Babe 2 A Birth Story
Eyes open, it’s around 2am on week 41 and 5 days and my body begins the laborious process of turning over onto the other side. Click, creek, shift, small incremental movements until the large belly rotates over. Kerplunk, it settles into its new soft spot. Breathe out, settle back in. Hmmm…I notice wetness. I begin the process of righting myself and notice a large circular pattern of wetness on our bed and blink repeatedly. Blink, blink, blink. I wake Taylor and we ponder, did my waters break? Taylor grabs a towel, we cover the circle and briefly debate. Honestly, I can’t remember if we called the midwife at that time or not. Either way the choice was made to go back to sleep. This had been our pattern with engorgement and leaking during my breastfeeding journey with Shad. Throw a towel over it, go back to sleep and deal with it in the morning. And so we did. Sleep simply seemed like the best bet and if indeed I began to labor I would wake up, I knew that.
Morning dawned and we called our midwife. We had chosen a birthing center in Knoxville, Lisa Ross Birth Center to give birth to our second baby. Having considered the idea of delivering at The Farm we eventually felt it just wasn’t the best option with a toddler and a new business constantly creating adventure. A birthing center was the next best thing. We started prenatal care at a small birthing center in Sweetwater, Tennessee but were disappointed to find out they had discontinued Centering Pregnancy, a group prenatal care model. When I worked in Infant Mortality Prevention we had brought this model of care to Chattanooga. Having been the program manager of this endeavor, I now wanted to be a participant. So we chose Lisa Ross who was still using Centering Pregnancy as their model of care. Shad was 2, almost 3 and each prenatal appointment I would drop him off at my parents house and then drive to Knoxville. Individual assessments were done with a midwife and two hours of education and conversation with a group of women who were the same gestational age as me followed. I ate it up. Loved every single minute. As a second time mom I felt confident, secure and excited; happy to help other moms process their fears, ask their questions and trek along with their pregnancies. Group prenatal care is a model that should overtake prenatal care as a whole, period. As moms we are isolated, stripped of natural villages and expected to do it all well and keep up a brave face. Group care gives parents a place to connect, breathe, create and sustain. Group care not only benefits the mom, but the providers as well.
My second pregnancy was much different than the first. I was intensely more nauseated and for longer periods of time. I was so hungry what seemed like all of the time, but the slightest thing would cause an upheaval and all the food would come tumbling out. One day my mom came over to keep Shad busy so I could rest for a bit. She brought me food, which I devoured. So satisfied I laid on my side on the couch to rest. Not 3 minutes later I was propulsed to the bathroom where I only made it to the sink. My mom, a retired RN, reported she had never done anything more gross than clean out that sink. Vomiting was a part of my day. I still have several places and foods that upon seeing or smelling them bring the feeling back into my body. It was a fully visceral experience.
Upon waking the second time around, we called our midwife and she said to try and be at the birth center around 11:30 am. She was casual, we were casual, that felt good. We called my parents. My mom was going to keep Shad, it would be our first night away from each other and I think I was more concerned about that than labor. Would he be ok? What a big first and I wouldn’t be there. My dad would drive us to Knoxville and my younger sister would join us as well. No contractions had started but no worries entered my mind. I often consider how calm and clear I was during this time. No questions, no concerns, no real worries that things wouldn’t work out. Now, as I work with women and their partners preparing them for this same event I try to dig and figure out where my calm came from….maybe part of it was that everyone around me carried the concerns and it made me sink deeper into calm? What would be would be. If I started to become anxious what good would that do? Ten years later, in retrospect maybe it’s just this is what I was meant to do.
We made the 2- hour drive to Knoxville, met our midwife at the birth center and confirmed that indeed my waters had broken. The truth of needing to deliver by midnight or face a transfer to the hospital was floated. Shoulder shrug. Bubble of peace. We tried stimulating with a breast pump for a bit to see if that would start contractions. Nothing. She recommended we go have lunch, take a walk and come back and if nothing was happening I’d shoot some castor oil. Ok.
I stuffed myself silly, club sandwich, fries and a coke. Yum. It was August, it was hot and I was pretty damn big. We took our time, walked around and then eventually drove back to the birth center. We chatted some more, checked out the birth rooms. A few days before I had opened an Instagram account, having no real idea what it was. Tricia took a few pictures of me in front of the tub and I remember not knowing at all how Instagram worked. That picture is still there today. The midwife handed me a small cup of oil, I was to shoot it and then chase it with a drink. I did it. And then we waited. I wanted some chocolate. Tricia and I walked around and around the small square on the bottom floor of the birth center. Me holding onto her arm, eating m&ms, hoping something would happen. Eventually some cramping started to occur, a smile spread across my face. It would be alright. Cramping became contractions and it did not take long for that to become labor. I called for Taylor who was sitting and chatting with my dad. I wanted to get into my room. Start filling the tub I commanded. Here it was.
After an unmedicated first birth there’s a sense of confidence but also a sense of dread because you know what’s coming. The dread had hit, I laid myself on the bed waiting for the tub to fill, enjoying the sound of pounding water. ‘I just want to get in the tub,’ I remember repeating. Once the tub was full I lowered myself into the water. Ahhhhhhh. Water. Soothing, relaxing, different. On knees I lean over the side of the tub, elbows on the edge, hands clasping Taylor’s hands. With each contraction I held onto Taylor’s hands, my elbows on the tub, my forehead on our hands. I would pull up and contract all of my arm muscles, squeeze into the hands and let my lower half float and sway and soften. Sweat beading on my lip. Over and over and over for a few hours. It was simple in some ways. Labor started, I labored, it progressed. Grateful. I focused, stayed deep and dark and breathed, letting the time pass. Just Taylor and I for hours, no check ins, no interruptions. The midwife enters our room for the first time, she quietly kneels by the tub and just observes. At some point, who knows how much longer later she asks me if I could sit back so she could see (in retrospect she must have heard some sounds that signaled this request) and as I turn my body around and reposition I feel that slipping, that sinking, disassociating maybe. I squeak out “I'm going to pass out” and she responds, “well, let’s get you out of the tub then.” Ugh, this idea sounds awful. Taylor comes to my side, holds me under the arm and I struggle to stand, NOPE, not happening, I’m at that point where the body just will not move and I slink back down into the water, head back, my body begins to push. This time I was familiar with that overwhelming, involuntary curling that the uterus brings to the body and puuuushhh. I remember yelling, much louder and vocal at this point than I had been before. Later my sister would report her ear was to the door, she was on the phone with our other sister and hearing my cries was overwhelming for them. Gah, the sound of my breath rushing back in after that natural bearing down. Catching breath, uh, here it comes again. Uhhhhhhhhhh, toning, vocalizing, getting this baby outttt… I hear the midwife say, “ok, wait wait wait.” I cannot, I go back in, curling, pushing, pulsing and bam, a baby comes flying out. In my mind, he seemed to blast out hitting the side of the tub. In reality, I don’t know what happened, but in retrospect it would not surprise me one bit if this is how Knox made his entrance. This boy is fire. He is brought up to my chest, covered with a towel and sweet relief. Tears and joy and laughter commence. I see him, I squeeze him, so happy to be done. This time I focus on the baby, he’s chubby and pink. No bulb syringe, no mask to the face, nobody touched him, he was mine. Taylor taking pictures. We are a good labor team. Minutes go by and then I hear myself say, “wait, what is it?” I hear the response of “I don’t know, take a look” from the midwife and I peek between his knees to see little baby balls. “He’s a boy! You’re a boy!” I rejoice. A big boy at that.
Not sure how much time has passed, but I’m asked to stand, hold the baby tight and get out of the tub. Shaking legs, quivering lips, cold, I step, step, one more step to the bed, slowly turn around, towels on me, wiping me, drying me and I sit. I lay back or plop back rather, ab muscles not really working and I begin to cry. The discomfort, “I just want to be done” I cry feeling the placenta coming. Still after witnessing many births there are some things that feel simply unfair to the birthing person. Having to deliver a placenta after the work of laboring a human out, fundal massage and being stitched; seems like it should just be over once the baby is out. I’m shaking, convulsing almost. “It’s out,” she says. I can begin to scoot back and get comfortable, breathe out. No need for sutures, no tearing. I’m so happy. And then fundal massage, massive pressure down into the lower abdomen, ensuring bleeding is under control, checking to make sure the uterus is making its journey back into position, job done.
This chunky monkey latches almost instantly and happily fills himself up. We lay and gaze and feed and discuss breakfast. It’s sometime in the morning, but it’s Sunday, what will be open? I’m hungry. Footprints and fingerprints and all the paperwork and bam we are getting up to go, about 3 hours after birth. It seems at the time unfair, unjust and bizarre to be asked to get up and leave, just as I feel the need to settle into a nap. But more so the happy feeling of going home to my first baby fills me. I shower, blood clots sliding down my legs, the physical toll apparent, the soft belly sagging. I know it’s my last baby so it all feels ok. I’ve learned in a short time to appreciate it, to feel honored by it. I see my sister holding my baby, I see my dad holding my baby. Taylor cheek to cheek with this 8 pound 12 ounce almost 42 week baby boy. Game over, we are checked out, in the car and ready for our ride home.
This time there is a blonde boy at home waiting to meet his new sibling. Tears fall hearing my new baby’s cries as he adjusts to this car seat, me wanting to just hold him in the car the way I was able to with his brother. We pull up, I see Shad outside, I slowly walk to him with our newest baby covered with a blanket. Taylor picks him up and he peeks in and says “is it a brother?” “Yes,” I say as I weep with joy. This is Knox. His voice is so high and sweet. He squeezes his head and says “I love him.” It’s really the greatest joy of my life, bringing life into the world, being tasked with their care.
I sit at the table in the kitchen and eat. Whopper, fries and a coke. Yep, that’s right. In the following weeks I would continually make batches of granola bars, adding extra chocolate chips of course and down the entire batch as I nursed and nursed. We did not have cable, but we did have a CD of big, yellow trucks moving to song and Shad would watch it on repeat as I sat and nursed his brother. Ten years later I finish his birth story. Happy kiddos. Happy mama.
