and was searching to find their faces and learn them as well. It was sweet. The love that poured forth from both older children to our newest touched my soul and made my heart sing.
As we bathed, Irina looked into my eyes with those wise, aged eyes that newborns possess. It is as if having so freshly come from God, they are still reflecting the glow of the divine. You can see they are communicating, it is our worldliness that renders us unable to comprehend. I searched deep into her eyes, trying to catch just a glimpse of that glow, a glimmer of that understanding. I settled for a nuzzle followed by an inventory of fingers and toes.
We all put our jammies on and Mike and I signed a few papers for the midwives. The older kids went to their beds, exhausted, but with the nervous energy of a Christmas Eve. My mom and dad hunkered down in their bed in the basement -- conveniently out of earshot of any midnight wailing. The midwives departed, deciding to brave the ice slicked roads. Thankfully, they safely made their way home. And all was right with the world. Our first night of slumber and nursing and discovery lay ahead. Our first night with our very own Valentine.
And that is the short story of the birth of Irina Kealoha. Our Peace and Love baby.
