Nug's Birth Story

Nug was always ready to be a part of this world. She was conceived on the first try, and she was born right on time, on her due date.

For weeks I had been having constant Braxton-Hicks contractions, so the contraction that had me clutching the wall at 5am on the way back from the bathroom was shocking. My breathing and swaying woke W, and when I got back in bed I told her that something different was happening. My heart raced with adrenaline as I waited for the next sign, but the hours ticked by without event. It seemed that Nug had pulled the false alarm bell.

We spent the day with friends who took us to a hamburger joint. I had imagined eating healthy and nourishing foods on the day I went into labor, but there I was, slurping a strawberry milkshake under outdoor heating lamps. Later that night I made W run out to get salad fixings, hoping the chlorophyll would counteract my earlier mistake. I wrote in my journal, "It's now 7pm and I'm not in labor." I sat on my exercise ball (the only comfortable seat left), and we watched a movie.

The Braxton-Hicks contractions started to get more intense that evening. It was about 9pm and, taking the advice of my midwife friend, I got in the hot tub to see if they would go away. Instead, they marched ahead at a steady rhythm, no match for any therapeutic effect of the jets, and I decided to get out and labor in the house. Steps from the back door, I was hit with a new kind of contraction that made my knees buckle. My towel dropped to the ground as I grabbed the gazebo post to steady myself. Doubled over and staring at my knees, I breathed in the heavy realization that every contraction was squeezing out the me I had known for 32 years, and motherhood was at the threshold.

Labor had possessed my body, and time was lost to me after that point. What I know is that contractions were coming every three to four minutes. I felt scared by the loneliness of labor, by the realization that my body was the sole performer; at the same time feeling a visceral community with all women who have given birth before me. I also felt mad! I wanted early labor, a slow swaying walk with W. I didn't want this panic-pack-the-car-what's-happening-how-am-I-going-to-get-down-the-stairs-between-contractions active labor. I had planned for something different, but the storm of contractions wasn't allowing me to change course.

Our friend Debra drove us to the hospital while I labored in the backseat, facing backward and hugging the headrest. I have worked in L&D, and I know that the look on a woman's face can tell you if she is in active labor. I thought it was written in 24-point font on my forehead, but apparently my forehead said "triage," because the nurse opened a door onto a tiny room where I was asked to sit and be monitored. I hovered over the chair while swaying to every contraction, now every two to three minutes, and so I could toss my, uh, salad. I was woozy with pain and could barely open my eyes. The doctor came in at some point. I overheard that I was 3 cm dilated, in an "active labor pattern," and admitted.

I planned for a natural labor (i.e. no epidural) and we called ahead to reserve the labor tub. Despite the heads-up and the time we spent in triage, the tub wasn't ready, so I continued to labor in limbo under the bright, defeating lights of the triage room. Between contractions, the nurse started an IV and I signed forms blindly. Once in the labor room, I writhed in a forced supine position for another 20 minutes of monitoring. I was too weak to protest. At this point, I had been strapped to a machine for nearly an hour, and my grip on the birth I had imagined was slipping away.

Finally, at about 2:30am, I could get to birthing, my way. Under dim lights, I tested the water in the labor tub. It was way too hot, but another contraction was coming so I slid in. I was almost immediately out of breath from the heat and knew I had to get out, but because the contractions were so frequent, I couldn't move. W lifted me out and helped me to the toilet. Perhaps this is too much information, but also a critical point in the story: peeing between contractions, I realized, was going to require perfect timing. It was logistical madness; like Frogger dodging rumbling freight trucks. Despite having endured contractions every three minutes for the last six hours, it felt beyond my ability to pee. I decided it was time for IV pain medicine.

The morphine slowed the contractions enough that between them I could finally speak, albeit briefly. I had to be lying in bed, however, which was the last thing my laboring body wanted. Each contraction had me curled onto my side, eyes and hands shut tightly, and puking. In between the contractions, I would tell W that I wanted an epidural. Each time, she would dutifully remind me of my plan to have a natural birth. After maybe the fourth exchange like this, I got serious. Looking into her face, I rolled the words out slowly and deliberately, "I am of sound mind," I said, like a crazy person, "and I want the epidural."

The anesthesiologist arrived quickly and the relief was amazing. It was 4am and I was 6 or 7 cm dilated. There was a brief moment of disappointment when I heard this; maybe I could have made it to 10 cm on my own. But soon enough we were all sleeping, and with the urinary catheter and the adjustable hospital bed, I was singing the staff's praises and more comfortable than I had been in weeks. 

In the morning, I agreed to have the midwife break my water. By 9am I was fully dilated. I labored down (let the baby come down without pushing) for the next hour, feeling so surrounded by love and comfort that I didn't want it to end. Eventually the pressure in my hip became too much to ignore. Nug was lower than we realized, and after one push the nurses told me to hold up so they could get the midwife- it was time to have a baby! I laid on my side, hand palpating my belly for each contraction, and pushed when my belly hardened. In twenty minutes of pushing, and after 14 hours of labor, Nug was born!

They laid her on my belly because the umbilical cord was too short to reach to my chest. She was purple, eyes swollen, and nose squished sideways, but she was warm with life and a healthy, heavy eight pounds. She bobbed her head for my nipple and began nursing instantly. For the next hour, nothing touched her but my skin to hers (and W's kisses). Our new little family was born.

24 hours old