Aug 24

Aug 24 Stevie's Birth Story, Part I

If you’ve sat across from me in a coffee shop, been on the other end of a text convo with me, or have been following me on Instagram for any length of time, it’s probably not surprising to you that I am not the Queen of Concise. Eloquent? Maybe, like, the Earl of Eloquence. But definitely not concise. I like to dig into the English language like I’m wrist-deep in soil, feeling for the very root of it all; not pulling up from the stem, not avoiding the grit, the stuff of life.

So, in true form, Stevie’s birth story will be an odyssey of sorts. In three parts, you’ll be along for the ride.

For those of you who plan to someday go through labor and birth:

I hope this brings you peace of mind, to know that you are capable of bringing your baby earthside no matter the curveballs thrown your way. If you’re planning a home birth, I hope this takes the edge off of any fear you may have surrounding the need to potentially birth in a hospital. If you’re planning a hospital birth, I hope this reminds you that you always have options; that you can trust allopathic medicine and you can trust your intuition at the same time.

As always, thanks for reading, my friends.

part one:

Three months ago, I listened to my intuition. I have always tried to do so, with varying success and outcomes, but this time I ended up with a cute baby in my arms, so I would say it was my most successful experience in trusting my intuition to date, wouldn’t you?

I remember the moments so clearly. Sitting in the waiting room of the imaging clinic. Mask on. The father of a high school friend was there, checking in. A mom trying to get an X-ray for her toddler’s arm was told the tech had already clocked out for the day. I said a prayer for her as she left looking defeated and exhausted with her child in her arms. I thought, “This little baby inside of me… someday, I will have to advocate for her. For her broken arm. Maybe for her broken heart. That’s wild.” The tech called us in and we were beaming. We were about to see our baby. There was no particular reason for the visit, I just wanted to see her so badly — the profile of her sweet face, her kicking legs, her beating heart — but I trusted the pull and I called my midwives and they put in the order for the ultrasound without hesitation.

“She’s a tiny peanut!” the tech said. But she was measuring fine, just on the small side, somewhere around 7 pounds she estimated. But the amniotic fluid looked low… very low. “Lower than average?” I asked. “Much, much lower,” she said, before excusing herself to make a call. I looked at Nick and instantly felt the sting of tears in the corners of my eyes. He assured me that it was okay, that it was good to know what was happening, that it was good to be there if something was going on that needed our attention. I agreed but I felt my throat tightening. The tech walked in, held her phone out to me and said, “your midwife wants to speak to you.” Instantly, the tears broke through.

Three hours later we were checking in to the hospital. COVID-19 procedures meant that coming and going was not an option (along with bringing in any outside food) so, naturally, I overpacked. Like, over-overpacked. It was a coping mechanism. After months of planning a home birth, I needed to bring as much of my home with me as possible. The diffuser, the oil blends, the tabletop nightlight, the sound machine, the snacks, the birth ball… our bags were overflowing, but I had only a minor amount of shame when the nurses welcoming us appeared to be surprised by the sheer volume of stuff we had with us. Maybe I needed the distraction between leaving the ultrasound appointment and arriving at the hospital. “You’re going to need to be induced and the baby will need to be monitored,” my midwife had told me over the phone in the clinic. “A home birth is no longer a possibility. I’m so sorry,” she said, “I know this isn’t what you wanted.” I didn’t want to dwell on the heartbreak I felt hearing those words. Packing my bags full of potentially unnecessary gadgets seemed like a better use of my time.

During that first night at the hospital though, when the bustle died down, when we had discussed different induction methods with the OB and had ordered our bland trays of hospital cafeteria food and set up the gadgets and called our relatives… it was hard not to dwell. I felt overwhelmed by the abrupt change in plans and cheated of an experience that I had worked so hard to have for myself, for my baby. My home — arranged just so with salt lamps and candles, a deflated birthing tub tucked into the corner of living room — was empty of the story I had been so eagerly hoping to fill it with and I began to feel defeated. But I had a saving grace; a trick tucked into my back pocket. It was as simple as this: I had spent months learning how to really, truly, deeply relax.

Through the last several months of my pregnancy, I had developed the ability to empty my mind, relax my body, and begin to deprogram my fear and anxiety responses around labor and birth. It took a few Zoom sessions with a hypnotherapist (the warm and intuitive Saige) and many hours of practice to help myself learn what it meant to relax — and thus open — in this way.

When it comes to encouraging those who are preparing for birth, this is the one thing I want to scream from the rooftops: prepare your mind.

Flexibility and resilience in the face of uncertainty was extremely helpful to me and I was only able to keep my head above water because I had learned how to float. I was prepared to let the experience take me where it needed to go.

So, after feeling rather sorry for myself after being admitted, I allowed myself to give in to the process. To accept fully what I could not control. To be grateful that I had listened to the chime in my soul that said, “go see your baby, one more time.” To be glad that we were receiving the care we needed. I relaxed, I breathed deeply, I sipped on my peanut butter and banana smoothie and I allowed my mind to open. Soon, however, our sweet (but somewhat nervous) nurse came in to let me know that she would be administering a COVID-19 test and, because it was her first time, she would need to be supervised… that didn’t sound like it was going to be enjoyable. Another nurse entered the room and her energy immediately lifted a little bit of the fog that seemed to be hovering around me. Her name was Janice and she had a thick South African accent and a spunkiness that I appreciated.

“This is going to be slightly uncomfortable,” our nurse said, holding out a long, thin, pipe-cleaner-type swab. “It’s going to go up your nose, then down towards your throat, at which point I will twist it and then quickly remove it.” I winced.

“Actually it’s going to feel like your brain is being stabbed, but it will be over quickly” Janice said, smirking. I laughed in appreciation of her honesty. Luckily the test wasn’t so bad, but I was disappointed to see Janice leave. She had stayed a little longer to put in my IV Hep-Lock and we had bonded over a shared love of Scotland and swapped stories of our travels. Her sense of humor felt like home, something that grounded me when I most needed it.

That night I went to bed with Cervidil in place in my cervix, hoping for something to happen to get labor moving. I had arrived at the hospital with a detailed birth plan (written in the throes of late-pregnancy insomnia) that very explicitly requested that all possible measures for induction be taken before administering Pitocin. So, Cervidil was the logical first step, meant to “ripen” or soften the cervix.

Throughout the night I experienced uncomfortable cramping and watched the monitors as they registered small contractions, wondering how many contractions would need to happen before I had my baby in my arms. Amidst the tangle of monitor wires and my aching Hep-Lock, I somehow fell asleep to the glow of the monitor screens with Nick only a few steps away, curled up on the sofa.