Stevie's Birth Story, Part II

Thanks for coming back for Part Two of Stevie’s birth story! If you’re here, it’s probably ‘cause Part One didn’t scare you off and for that I am grateful. Here’s hoping that you’ll stick around to the very end!

part two:

We had an early wake-up in the morning with a shift change, which meant a new OB and a cervical exam. Not my ideal morning routine, but it came with the decent news that my cervix had effaced to 80%, although no dilation had occurred overnight. I had tossed and turned, waking frequently to the nurse needing to adjust the monitor that was uncomfortably strapped to my round belly. There was a great deal of beeping and the lights could only be so dim and I opened my sleepy eyes in the morning feeling drained by the emotional tumult of the previous evening. As we waited for news on next steps, Nick gently reminded me to relax, so I put in my earbuds and listened to a recording to help walk me into hypnosis. I took a lot of deep breaths and let go of the anxious anticipation I had awoke with, replacing it with the excitement that we would soon be meeting our baby and curiosity about how exactly we were going to make that happen.

Our new OB — a soft-spoken man with dark eyes and a gentle presence — acknowledged my desire to hold off on using Pitocin for as long as possible and luckily, because baby was doing so well, we didn’t feel pressured to make any rushed decisions. A Cook Balloon was the next suggestion and apparently I had (gratefully) forgotten about my sister-in-law’s excruciating experience with one because I gladly said, “let’s do it.” Instead of going into detail about the balloon and its particular method of torture, I’d say just give it a good ol’ fashioned Google. You’ll get it. Especially if you’re a person with a cervix. Typically, a ballon is put in place for up to twelve hours to help further efface and dilate the cervix, but in my case the OB wanted to just give it a few hours before checking for progress. 

The insertion was uncomfortable and invasive. I did my best to breathe through it, clutching Nick’s hand while he reminded me to exhale. I couldn’t help but think of the terrible experience I had only fourteen months earlier when my IUD was removed. It took hours and, afterward, I almost regretted having waited so long to make the appointment. Had that terrible appointment come earlier or later, I quite possibly would not have been about to meet Stevie.

After only a few minutes of having the balloon in place, my contractions started to kick-in with more strength. I had spent my entire pregnancy never experiencing a single Braxton Hicks’ so I had no baseline for the experience of a contraction and could only really gauge their efficacy (in terms of actually getting my baby out) by their strength on the monitor which was both fascinating and frustrating, so I decided to distract myself. It was during this stage in my labor journey that I began to feel extremely grateful for my tendency to over-prepare. I had created an almost impossibly long playlist of songs meant to be shuffled; songs that I knew by heart, songs that made me calm or happy, and songs that prompted beautiful mental imagery that I knew would keep my feet moving and my mind busy. 

I wandered around the room with my iPhone speaker turned up. “Buckets of Rain” came on. Nick was laying on the couch in the midday light and I made him laugh with my impression of Bob Dylan’s drawl and my goofy dance moves. It’s one of those seemingly tiny moments that ended up gilded in my memory. I will always remember Nick’s sweet face, the song filling the tiny hospital room, the sunlight on the floor, the undercurrent of joy.

Soon the contractions began picking up and distraction started to become futile, so my wandering became more like a slow pace from corner to corner. I turned the music down and my focus became solely on remaining relaxed, my jaw slack, eyelids heavy, and shoulders dropped. Every contraction became an opportunity to deepen my connection with my body. Perhaps the nurse had never seen someone labor like this before as she repeatedly asked me if I was okay and if I needed to sit down. “No, I’m very relaxed, thank you,” I would continually reply, and it was true.

Nick found my deck of birth affirmations; some that came in a small package and some that I had handwritten myself. I leaned over the hospital bed while he flipped through them, holding the deck in front of me, until he landed on one that resonated with me. I had written it in big capital letters across a piece of notecard printed with yellow flowers. “I RELAX, I BREATHE, I OPEN.”

At one point, about two and half hours after having the balloon in place, I walked out of the bathroom and peered down, puzzled to see liquid dripping down my legs. “Babe, I just peed, but… I think I’m peeing myself?” Nick looked up to see me standing, legs akimbo in front of the bathroom door. A look of surprise turned to amusement before he exclaimed, “I think your water just broke!” Finally, progress. The doctor came in and removed the balloon (sweet relief) and we were hopeful that things would get going soon so he gave me four hours to labor onwards before deciding if Pitocin was needed. 

Those four hours stretched to what felt like forever. Each contraction came and went with varying strength and efficacy, but nothing quite strong or efficient enough to do what really needed to be done. We requested a breast pump to see if some nipple stimulation would get my oxytocin pumping, but the results were underwhelming. I was feeling each contraction, riding the small waves and attempting to deepen them by staying active and focusing on opening, but I was beginning to feel disheartened.

I placed a lot of weight on having a non-medicated birth* — I had spent months preparing to birth at home, after all — and I knew that over three quarters of women who receive synthetic oxytocin end up requesting epidurals. Nick reminded me that no matter how she entered the world, the truly important thing was that we would get to meet our daughter soon and there was no such thing as “failure” in the process. Of course, of course. I knew this was absolutely true, I just needed to hear the words out loud a few times to really lean into it.

As the day faded into dusk, we both braced ourselves for a long night ahead but tried to stay lighthearted. We called our family and I sent a picture to some friends: a selfie in the bathroom while wearing a hospital-grade diaper; the novelty of leaking amniotic fluid! Excitement was coming with every contraction, big and small. I knew that this birth was going to be wildly different than what I had imagined — it was already an entirely unexpected journey — but peace was breaking through any residual disappoint I had. Soon there was a light knock at the door. The doctor came in with an almost pitying expression that said, “I’m sorry, but it’s time,” followed by our nurse with the Pitocin. The drip was started.

part three, on its way…

xo

*My desire to have an unmedicated birth was highly personal and is not a reflection of the validity, beauty, or sacredness of any other birth story. I am a FIRM believer than every type of birth is a beautiful birth and every birthing person is miraculously strong. If you are curious as to why I decided to pursue a home birth and an unmedicated birth, please feel free to reach out to me.

(Photo by Nick, edit by Brooklyn Wagner)